fruitful impressions of certain people leave me dry mouthed and longing
When I was a teenager, I was always mesmerized by commercials for Wonderbras and the idea of “lifting and separating.” I couldn’t wait to get my own Wonderbra, particularly because I was a bit of a later bloomer. While all of my friends were graduating from training bras to real bras with lace trim and cute little bows, I was thinking “when am I going to get mine?” Actually, I still have a comparatively small chest. But I like having mangoes rather than cantaloupes. That would get more than a little cumbersome.
Now, as you may have guessed, I have quite a few Wonderbras and other pieces of sexy lingerie made for enhancement (but never, ever have I used falsies or water bras; it’s a matter of principle), and I am quite used to compliments on my cleavage. But an incident this weekend made me think twice about where and to whom I show my Wonderbras.
My new boss has begun a hard-driven campaign to recruit new clients, and I have been appointed head of the project. The pressure is on, all thanks to good reviews from Susan, my old boss - but I am handling the workload delicately, as it were, and managing the stress by screaming while riding down the empty elevator at 11 o’clock every night when I leave to go home. (Did I mention I have no social life? Well, it hasn’t completely disappeared. I just miss it so much. I even miss Kara.)
My first task on this project was to meet with a potential client who is looking for new representation and an advertising agency. The business is located out of Los Angeles, so naturally, I had to fly there. I love flying - just love it. So packed my overnight bag, and headed for the airport on Thursday evening for a Friday morning meeting. Originally, I decided not to check my bag so that I would save time later on, but after carrying it, it seemed like it would be easier on my back and shoulders if I checked it. Walking up to the bag-check counter, I noticed that people were looking at me, but I ignored it, thinking that they were just checking me out (more keeping up appearances and looking good, what can I say?) But as I continued walking through the terminal, through the security check points and up to the gate, I couldn’t help but notice that a lot of people were staring at me. Even little kids. It was a bit unnerving, but I just decided to take it as an ill-performed compliment. The black oxford shirt I was wearing was, after all, terribly flattering on me, and I must say that my legs were looking great after resuming my work out schedule.
It wasn’t until I boarded the plane that anyone said anything to me. I sat in first class, so all the coach passengers walked by me, and as they did, they kept stealing glances - at my cleavage. Finally, right before take-off, a female flight attendant offered me a glass of wine and said, “That’s quite a nice bra - the pink lace on the cup really sets off the black of your shirt. And the lifting and separating is very sexy.” I looked down; part in horror part in disgust, and saw that my tailored black oxford that fit me so well was unbuttoned almost down to my navel. I laughed it off, and accepted the glass of wine.
Normally, something like this wouldn’t have embarrassed me or bothered me, but that evening, I was especially sensitive to the nature of the situation. I walked though an entire airport with my shirt unbuttoned and my sexy bra showing - and now I am considering wearing more conservative outfits. Nah. That would be more than a little boring.
Strange things, like embarrassment over a bra, have been popping up lately. Three weeks ago, I thought I saw Stephan in a pizza shop across town. And last week, I could have sworn that I saw Stephan at the subway station a couple of blocks from my apartment. It was a surreal vision - he was there, about twenty feet away from me, chewing a piece of gum. It couldn’t have been him; he moved to San Francisco months ago. But it felt so real.
//KiLLKiLLKiLLKiLLKiLL
Now, as you may have guessed, I have quite a few Wonderbras and other pieces of sexy lingerie made for enhancement (but never, ever have I used falsies or water bras; it’s a matter of principle), and I am quite used to compliments on my cleavage. But an incident this weekend made me think twice about where and to whom I show my Wonderbras.
My new boss has begun a hard-driven campaign to recruit new clients, and I have been appointed head of the project. The pressure is on, all thanks to good reviews from Susan, my old boss - but I am handling the workload delicately, as it were, and managing the stress by screaming while riding down the empty elevator at 11 o’clock every night when I leave to go home. (Did I mention I have no social life? Well, it hasn’t completely disappeared. I just miss it so much. I even miss Kara.)
My first task on this project was to meet with a potential client who is looking for new representation and an advertising agency. The business is located out of Los Angeles, so naturally, I had to fly there. I love flying - just love it. So packed my overnight bag, and headed for the airport on Thursday evening for a Friday morning meeting. Originally, I decided not to check my bag so that I would save time later on, but after carrying it, it seemed like it would be easier on my back and shoulders if I checked it. Walking up to the bag-check counter, I noticed that people were looking at me, but I ignored it, thinking that they were just checking me out (more keeping up appearances and looking good, what can I say?) But as I continued walking through the terminal, through the security check points and up to the gate, I couldn’t help but notice that a lot of people were staring at me. Even little kids. It was a bit unnerving, but I just decided to take it as an ill-performed compliment. The black oxford shirt I was wearing was, after all, terribly flattering on me, and I must say that my legs were looking great after resuming my work out schedule.
It wasn’t until I boarded the plane that anyone said anything to me. I sat in first class, so all the coach passengers walked by me, and as they did, they kept stealing glances - at my cleavage. Finally, right before take-off, a female flight attendant offered me a glass of wine and said, “That’s quite a nice bra - the pink lace on the cup really sets off the black of your shirt. And the lifting and separating is very sexy.” I looked down; part in horror part in disgust, and saw that my tailored black oxford that fit me so well was unbuttoned almost down to my navel. I laughed it off, and accepted the glass of wine.
Normally, something like this wouldn’t have embarrassed me or bothered me, but that evening, I was especially sensitive to the nature of the situation. I walked though an entire airport with my shirt unbuttoned and my sexy bra showing - and now I am considering wearing more conservative outfits. Nah. That would be more than a little boring.
Strange things, like embarrassment over a bra, have been popping up lately. Three weeks ago, I thought I saw Stephan in a pizza shop across town. And last week, I could have sworn that I saw Stephan at the subway station a couple of blocks from my apartment. It was a surreal vision - he was there, about twenty feet away from me, chewing a piece of gum. It couldn’t have been him; he moved to San Francisco months ago. But it felt so real.
//KiLLKiLLKiLLKiLLKiLL