Ok, Once again you win. You have me gawking at your breasts and cleavage. I’m with the Techohorde outside of Pizza Ranch. My kids go inside and Ms. 20-something comes out the same door. Now two of the Horde are entering that hormonal challenge phase of life that will last for another 70 years. Twiz shouts, “Dad, did you see that!?!”
“Yeah, now just get inside” I reply. “ But Dad, doesn’t that hurt?”

I try to be good, I really do! I’d like to think I’m not a predator or a 40 something asshole from Holla Back, but sometime I can help but look. Trying not to run into someone while going through a door and herding kids kind of forces me to look at who is front of me. A tank top makes the degree of difficult a 7.5, but piercing your cleavage puts it at a 10. Maybe I don’t get it. Maybe I’m getting old and a becoming a fuddy-duddy. Intellectual I know of over a hundred spots on the human body that can be pierced and poked, but I flat out didn’t see this coming. I’m ashamed. I did a double take and I stared.

I don’t need another excuse to stare at your cleavage. I have enough problems, sins and guilt as it is. I know you don’t want me staring at you. I know you want your attention to come from someone other than my two teenagers and me. The same two boys I am trying very hard to teach them not to look at women as sex object. So do an old guy a favor, please. Cover up, just a little. Take it to the club, the bar or to wherever the kind of people you want to notice your breasts hang out.

As much as I hate to admit it, she has now joined the cast of thousands in the black man’s kryptonite department behind that titanium door in the dark corner of my mind.