Some men are obsessed with a woman's breasts, boobies, orbs of glory. But not all men: I am a sucker for a nice, robust badunkadunk. But if I were to discover a woman wearing the Booty Pop, I would feel betrayed, call foul, and then break the deal. How would you feel if you went home with a strutting rock star, and discovered me really had a gym sock stuffed with oranges in his pantaloons?

It's false advertising. Here's the thing: men might love funbags, poop cutters, gams and in some obscure cases, uvulas. But it's not like we date the parts and ignore the sum. If a woman has a big old butt, for instance, that's merely a bonus. What really attracts a man past the first impression is an ineffable cocktail of pheromones, smiles, and laughs. I have never dated a woman solely based on her juicy back door.

The problem with a product like Booty Pop is that it's dishonest, and to discover a woman you're seeing wearing one portends poorly for the future. I'd pull the ejector seat immediately, not because she, in fact, has a tiny ass, but because she intended to deceive me from the get-go. I understand the pressures women feel to appear, and to feel, attractive to the douchebags in their life. But this kind of false advertising is a poor romantic investment.

I dated a woman once whose sweater kittens were parked in a padded bra. I think she thought that the reason we ended up making out on my couch was because I had been hypnotized by her boobs. She blushed when my magic Jedi fingers unhooked her bra and I was surprised. Firstly, they were gorgeous, as all naked female body parts are. Secondly, they were smaller than promised. I was with her because of her smirk, her dirty jokes, and her long, tasty neck.

Dating is a process in which two people slowly reveal truths about themselves to each other. It's a vulnerable game. We dated for a few weeks, and slowly, she revealed far too many lies, and not enough truths. The padded bra would have been forgivable, had it been the only overt fib. But over the next week or so, she was sketchy about the flurry of texts she'd send and giggle over during a date. She'd tell me she was working late, but would call me drunk. And she'd never invite me over to her apartment, ever. She'd offer excuses for all of these slights, but I didn't care. I bailed. Padded bra, padded butt, padded truth.

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Last-modified: 2018-10-04 (木) 01:29:46 (1413d)