Last Saturday night was a long-anticipated evening of dancing, drinking, and general naughtiness with the girls, all in celebration of Svetlana’s birthday. So naturally, I spent the better part of the week before the event, obsessing about my wardrobe.

Trying on a black wrap dress and peep toe pumps, I turned in the mirror and examined my back side.

“Does this make my ass look big?” I asked Dick. Never looking up from the Sunday NY Times, he replied robotically, “Never, sweetie. You always look gorgeous to me.”

(Some might argue that he’s well-trained, but I’m going to file that input under “useless”, subheading “suspect”.)

“Well, I could wear the peasant blouse and the cropped pants with my sparkly shoes and chandelier earrings. I’m just afraid that I won’t be dressed up enough. You know? What do you think?”

“I’d stick with a dress, if I were you,” Dick replied, as if it was something he’d been considering for a while.

Ignoring his alleged interest in my plight, I pulled out the long black dress I’ve never dared to wear. Beautiful, soft, casually dressy, it would be the perfect dress for the festivities – if only I had the guts to wear it outside my house.

“What about this black dress? The really low-cut one.” I asked, holding the dress up to my body.

Dick looked up from his newspaper. “Low-cut? I think we need to see this one on…*”

*We? Men are amazing creatures. Even the mere insinuation that boobs may be on display garners their undivided attention.

Slipping on the long black dress with the plunging halter neckline, I remembered again why I’d bought it. Something about the silhouette of the gown took 30 lbs off my frame. It looked fabulous! It was fitted where it ought to be and loose in all the right places. On top of that, it’s made of cotton jersey so it feels light as a feather and it breathes beautifully. The perfect dress for a night of dancing and debauchery except for…

…the cleavage. Lots of it. Plunging neckline. Way out of my comfort zone.

“Are you sure this isn’t too revealing?” I asked in earnest, shoving round white boob flesh into the bodice of my gown.

As Dick salivated he stammered, “Are you kidding? You look totally hot in that. Besides, you’ve got a nice rack. You should show it off.”

“Maybe…I don’t know if I’m comfortable showing this much off. I’m a mom now. Aren’t there some rules about showing off too much in public once you’re supposed to be a responsible adult?”

“Don’t be silly! You know all the other ladies in your group are going to be wearing low-cut dresses. Don’t you want to dress in style with the others? Besides, you’ve got nothing to worry about. ”


As Saturday crept closer, I became more occupied with finding a piñata for Svetlana’s birthday party and gave hardly any thought to my ultra breast-baring, oh-so-daring dress. Saturday morning, as I stuffed the monkey pinata (it’s a long story…) full of mini bottles of booze, chocolate bars and sex toys, I looked over and glanced at my black dress hanging from the closet door. Intimidated once again by that plunging neckline, I put the dress on, strategically concealing bra straps behind the thin strips of fabric which acted as the halter.

“Nope. Can’t do this. It’s too much tit.”

Off came the dress and I began to rifle through my closet again in search of a more demure alternative. Unfortunately I’d been distracted by the piñata hunt, so I really hadn’t had a chance to go to the dry cleaner, which meant not even my back-up peasant shirt/cropped pants ensemble was ready to wear.

Short on time, I vowed to scour every store between here and Target in search of a suitable alternative to the walking porno ad of a dress. But after a minor scheduling disaster with the beauty salon laid waste to my afternoon, I found myself racing home, where Svetlana was waiting for me glancing at the clock. My long, black dress was flung over my closet door, simultaneously seducing me and mocking all my insecurities. I swallowed hard as I reached for it. Like doing a shot of some foul-tasting alcohol, I knew I needed to just stop thinking about it and get it over with. I slipped the black dress on, threw on some turquoise beads, a little turquoise wrap and beachy, bejeweled sandals. I stood before Svet with a look of uncertainty.

“Are you f****in’ kidding me, babe? You look seriously hot in that!” Svetlana gushed.

“Maybe. But I’m someone’s mom now. Don’t you think this ship has sailed? I don’t want this to turn into a Frankenmom situation…”

“No way! I will f****in’ kill you if you don’t wear this dress tonight!”

Resigned to my fate, I bent over to pull my evening clutch out of the lower drawer of my dresser. In a pattern that would be repeated most of the evening, my right nipple popped out – much to Svetlana’s amusement.

“I don’t think I should wear this in public. It’s too much. It’s just a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen.”

“Stop it! You look amazing. Your tits are awesome. Besides, my cleavage is under wraps tonight so someone has gotta give it up. On top of that, we really don’t have time for you to try on another outfit, so let’s go!”


We arrived at the upscale Asian bistro just in time to greet the other ladies in our party. I was relieved to see that I wasn’t the only one with her boobs on display. A few of the other ladies had opted to show some cleavage, as well.

All night long, I pulled my turquoise wrap tightly around me to conceal my chest. As male patrons walked by on their way to the bar, I could almost feel them gawking at my goodies. Svet did her best to reassure me by kindly announcing the fabulousness of my tits to everyone else at the table and to the nearby strangers, as well.

As if public pronouncements about the awesomeness of my cleavage weren’t enough to embarrass me, one of Svetlana’s childhood friends, whom I had met a few times previously, showed up a few minutes late to the festivities. As she bent over to give me an air kiss (her own boobs prominently displayed I might add), she whispered in my ear, “Love your tits in that dress, babe.”

Oh gawd. The rest of my meal was spent trying to suppress my mortification with liquor. It helped…somewhat. At least until we got to the club.


Add 2 more shots (ironically they were buttery nipples), a dance floor with some feel good, soul-shaking music, and drunken dancing is soon to follow. As we all strutted our thirty-something stuff on the dance floor, Svet came over periodically to adjust my peak-a-boob. Here’s a tip for all you ladies out there: apparently, all that friendly girl on girl groping in public draws the attentions of drunken men because the next thing I knew I had someone’s 40-something husband (kid you not, the dude had a wedding ring on!) laying all his MacDaddy vibes on me.

At barely 6 ft., well over 250 lbs and balding, MacDaddy’s Chris Farley physique spoke to a life spent keeping the living room furniture securely in place with his ever-spreading ass.

“Hey sweetie. You’re looking pretty hot tonight. You married?”, he asked gyrating his hips and nodding his head to the beat.

“Yep. Just out with my girlfriends tonight.”

“Oh, yeah. Love that your husband lets you out of the house like that. Meow! You look amazing”, he said, staring directly at my chest.

“Um…thanks. I’ve got to go to the ladies room. See you around,” I said, hoping he’d taken my coolness as a hint.

He didn’t.

After emerging from the ladies room, Mr. MacDaddy was still there, nursing a new beer and waving at me to come over and dance. I rejoined my friends, pretending not to see him, only to have him re-emerge in our group, pretending to trip as he attempted to grope me.

“Oh, so sorry about that. I almost fell into your boobs with my hands,” he said with a lecherous grin.

“Yeah. Almost. Good thing I moved!”

“Oh yeah. You’ve got the moves all right, baby.”

I turned to Svet and rolled my eyes in disgust. Svet recognized that look that passes between girlfriends on a crowded dance floor – “get this LOSER off of me”. Non-chalantly, she moved towards me and slid herself between me and the groping MacDaddy in a full-on cock block.

Undeterred, he tried to pull the ole’ vanish and reappear on the other side, trick. But Svet, being experienced in the ways of the slime ball, manuevered around me to go in for another block. This time, Mr. MacDaddy, slipped in behind me and quickly began to hump the back of my left thigh in a quasi-dance move. Svet had had it with his persistence.

“Look buddy, she’s happily married. Back off!”

“What? We’re just making friends here. Don’t get all pissy.”

Svet glared at him. “Do you realize she’s a mother to two kids? They’re at home asleep, waiting for her right now. So, move on, dude. No way is she going home with you tonight!”

Ouch. Motherhood, aka “the ultimate cock block”, had been deployed.


Made sober by my borderline dance floor sexual assault, I swore never to wear the long, black dress again. As Svet’s brother drove us home that night I told Svetlana, “Say goodbye to the tits. They’re going back into their elastic & lace covered caves for eternity.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You looked great. We’ll get you some dress tape next time to keep the nips from popping out and it’ll be fine.”

“Nope. No next time for me and the plunging neckline. Next time I’m going to stick with the less is more philosophy.”

“Whatever. You’re being silly. You can’t help it if the sight of your creamy, white flesh makes men lose control of themselves,” she giggled drunkenly.

When I pointed out that the mesmerizing effect of my boobs was temporary and appeared only to impact my husband and one drunken, overweight letch who was the spitting image of Chris Farley, she had to concede my point – at least partially.

“You know, the trouble with you is that you exude high class. You carry yourself with such grace & dignity that the cleavage baring look is just so unexpected of you. Because you’re not comfortable with it, you don’t own the look so it makes you appear vulnerable.”

Wow. That drunken gal, was right! It wasn’t the fact that my boobs were on display that bothered me so much, rather it was the lack covereage for my bruised self-image that was the real problem. With insecurity written all over me, it was the blemish no amount of accessorization could hide.

As I hugged Svet goodnight and walked up to my front door, Dick was there, greeting me with his big, warm smile.

“Did you have a good time, darling?” he asked in earnest.

“I think so. The one and only time I’ve ever put my boobs out there and they were the center of attention. I just don’t know if that’s anything I need to do again.”

Dick wrapped his arms around me. “Whatever makes you feel good about yourself, sweetie. You know I love seeing you at your most confident. Self-confidence is the sexiest thing of all on a woman.”

Finally, after all the phony attempts at reassurance, and the poorly concealed ulterior motives, the man speaks the truth! I’m forced to accept the fact that I’m at my hottest in a pair of cropped pants, a peasant blouse, and high-heeled shoes. Not only is that a look I can own, but it’s a outfit I can wear out in public with confidence…and without being groped by anyone other than Dick.

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