Moral Dilemma, of Sorts

I don’t know what it is that makes me notice these things, but I seem to be the person in life that sees the awkward, the embarrassing, and the ‘better to be unseen’ events in other peoples’ lives. Take, for instance, the afternoon I was mooned by a restaurant hostess. Her skirt was rather short and when she leaned over slightly to pass out menus, I got a fairly full glimpse of what was under said skirt. Nothing was under said skirt and when I mentioned it to the manager, he was suitably horrified. Sadly, he was suitably horrified that I didn’t receive my fruit with brunch. Then there was the time I was headed to work one fine Los Angeles morning and confirmed that black men are indeed larger, as demonstrated by the man walking with his penis hanging out the zipper of his trousers after what I can only hope was a back alley pee.

Needless to say, very little escapes my attention in this department. So when I noticed my co-workers’ boobs this morning, it won’t see unusual to you. She has rather large breasts for her frame. And she has very little idea how to dress such accessories. Today, however, she’s hit a new problem. She is wearing a white t-shirt. It’s not overly tight but it is thin. And she’s wearing a white bra underneath. The problem lies in the fact that the bra is a demi-bra, which means the upper half of the cup is lace. White lace. More netting than lace actually and it allows a view of, shall we say… a darkening from underneath? And while we were making tea, I had to force myself to look anywhere but in her general direction. How do you point that one out exactly? Show us your tits! Oh wait, you already are. It’s an awkward conversation to have with the closest of friends, but with your boss… even more so. The stupid thing is my other co-worker seems to be rather challenged in the zipper area. He’s very often spotted with his fly down. Yesterday, he too, hit a new low. He came out of the toilets and I noticed he had a spot of wetness the size of a dime right next to his fly. I had to leave the room. I’ve no idea how you tell a co-worker, particularly one of the opposite sex that you are looking at their general genital area. And, occasionally, he really needs to take a shower. Between the two of them I need a blindfold.

So there I was, in the kitchen, trying not to stare at her breasts while she recounted a great movie she saw last night. And her stories are long, much longer than they need to be because she tends to repeat everything a few times to make sure you got the point. At the first available opportunity, I grabbed my tea and ran.