TMI Thursday: Where I Over Share For Your Pleasure, Vol. 5

Before gravity and rocking-the-D-cup took the perk out of my breasts, I made public exhibition of my boobies an annual event. It was never intentional; the displays just sorta spontaneously occurred with the help of my friend, vodka. While the History of My Breasteses is sordid enough to keep me out of public office, I’m actually rather proud of it.

The Boob Love kicked off sometime around freshman year in college, when I met my first drag queen. She lived in my dorm and one alcoholicy evening, she asked to feel me up. It was for investigative purposes only, but to have my rack chosen as representative of the entire tittie-wielding population? Well, it was like somebody named me Queen of Tata Land and appointed my chest the crown jewels. Later that year, after my drag queen friend had successfully upgraded her falsies, she decided to name her new silicon glories. Not wanting to be left out, I likewise christened my chest. Pride is my left and Joy’s riding shotgun on the right.

The college jug-a-thon continued when my roommate and I were playing Mine Is Bigger Than Yours. Basically, you pick something to compare. If yours is smaller, you take a shot. At some point, Roomie deludedly claimed her D-cups out sized mine. While I patiently explained that not all cups are created equal and my Ds were noticeably more full than hers, she wouldn’t accept breast inferiority. Thus began our mission to objectively compare bust size. The downstairs dormmates (aka the residents on the boy’s floor) became involved. Their suggestions of a wet t-shirt contest and a feel test were discarded as not scientific enough. After hours of drinking thinking, we settled on circumference as the determining factor in our Chest Off. With Nattie Lights in hand and the entire population of the boys floor cheering us on, we marched down to the Xerox machine, engaged in some boobagomi and copied. I won by an inch.

Then there was the night I took off my coconut bra at the Lamda Chi house. What can I say? It pinched. And don’t tell me the women of Hawaii never went topless pre-James Cook. Really, it was all about the authenticity of the Hula Girl costume. That event pre-dated the camera phone but I’m pretty sure my perky hey-day was memorialized thanks to a few point and shoots. Also, I contend I should have won Fraternity Sweetheart that year. A boob display beats cookies any day. After all, they’re toys for big boys.

But the real Bags O’ Fun Highlight was not so much a public display as a public over share. The first day of law school, the assistant dean gathered up the entire 1L class and proceeded to instill the fear of God. He warned us if there was any incident in our pasts which involved the police, public nudity and/or moral turpitude, and we hadn’t disclosed them to the school on our application, well, to paraphrase the assistant dean, we were screwed. He maintained that omission would preclude us from passing the Character and Fitness Interview, a necessary precursor to sit for the Ohio Bar. While I’ve never been arrested per se, the “general police involvement” aspect caught my attention. Throw in the public nudity and I began to get sweat. Before I mortgaged my soul with $150K in student loan debt, I wanted answers. Accordingly, I raised my hand.

Assistant Dean: Yes?

Me (kind of squeaky): Exactly how involved did the police have to be and how much skin had to be on actual display? Is there some magical flesh to coverage ratio?

Assistant Dean (mentally cataloging me under Class Idiot): Why don’t we discuss the situation?

Me (not realizing he meant later, in a setting that did not include the entire class of ‘04): So, um, a few months ago, my friends and I were driving around, drunk and started playing Truth or Dare. And obviously I took dare. Because, well, that’s just what you do. They dared me to flash the next car. Which I did. But with my shirt hiked up around my face and my bra around my neck, I failed to realize I was flashing a police officer. To make a long story short, we were taken to the station and given a stern talking to. They let us go after that. I maintain it was because my boobtacular made the officer’s night but I don’t think that’s really at issue right now. So, um, yeah. Does that need to be disclosed?

Me and my boobs? We’re popular like that.


7 Responses to “TMI Thursday: Where I Over Share For Your Pleasure, Vol. 5”

  1. Doug Says:

    What about blogger events? What are we? Chopped liver?

    Next time, ply me with vodka. Then ask to see my boobies.

  2. lacochran Says:

    ” I failed to realize I was flashing a police officer”

    I gasped. I actually gasped.

    I’m surprised the cop didn’t insist on patting you down. *cough*

    Ha! We did get off lucky…

  3. Lemmonex Says:

    Wait? So what did the Dean say?

    Apparently, I needed to be arrested, with handcuffs and the actual reading of rights, for it to count. But he always looked at me kind of askew after that. I was on the Honor Code Committee during 3L and I swear that story is what made those meetings so awkward.

  4. Kevin Says:

    I’m with Lemm, you can leave us hanging like that. Although, apparently, it wasn’t enough to keep you away from the bar. Cough, cough…

    But it did pretty much establish my reputation amongst my classmates.

  5. J.M. Tewkesbury Says:

    Best.TMI.Ever. Breastesses are the bestest! While I do little to flaunt mine, I’m told I have wonderful boobies. Perhaps I should get them out more. But without the vodka, what excuse will I have?

    Sharing The General Glory Of My Boobs is always reason enough for me…

  6. Brett Says:

    Oversharing. The common denominator among all good women.

    Also, the appreciation of a good cocktail.

  7. Heidi Says:

    note to self…don’t go to law school.

    love it 🙂

    Or, disclose Ev.Re.Thing.

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