It started off so optimistic. You-with your big chest, and me-with the nerve to ask you to show it. "Show your t*ts!" I said so eloquently. Maybe the fist pumping was over the top. But hey, everyone laughed when I accidentally punched your guy friend.
The moment was perfect. My buddies, your buddies, all enjoying the party. I didn't want to come off too strong, ya know? What can I say? I was a bit nervous about talking to you-which probably explains all those honking noises I made whilst pretending to squeeze invisible lemons.
I mean, your tits, they look so nice. I wanted you to show them to me, ya know? I wasn't trying to be all exclusive about us; I was cool with my friends seeing, too. Can't you respect that?
How about when I tried to purposely spill beer onto your white blouse? I would have wasted five patient minutes in Keg traffic, just to cool you off. If it wasn't for my poor aim, and your deceivingly heavy purse filled with what felt like marbles, that beer would not have soaked those Asian kids, and mine eyes would have feasted on your gleaming nipples.
I'm sure you noticed the chemistry we had going. Even my friend, Mitch, he told me "I notice the chemistry you two have going." No sooner did you walk in through that garage door, did I feel something inexplicable rush over me. My friend, Mitch, he even pointed it out. "Dude, do you have a boner "
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You reminded me of one of those Hollywood beauties, with big eyes, and even bigger tits. I almost called out "action!," once, by accident, which would have made me look stupid. Luckily, my mouth was full of the tampons I stole from your bag, so I didn't say something regrettable.
I deserve you. Did you see my uncanny ability combined with my working class grit, when I had the whole entire garage chanting for you? And your tits? I even changed it up halfway through the night-about the time when you stopped crying for the second time. "Tit's ain't shit," I commented. "Show your clit!" Imagine, if those tampons had stayed in my mouth all night, you would have never heard my genius, nor would Mitch have been able to play "Lisa's tampon jarts" on the front lawn.
But this is where things went a bit sour. You told me you didn't want a massage. I said "No." And, as I remember from that seminar in senior gym class, "No" means "No." You seemed to forget this-which made me feel taken advantage of and empty.
I asked you to look into your heart for me. It was the least you could do, seeing as I had looked through your Razor™ and your digital camera all night.
If it crossed your mind, I didn't know. But you were definitely not going to leave without a fight. I knew this the moment you head-butted me.
Love is such a gentle flower, that when picked, it unbuttons it's shirt, and flashes it's tits at me. You must embrace this-not cry so fucking much.
So please, if you see me out again, let's make peace. I'll ask you your name, rather than find it in your wallet I still have. Maybe I'll ask you some questions about your major, what your summer plans are, maybe even what your bra size is. Then, we can go into a well lit room, and you can shake your tits at me the way the world's lovers have done for centuries before us. Cleopatra at Mark Anthony. Pam at Tommy Lee. Franklin at Eleanor Roosevelt. I WANT US ON THAT LIST. So please, do us all a favor, and show your tits