NICE TITS

I was strolling down Robertson the other day, high from the purchase of some overpriced t-shirts, when a fascinating thing occurred. As I passed a lil’ ol’ black man, he remarked loudly in my direction- “Nice tits.”  His tone was not, “Hey, thanks for bringing your boobs out on this sunny Sunday afternoon, allow me to acknowledge their loveliness with a well-timed compliment.” No - when he said, “Nice tits,” my first thought was, “Why is he mad at me?” He didn’t say the words so much as he growled them. I can only assume that he actually hates nice tits. Maybe a nice tit was mean to him when he was a child, or maybe a nice tit broke his heart in college. It’s not for me to say.

As shocking as his overt anger at my rack was, I was less surprised by his tone than the actual sentiment. Being an A Cup for most of my life, I’ve never had to deal with unwarranted (or even totally warranted) breast attention. I can count on zero fingers the amount of times I’ve had to say, “My eyes are up here.” If a man ever had a hard time maintaining eye contact with me, I was either talking about my feelings or a large-breasted woman was walking by.

But since giving birth eight weeks ago, I suddenly have boobs.* And not just any old boobs- big, juicy, D-Cup boobs. I haven’t taken them out on the town much, since nursing newborn twins means my boobs and I rarely see the light of day. On the off-chance I do leave the house, I’m generally wearing a combination of pajamas and old ratty t-shirts in a look that can only be described as “boner killing chic.” Just ask my husband.

So this particular stroll down Robertson was something special- a rare couple of hours out of the house with clean hair and eyeliner. I wasn’t crying, leaking breast milk or unintentionally peeing. You can imagine, then, how it felt to have this curmudgeonly old man growl, “Nice tits” at me.

It felt fucking great.

*the boobs pictured are not mine.