When I first saw Shelly's boobs, I actually gasped -- then I got hot-faced from shame. I turn heads myself (I was called Dolly Parton in high school) but I'd never seen tits like hers outside of magazines.
Shelly stood behind the counter of the WhereMI?, the campus sandwich shop. She must have been used to reactions like mine because she appeared nonchalant, just smiled (I noticed a discreet beige retainer across her teeth) and asked me again for my order. Trying desperately to erase the shock and humiliation from my face, which must have been red as a brick, I gave her my order. As she took my cash and made change, I noted the name, "Shelly Garcia" on the little tag above her massive chest. Poor Shelly had to put her arms out to one side instead of to her front in order to take money and reach the cash register because of those watermelons.
Me and Delores went to a table. We look like girlfriends but we're not. Though both of us are gay, the chemistry of sex never quite took so we went back to being friends after we flubbed a romance in our sophomore year. I often wish we roomed together but Delores isn't in a dorm; she commutes from an apartment she shares with her girlfriend Ginger.
Delores and I smiled at each other without saying anything but then you can hardly hear yourself think in WhereMI? when it's crowded. Delores's little hazel eyes glittered with mirth; she was smirking and, like me, actually blushing. The latter looks especially funny on a butch like Delores: cherry-cola colored flat-top, shaved up one side, no make-up (though her dark brown eyebrows are tweezed to microscopic little arcs), a bright yellow t-shirt and baggy jeans over high-heeled sneakers. Delores likes fake tattoos and, at that time, she had a fearsome looking snake riding up one cheek and a heart with an arrow through it on a forearm.
Delores lightly rapped my hand and teased: "Didn't Mommy tell you it's impolite to stare, Dolly Parton?"
I smiled sadly. But I couldn't stop staring. I felt sorry for Shelly; I hate the sexist remarks and I knew she had to get zillions of them. Plus I noticed other people were staring at her. Guys had to hit on her constantly, especially jock/frat types.
Then I had a crazy thought: maybe she ought to have one of the trays permanently attached under her boobs to make her comfortable.
Shelly was short, about five feet tall, and quite pretty in other respects: long, silky black hair, butterscotch complexion, and a pug nose. Her lips were too thin. She wore pink eye shadow and mascara over thick-lidded brown eyes. Her fingernails were moderately long and painted a dirty dark blue. She carried herself remarkably well, especially considering (my mother used to nag me all the time not to slouch; I now remind myself often).
But for all those thoughts, I was getting turned on too. What would it be like to be overwhelmed by another woman's breasts, I wondered?
***
Luckily, I soon found myself sitting with Shelly when she came in the lobby of Oates Dorm to watch All My Children. I introduced myself and we both asked each other the standard get-to-know-you-at-college questions. She had a very sweet, high-pitched voice that made her sound kind of baby like. She told me her major (Computer Science), minor (Accounting), that she roomed at Oates dorm (with a roomie), and that she had just transferred from a JC. I thought we'd probably have a few classes in common sometime or other (though we didn't that semester) since I myself am majoring in Accounting (my minor is just for fun: Psych.).
Knowing how irritated I get when guys stare at my tits, I made a conscious effort to look at her face even while I was fantasizing about what it would be like to free her from her brassiere. She was wearing dead white eye shadow this time, blush and powder, but again no lipstick. I wondered if the reason she didn't wear lipstick was because she was self-conscious her lips were thin or because she didn't want to draw attention to the beige retainer on her teeth that I noticed for the first time. But then, I thought, Shelly must be pretty used to attention!
Despite myself, I had to at least glance downward at her yellow T-shirt: every time Shelly took a breath: it seemed like her breasts were battling to get out of the bra and take over the room. Her jeans were very tight, powder blue, and faded to cotton white at the knees. She wore thongs on her feet and sat with a leg crossed against the other at the knee; every now and then she bounced her foot's heel away from the thong.
"My Dad's a computer programmer. He was really happy with my major," Shelly said.
"Yeah. It's practical like Accounting," I said, aware of my pussy getting moist.
"First thing with me he's been happy about with me, Rhiannon," she added, making a sour face and turning her tiny lips down.
"You don't get along with him?"
"Not at all," she said, shaking her head.
