The Neighborhood Preschool in Silverlake is a collection of low-slung buildings on the south end of the reservoir. I was running late, as usual, with traffic in the southland being what it is and working in the Industry with its long hours. Note the capital I in Industry – although I would claim otherwise to relatives from the East, I love the affectation. To me, the Industry-capital-I is the real Hollywood. It's the polar opposite of what you see at the travesty of tourism and tawdriness that is the Hollywood and Highland Center. The real Industry is people like me – middle-aged, with a family and a mortgage, politically liberal despite the Ranger Rover, showing up late to my son's kindergarten orientation.
There were about 45 parents in the room when I took my seat next to my wife. I knew most of them from the playground and the potlucks and the pick-ups and drop-offs that are a part of life when you're the parent of a preschooler. The principle of the school where most of our kids would be attending school next year as kindergarteners was droning on about the state of California and requirements for immunizations and birth certificates. Honestly, it's not my fault I couldn't pay attention. I looked around the room and Karen was breastfeeding her baby Zoe.
In retrospect, I will admit that what happened next was my fault. I stared. Pathetic, isn't it?
Thankfully, women using their breasts for what nature intended is a pretty common thing in Southern California – while we may be the world capital for boob jobs, we're also pretty high up there for La Leche League attendance. But I wasn't thinking about the many benefits of breastfeeding when I was taking in Karen's left boob, admiring the soft and gentle curve of the underside, desperately wishing to glimpse a brown nipple as Zoe pulled away. Even at the time, I felt some remorse. Not because what they were doing was an inherently private act, but because I was turning it into a sexual one – at least for me. Maybe it was an occupational hazard – too many years working in a town that seemed dedicated to little beyond celebrating a hyper-sexualized version of womanhood. But I'm rationalizing. Karen looked up and caught my eye. As she pulled down her shirt, I quickly turned my attention back to the principle.
Later, after the bit about Diphtheria, Measles and Mumps, we were all mingling and eating whole-wheat crackers with dried out jack cheese when Karen came up to me.
"Hey, can I talk to you for a minute? In private?"
She must have given Zoe to her husband, for the baby was nowhere in sight.
"Uhh...Sure. "
She led me out of the room in to the adjoining kitchen and closed the door.
She flipped on the light and turned to look at me.
"I noticed you...umm...looking rather intently at me when I was feeding Zoe. What was that about?"
"I...ummm....nothing."
"Are you sure?"
"No. I'm not. Not sure that is. I mean it was more than nothing." I took a breath. "I was trying to get a look at your breast."
"At this?" Her hand brushed over the top of her shirt. "It's not very sexy at the moment."
"I know. I don't know what I was doing or thinking, I was....I was just doing. I'm sorry."
She considered me for a moment, looking up and down, "Are you?"
I nodded.
"Do you want to feel better about it?"
Another nod.
"OK. Stay there"
She went over to the sink, rummaged around under the sink and came back wearing a pair of yellow rubber gloves. "Pull down your pants."
I hesitated from both surprise and mortification.
"Go ahead. Do it. "
