The other day I had to engage in a conversation with a woman on a professional level. No biggie.
Well, actually… biggie. She wasn’t fat but she wasn’t rail thin, either. Her size lent to the fact that her low cut, scoop neck top created the illusion of so much cleavage that I, for some reason, could not stop looking down there. I don’t consider myself misogynistic and as a gay man, I respect women and their fashion sense. But I could not stop looking at her fuckin rack, man!
Seriously, for whatever reason, I found it difficult to keep my eyes above the chin.
The lighting where we were created a Q-tip like shadow of cleavage, meaning: there was a bulbous shadow at the top of the straight line shadow that lead up from the scoop top. Peripherally I could see the oval darkness dead center of her pale chest (which I assume is why it was so distracting).
After struggling with not looking I suddenly got the urge to drop my pen in her cleavage. No lie. I wanted to toss my pen in there and listen for rattling or echos or a guttural burp from a Sarlacc.
For some reason this played in my head:
