more ralk, less tock

One afternoon this really good looking lady boarded the crosstown bus carrying a bag of groceries. Not to brag or anything, but I couldn’t help but feel a little flattered that among the three or four guys who had stood up to offer her their seat, she chose mine. Spying a small sliver of beige strap peeking out from under her green shirt as she sat down, I thought to myself, Oh man, what I wouldn’t give to trade places with that bra. Not wishing to be more of a creep than I was already being, however, I wrapped my elbow around the pole, returned to my book of intermediate level word find puzzles, got out at East 20th, and thought very little of the bus ride for the rest of my day. So, needless to say I was quite shocked to awaken the next morning to find myself being removed from a dresser drawer by this very same lady from the bus. My wish, albeit one that I had obviously not intended literally, had come true.
So I guess I’ve been at this whole bra business for about eight months now, and altogether it’s not a bad gig. To bring you up to speed, the lady’s name is Evie, and she’s a 33 year-old paralegal who’s originally from Eagle Rock Mountain, ID, but moved to the city after graduating from Bowling Green University in 2001. She’s a very nice lady. And if there’s a way to say this without being terribly crass, the cargo I’m charged with supporting is considerably more impressive than anything I could have imagined on the bus. I’m tellin you, friend. Absolutely breathtaking. Of course, not that I have any significant gripes, but there have been a few minor things I’ve had to get used to. For example, I realize it’s nothing personal, but admittedly it was a small blow to my ego to learn how eager she is to get rid of me at the end of a long day. I was definitely not prepared to spend this much time hanging on the bathroom doorknob; sometimes entire weekends. Plus, she’s got this one kinda itchy sweater that I’m not too keen on. Fortunately she doesn’t wear it too often, but it is difficult for me to stay properly focused on the otherworldly soft, supple flesh on the inside of the cup when I’ve got this abrasive, grating sensation on the outside that can only accurately be compared to fiberglass or steel wool. There’s also the matter of her boyfriend. If I had eyes, I swear I would roll them every time this doofus fumbles with my hooks in the back. He just doesn’t seem to get any better at it, when just the slightest bit of, you know, effort? would make all the difference. Ugh, what an idiot. The fuck kind of name is “Greg,” anyway? Also, as I get to know Evie better, I find myself wishing she had purchased me after a professional custom bra fitting instead of at Sears. Yeah, I realize it’s a little more expensive, but she’d be so much more comfortable and maybe a little less likely to slouch. Overall though, I can’t complain. Hey, nobody expects every minute of every day to be spent gratefully absorbing delicious, lightly fragrant underboob sweat, right? I’m not sure exactly what the long-term future holds, though it seems like the best case scenario involves me getting shredded and reused as eco-friendly home insulation, but until then I’m just going to live in the moment and enjoy the ride, because it truly is a privilege. Surprisingly, my enthusiasm has not dimmed in the slightest the whole time I’ve been on the job so far; if anything, I’ve actually gotten more devoted. In fact, if I had it to do over again, I guess the only thing I’d change is maybe to have instead turned into a pair of her drawers.

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September 2012
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