Picture it, Spring Break circa 2005. The scene opens on a group of campers in the dessert toasting to their friends of yester year and new ones made along the way. The night is filled with laughter and campers as lit as the stars navigating their way among the cacti.
After having my fill of the finest liquors our college budget afforded us, I bid ado to my fellow campers and retired my drunk ass to my tent in an attempt to stave off the pending hangover. I lay there just about passed out, I mean asleep, when my tent-mate fumbles his way into the tent for the evening and snuggles in for warmth.
“Ahem” I cough.
“What?” he slurs.
“Your hand is on my boob.” I inform him.
“Oh. Sorry, I thought that was your shoulder” He says groggily. Quickly realizing what he has done, he shouts, “I MEAN YOUR BOOBS ARE HUGE!”
I am furious, “OH COME ONE! I know you’re DRUNK, but did you really need to confirm that I am stacked like a 12-year-old boy?! You could have at least done the decent thing and played it off like you were trying to grope me!”
“Sorry, I’ll do better next time” he says apologizing for his gross lack of ability to decipher hardness differentiation.
“I hope so” I scold him so that he can remember how to treat a lady in the future.
Needless to say, but I bet he has NEVER made that mistake again— He goes in for a squeeze even if he is 100% positive it’s a shoulder. I mean the nerve of some people, the flat-chested need love too.
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