April 24, 2012 by Rebekah Newman
I am not in the habit of using my boobs as a pocketbook. I don’t store money, credit cards, change, pens, sunglasses, make-up or anything else that I can carry in my purse in there, even though they would probably all fit nicely and unnoticed.
Since about 8 months after my youngest son was born, my breasts have retired to a nice quiet decorative lifestyle. I come from a long line of boob pocket bookers though and I have friends that regularly ask their “girls” to safe guard their valuables.
Yesterday I whipped my car into a space in a crowded parking lot and since I was in a hurry, I glanced around quickly to ensure no one was walking nearby. I then rushed to adjust something about them that was not right. Maybe one was slipping out the bottom of its holder and when I tried to pop it back into place, it popped out the top. There is nothing more irritating than a misplaced boob (although misplaced undies might rank near the top of that list also) so I took a little extra time to ensure it was properly seated, with everything in place.
I assure you, it was more attention than I have given them in months, maybe longer.
As I grabbed my purse and hurriedly turned to exit the car, I looked up to see a twenty-something young man, possibly of Indian descent, sitting in the driver’s seat of the car parked directly in front of me. He had his hands on the key in the ignition, but sat frozen, mouth open, wide-eyed and staring.