But I didn’t go bust

Didn’t win. Gotta whine. Didn’t lose big either, though.

I walked away with 4/5ths of my starting money in poker last night. My luck has been shit-Ty.

Three kings losing to a full house; straight to a flush; that kind of thing. I’m the only chick in my poker ring; this should be cake.

Not because boys are inherently stupid, mind. But boys tend to be inherently stupid around breasts. It’s a scientifically proven fact.

Maybe I should take them off next time and just put them on the table, like nubile book ends, one on either side of my chip stack, pointing north.

But that could start a dangerous precedent, you know?

I dont want the fellows flinging their anatomies up on the table. Salvadore Dali missed a fantastic opportunity, not painting what’s in my brain at this auspicious moment:

The poker felt. The cans of beer. The dealer wielding a large, fleshy appendage to spread the cards out. Six men, with varying degrees of grins and flushed faces leering toward the center of the table where two beige colored mounds tremble slightly when the table shifts. You just see the back of a girl and the tips of her fingers as her arms are crossed, and she’s tucked her hands into her arm-pits. Her head is lowered, hostile-like. “I ALREADY ante’d, motherfuckers.”

4 thoughts on “But I didn’t go bust

  1. That was a funny image.

    As one of those people who has the hormones that course through my brain that might make me think continually about breasts, I have spend some time thinking about them. One of my thoughts has been that I think I’ve spent less time thinking about them than many males. My eyes don’t seem to focus on them the way some people’s do. I’m most certainly not normally concerned with the size of them the way some people are. However, I did notice some times in my life when I did focus on them and this gave me a bit of a feel for the typical male experience. Those times were when my sweetie was breastfeeding our children. At that time, I thought of breasts as magical things that nourished and stopped the crying of children. By extension, I thought that anyone possessing those magical devices was worthy of respect and attention.

    I still don’t quite see any connection between penii and breasts. That isn’t to say they can’t touch but it doesn’t strike me as any different from any other two body parts touching.

  2. OmbudsBen- well it SHOULD HAVE been.

    Bongo- what amuses me here are the deviants who are going to follow the ‘breast’ tag in, hoping for something hot to look at, and they’ll be wildly disappointed by the post, and being forced to read and all that. So I’m hoping they go all the way through the comments, and that you’re wholesome, nutritious description of the mammary will fill them with the sort of disgust reserved for completely stymied deviants and fashionista’s forced to frequent Wal-Marts for pantyhose.

  3. The image of fashionista’s visiting Wal-Mart for pantyhose has me twittering (I don’t really know what that word means but it has both a ‘t’ and a ‘w’ in it and those were the first two letters I typed when I began the word so I think I’ll keep it) with pleasure.

    I don’t feel that I have the ability to add to that image. So, I’ll just say something that isn’t really relevant at all.

    Right now, as I type this, I am not wearing panties. I’m not wearing a bra either. Make of it what you will.

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