Four leaf cleavage

*Warning- This blog post may or may not contain content that is for mature audiences. Viewer discretion is advised. Of course, I doubt that many immature people read my blog, and those that do are probably me.

Sometimes I feel like bears and boobs have a lot in common. They both begin with the letter 'B', and they both come out of hibernation when the snow melts away. So maybe they don't have a lot in common.

Spring and summer are the absolute hardest seasons to be a man who tries to adhere to a sense of moral decency. I don't have any sort of real statitstic to back this up, but I'm pretty sure that the ratio of cleavage to girls goes from like 1:400 to like 65:1. As a man, I constantly have to be on alert- at any given moment, I could be confronted by a girl who is ventilating her mammary glands. Maybe it's a spaghetti strap shirt, maybe it's a low cut 't', maybe the boobs are just bigger than the material. But whatever the case, I find it more difficult to make eye contact with women between April and August.

Today, I had an epiphany. See, I constantly live in dread of this time of year. It's probably like a shark feels when there's blood in the water. The shark is probably just going about his business- not even really hungry...but since you put it out there I am going to get in a frenzy and tear you to shreds. Cleavage works the same way for me. I really try to not gawk and stare, for a few reasons- I want to have respect for my wife, respect for the cleavager, and respect for the idea that 'looking at a woman lustfully is the same as committing adultery'. But you know what?

Those days are gone. Done. Finito.

See, I realize this now- it is not my responsibility to keep my wandering eyes in their cages. That responsibility falls to the offender.

The woman is the one that chooses her clothes. I have absolutely no say over the wardrobe. Sure, society plays a role in determining what is acceptable, what is trendy and fashionable, and even what clothes are even available. But the woman is the one who decides how she is going to package the goods. Every time she gets dressed, she is making a conscious decision about how the ta-tas are going to be presented. And then what ends up happening is that I can never look that woman in the eye- not because I'm ashamed, but because if you give me the choice to look at your eyes or your chest, I'm sorry, you could be Betty Davis and I'm still picking the rack. But I'm far too chivalrous to actually do this, so I end up looking at the neck/chin region.

But this whole thing is ridiculous. Why am I holding myself responsible when clearly these women are the ones that are making premeditated decisions to put me in situations that I have to struggle to suppress my biological urges? It's like putting a bloody steak in front of a hungry lion and then expecting him to say 'Thanks, but I'll pass. I'm going hunting for some chipmunks today'.

Time for a history lesson. In the old days, there were these things called 'forts' and 'castles' in place to provide protection. Whether it was your crops, your possessions, or your family, you made sure that the other guy couldn't just swoop in and take everything that you held dear. Maybe you had a moat. Maybe it was a thick stone wall. Possibly even a big 'ol gun. Whatever the case, you made darn sure that your stuff was safe.

But if you didn't have secure dwellings, or if you left the door open? Your crap got pillaged and plundered. To me, cleavage is the door to the fort. If you're rocking it, you're basically asking me to come into your fort and swipe all your stuff.

Gas station attendants are the worst. I'm sorry, but if you're standing there at the counter and taking money from me then don't expect that my eyes are going to be locked on anything but your bust. I'm already a little ticked about having to pay upwards of $3.00 a gallon for gas, and then I have to summon every ounce of willpower in my soul to walk out of there with my integrity in tact...no thank you. Not anymore.

So if you are a woman, and you find me staring at your chest, know that you brought this on yourself. I'm not a pervert- I'm a man who is tired of fighting millions of years of evolution (or thousands of years of intelligent design). If you start to feel uncomfortable, it has nothing to do with my preadolescent fixation with knockers; rather, it is the discomfort of reaping what you have sown. If you keep those puppies locked up, you won't have any problems from me. If not...well, you have been warned.

*This post is by and large a joke. Ha ha. I don't plan on taking any awkwardly long gazes down anyone's shirt.

But still...