When Shay contacted me about oversharing, I knew her story was a perfect fit. She says boobs a lot.
Oh and hey? If you’re still around, check out the new vlog I made for The More Than Mommies Mixer. I’ve learned a lot about myself from vlogging: I only have two shirts, I make weird faces when I talk to thee computer, and I should lay off the carbs as to get rid of my double chin. And I sweat a lot.
In another lifetime (read: pre-kids), I used to go out and drink a lot of beer.
When my older sister was still on her first husband, I used to do some of that beer drinking on his pontoon boat, which made for a great party. In fact, when they got divorced, I yelled at her for being so damned selfish all the time: I mean, hadn’t she even thought about how the boat might be affected? Or how we might be affectedwithout the boat? Couldn’t she take one for the team and save her marriage for the sake of the damned boat?
But alas, she refused, and the pontoon par-tay was over.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Before the divorce, we used to go out on the part-ay pontoon all the time. During one of those trips, my younger sister wore a little fitted tee over her bikini that said this: “It’s cute how you think I’m listening.”
It was obviously directed to any guys she happened to be talking to at the time, and my little sister could pull it off. She got all the looks in the family. When you picture her and me (and that is totally correct grammar, I promise) standing together, think of Arnold Schwarzenegger/Danny DeVito in Twins. Except that she’s the short, dark-headed one but with good features and I’m the tall blonde with…not so good features. Unless you’re into horses or people who look like them—which some people totally are, so I’m good…really, I am! (Did I just type that last sentence correctly? I can’t see the screen through the tears streaming down my face…)
But you get the point—or maybe you don’t, so I’ll just tell you: Of the three of us girls in the family, she’s the hot sister…although my older sister would vehemently disagree.
I remember inclining my head toward her shirt and saying, “Oh my gosh, I need to get one of those!”
My little sister smiled and nodded indulgently, even though we both knew that if the same guys were to read the line “It’s cute how you think I’m listening” plastered across my chest on a baby tee, they’d likely be thinking something along the lines of: “It’s cute how you think I’m looking.”
That afternoon, after having consumed several beers, jello shots, and mixed drinks, my older sister and I were sitting on the end of the pontoon, our feet dangling in the water as we shared ciggies and a nice buzzed chat. We saw a guy from a neighboring boat float by, then turn around and paddle back to us.
“Can I see your tits?” he asked.
I looked at my older sister, speechless.
“Oh, he’s obviously not talking to me, Shay,” she said, shrugging as she took a drag off of her ciggie. “He’s looking right at you.”
I looked back toward the guy, still floating in his inflatable donut in the water. He was so drunk that his eyes were glazed over and almost crossed.
“Um, I don’t think…I don’t think he’s totally sure where he’s looking,” I responded, leaning closer to him as I waved a few fingers in front of his eyes.
“I do!” the drunky insisted. “I’m looking at you…Sha…”
“Shay,” I supplied. “I know that one syllable can be killer.”
“Shay,” he tried again, nodding his head. “I swam all the way over here because I thought you were so pretty,” he slurred at me. “I could have drowned.”
I looked over my right shoulder at the boat that was literally hooked up to ours, which is how people did it at the lake to meet other likeminded drunks. “That’s your boat right there. It’s touching ours. You didn’t even have to doggy paddle over here; you could have just stepped into our boat.” (Isn’t it cute how I made it “our” boat, as if I owned a seat cushion or something?)
My sister cocked her head at me, confused at my snarky tone. “Oh, come on, Shay, didn’t you hear him? He swamall the way over here just to see you.” She said it like that was something to be proud of, as if I were lucky that this bastard squozen into an inflatable pink donut had chosen to offer me the opportunity of showing him my bottle caps. “Just show him your boobs.”
“What?” I snapped, my mouth hanging open in shock at her suggestion. “What do you mean, just show him my boobs?”
“You heard me. The poor guy is out of breath from all of that swimming—”
“His boat is touching ours! I don’t think it could get any closer if we stacked them on top of each other!”
My older sister shrugged. I leaned closer to her and whispered frantically. “You know my policy: No showing my boobs because I don’t want to get laughed at.”
No, folks, it’s not a strong sense of dignity or self-respect that keeps me from showing off these concave knockers that en ex-boyfriend—while we were still dating—once called “Shay’s little baby boobs.” It’s the fact that I’m afraid that upon seeing them, someone will laugh hysterically while calling me a little boy.
“Oh, please,” my sister responded, rolling her eyes. “He’s so drunk he can’t even see.”
“But you just said he was looking at me—”
“Oh my gosh, you’re such a diva,” my sister muttered, flicking her ciggie ashes.
I blinked, staring at her in astonishment. “Wait. Wait, back up. You’re calling me a diva for not wanting to show my boobs to a guy who’s so drunk he doesn’t even realize he’s in the water?” We both looked down at the guy who was currently trying to reach behind him to flush a toilet. “Besides,” I added, grimacing at the thought of what had come out of his body and hoping it was a #1, “shouldn’t I be saving my precious gifts for marriage?”
My sister and I couldn’t help but crack up. We love to pepper the many lessons we learned from 12 years of Catholic school into any and every conversation that we can. Since we don’t use them elsewhere in life, we figure it’d be a shame not to at least use them to spice up a conversation here and there.
“Oh, please,” she said. “You’re not a Duggar. Or Kirk Cameron.”
“I don’t even know what the hell that means…” I faltered.
“It means get over yourself and show the poor guy your boobs. He’s only got one eye opened now, anyway.”
I don’t know what it was about my older, wiser sister’s speech. Probably the Kirk Cameron thing. I really liked his acting style as a kid. Whatever the case, I figured I’d just go for it. I made my sister turn around while I did it…or at least started to do it…
But the bikini top hadn’t come down even an inch before I saw something repulsive sticking out, something waving in the wind, begging, pleading for a pair of tweezers, something that I needed to hurriedly cover before anyone else saw.
But it was too late.
“Was that…was that a hair?” the drunk guy, whose eyes had suddenly snapped back into focus, yelled just before the gagging set in. “A big black one?” he continued between retches.
And that’s when his system, mentally taunted and tickled by a big, wiry black boob hair joyously weaving to and fro in the warm summer breeze, had had enough. He leaned over his donut and horked.
My older sister languidly lifted her feet out of the water and laughed as he paddled away into the sunshine (or the neighboring boat), still puking as he kicked his drunken little legs as fast as he could to get away from the hair.
And while I would have liked to have joined in her laughter after we’d made sure that he’d gotten back into his boat safely, I was too busy looking for a pair of damned tweezers—although I knew it wouldn’t matter now, anyway.
There was no way I was going to attempt to show off these tiny boobs again after my worst flashing nightmare hadn’t only come true, but had been kicked up a notch on the first and only time I’d ever even thought about showing them off:
Because the would-be viewer of the teats hadn’t laughed; he’d PUKED. And this was without even seeing my boobs.
Trashy Blog is written by Shay, who posts once a week—normally on Fridays, when she has a chance to kick back with a beer and trash her skanky little heart out. Check her out at www.trashyblog.com
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