LET US NOT TALK ABOUT SUCH THINGS
I had stopped by the karaoke bar for a drink on the way home. A woman from The South was there, having a marvelous time. But she wanted to sing, and the master of the platters would not schedule her song till two more people signed up.
I do not sing. Years ago, when I was temporarily insane, I sang.
Even the non-smokers went out for a cigarette break.
I am wiser now. Kinder too. Don't sing.
While I am exceedingly fond of breasts, I will not be swayed.
These were fine mammaries.
A bit too large - given that this blogger believes in restraint and balance - but nevertheless quite excellent. Of pleasing shape and appearance, possibly warm and vibrant.
While I can appreciate breasts of many types, I am quite controlled.
The proximity of booby is not something that bends me.
I am a temperate man, and cannot be bribed.
For some reason unbeknownst to me she judged me "a mighty fine silver fox".
The lighting there may be at fault, though.
As well as the conviction that I could be moved to sing. She attempted to rub up against me, but the bar-seating has arms, and one can easily swing the chairs to an inconvenient angle so as to sabotage that process. She had earlier been in close contact with several other potential songbirds.
Admittedly they were dogs, rather loathsome specimens.
But still, one must in all things discriminate.
And no matter what, I shall not sing.
I will admit that I am very fond of 'pulchritude'.
Really. It rocks my world.
But lava-heat with baggage from Alabama is NOT part of the program.
Even if there is NO singing.
Decades ago a woman on parole (having shot another person in a fit of passion) asked me to dance with her. There were two things that moved me on to the floor: she was utterly and adorably vulnerable, and she was an exceedingly nice person.
I am not a brilliant dancer, but she was a very sweet woman, an absolute lady.
No, I cannot remember how she danced. But she had kind eyes.
She was probably justified in her shooting her lover.
No one should hurt a very nice person.
I danced. Herky. Jerky.
The woman from Alabama could probably smell the fact that I have not been involved with the opposite gender in a long time. Perhaps the radiance of desperate frustration, conceivably also the aura of fresh-faced born-again teenage virginity. The very air of clean-living without anything sexual interfering or even anywhere in the background. It may have agitated her, and excited her appetites. She spent a lot of time waving her boobies at me.
But in all things, I exercise temperance; available booby does not rank.
Certainly not in a room full of other people.
Desirable boobies are proffered in private.
Away from the madding crowd.
Of course the other thing is that I've made it a point not to pay any attention to such matters while having cocktails. The worst mistakes a man can make are when alcohol and boobies intersect, and anything that starts with booze cannot possibly end well.
Affairs should really begin with caffeine.
Open eyed, and wide awake.
It's common sense.
I'm very open-minded.
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