Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [76]
“I’m a man, Mindie, and men can’t help but react to a…em…a loved one’s…you know—especially when they’re caught off-guard like that.”
“Caught off-guard? What difference does that make?”
“It doesn’t give us time to prepare. To think of baseball stats or ugly people with blemishes.”
“They’re just…breasts, Corky.”
“Oh, but they’re not. Your…breasts, they’re just so amazingly…” I glanced at them again, and she flinched again. “…Amazing. Really. Magnificent. So much better than anyone else’s.” I lied, struggling not to think of Ms. Nuckeby, then nodded toward Waboombas. “Especially hers. Yours are just so…”
My hands involuntarily cupped outward in the universal gesture for ‘massively endowed’, and searched through my mental thesaurus, which apparently contained only three adjectives.
“…magnificent—is the word I’m looking for, here—again. I think. And not pale. Not pale in the slightest. They’re like two very large mountains—with no snow on them. And when you revealed them that way, in the car—so abruptly—it was like when one drives into Yosemite, you know, through that tunnel? At first, all is darkness and obstructed, narrowness of vision, and then—boom! You explode out the end and see Half-Dome rising up, there, right before you. You’re just overcome with the immenseness of it. The glory. The not-pale magnificence of the thing. It was like that. Seeing Half-Dome. Only— in your case—Full-Dome. Or FullDomes. Because there’s two of them.”
“Driving into Yosemite gives you an…erection?”
“No!” I said, stunned at her thickness in things sexual. “Your tits do!”
I glanced down at them again, then quickly away, to reassure her of my inability to control myself.
“Stop looking at them,” she said, studying me and calming. “And don’t call them ‘tits’. It’s rude.” Rude perhaps, but clearly moderately acceptable if they were her tits I was enthusing about and not Ms. Waboombas.
“I guess I can’t blame you,” she said. “I did sort of lose control and expose them rather suddenly there. And people are always telling me that ones such as mine can have that effect on men. I just never cared before.” She glanced down at my crotch with disgust. I’d bet money she still didn’t.
“It’s just…“ I said, “seeing them loose like that. Wild, and free— and not pale, I just wanted to…”
“Enough,” she said, and held up a hand to silence me. “You really are becoming quite vulgar.”
She looked down at my crotch again, her face screwed up with loathing.
“You’re going to have to learn to control that, you know. I don’t want people seeing it every time you happen to think of my…boobies. You’ll be a laughing stock. Can you imagine how embarrassing it would be if father saw you do that? For him it would be like it was for me the time I caught him having sex with the maid on the snack platter during my thirteenth birthday party. It traumatized me for life.”
She paused, looked off into the distant past and shuddered a bit at the memory.
“And even then,” she said, a sad, faraway look in her eyes, “they still served the cheese.” After a brief moment of melancholy she sighed, her annoyance with me returned, and she glared at me once more. “So learn to control it. Especially around father. You know he has a heart condition, and he doesn’t much like you as it is.”
“He doesn’t?”
“You know he doesn’t.”
“No, I really had no idea.”
“I figured you must have known by now.”
“First I’m hearing of it.”
“Why do you think he has your picture on his dartboard?”
“He has my picture…?”
“He invites all his friends to throw at it.”
“All his friends?”
“Your grandfather enjoys it especially.”
“My grandfather.”
“It’s improved his game immensely.”
“My grandfather’s game?”
“No, my father’s. Although your grandfather really does rise to the occasion.”
“I imagine he would.”
“No one’s ever told you?”
“That your father despises me and likes to throw sharp objects at my face? No. Somehow that’s never been mentioned.”
“It’s kind of an obsession with him actually. He mutters to himself about you while doing it.”
“Charming. So, how does he feel about our engagement?