The Persistence of Mammaries

Why are guys so fascinated by breasts? I'm perplexed by the awesome power that a plunging neckline can have. I'm not even a "breast" guy. I can name several other female body parts that are more worthy of my attention. Even under the ideal situation, breasts are like Scooby-Doo cartoons, they only provide about seven or so minutes of entertainment before it's time to move on to other things.

Nonetheless I, like roughly 90% of my male brethen, have been held in sway by lovely lady lumps.

Case in point. Every year our fantasy football league holds its draft party in a nearby bar or restaurant. Last year, we took over the loft area of a piano bar (that was its "sports bar" section, so shut up).

Our waitress, to put it delicately, had an enormous rack.

She wore a scoop necked blouse. And there we were, about fifteen or so grown-ass men, with wives, girlfriends, inflatable love objects, etc., utterly beguiled by our server and her breasty ways, reduced to the level of twelve year olds who had just stumbled across their first Playboy.

At first, we exchanged elbow digs and knowing glances. I may have ordered dinner in a soft voice just so she'd lean in. One guy, who's probably still over the legal blood alcohol limit a year later, voiced some comments about her endowment.

At first I was mortified for her. Then I thought, "she knew what she looked like when she left the house. She didn't grow those things overnight." I'm all for being respectful, but come on now. It's not like she didn't know what she was packing. She works for tips. Her breasts were like my laptop - a tool of the trade.

That's another thing that I don't get, when are we supposed to notice breasts and when aren't we? I think there may be an acceptable level of glancing or gazing, maybe for a second or two, but after that it just gets creepy.

Women, I know that your "eyes are up here," but sometimes the harder I try not to notice, the harder it is not to look.

Here's what happens:

I'm minding my own business, thinking about work, the meaning of life, or Spider-Man, when I come across a comely young woman wearing one of those Victoria Secret's "push'em up if you've got 'em" bras and a low neckline.

I'm saying to myself, "Don't look down. Don't look down."

Meanwhile, I'm trying hard to listen to the conversation, which sometimes ends up being a story about something cute her dog did or how annoying her boyfriend is, when I hear another voice.

"Psst. D, down here. Check us out."

"I can't do that, that would be rude."

"Come on, don't be a wuss. Look how perky we are."

"I'm not listening to you. I'm listening to her talk about what she saw on the Food Channel last night."

"Seriously, you could bounce a quarter off of us."

"I'm ...trying... to look her...in the...eyes."

"Oh my, looks like it's a little chilly in here, doesn't it?

Before I get taken to task for objectifying women, I want to tell you who the real victims were that evening - the men.

You see, when we have the draft parties, we run a tab for food and alcohol and split it equally once the night is over. Some people abuse this and order things that they wouldn't if they were directly footing the bill, like desserts and drinks that are neither clear nor brown. This is the reason why socialism doesn't work.

Anyway, at the end of the evening, our team commissioner gave Dolly a tip as generous as her bust line. In his inebriated state, however, he failed to notice that because of the size of the group, the establishment had already included a 20% gratuity in our bill. She was more than double tipped (kinda poetic), she was tipped on her original tip. He passed on the lack of savings to the rest of the group.

I won the league last year and came away with less money than she did that evening.

So tell me, who was exploited that night?