I'm Listening. I was sharing a glass of Sauvignon Blanc with my handsome and hot friend Pete on a New York afternoon of iridescent splendor when a stunning tall young woman walked by. Since wine is not the only thing Pete and I share a taste for, we both stared with brazen admiration.
"Did you hear that?” I asked deadpan.
“Hear what?"
“Her breasts, they were calling me. And it was a loud holler."
"What is it with you and breasts? To me they’re like aliens, devious and unfathomable. They scare the shit out of me."
I decided that this might be the right moment to tell Pete about my first lover, Portia.
Portia was a breast whisperer. I’m quite certain that she fell in love with my breasts long before she fell in love with me. She could communicate with them in a way that was almost mystical. The tips of her fingers could hear their yearnings, the palms of her hands could caress their innermost secrets, her tongue could taste their desires and time and again, she could bring me to climax just by sucking my nipples with the perfect amount of pressure at the exact moment my body was ready to surrender. She once told me that the breasts are the portal to the soul—at first I shrugged that one off—but she was right.
Pete was staring at me with absolute incredulity.
"Let me put it this way, Pete darling. The way to a woman’s pussy is through her breasts."
We sat in silence for a long time, sipping our wine and smiling. Suddenly, I noticed Pete’s gaze making it’s way down to my breasts, which, if I have to say so myself, were looking quite perky, probably remembering Portia.
"Okay, what’s going on?" I finally insisted.
"Shhh, I’m listening."—L.R.
