Those Damn Eyes

Just once, just ONCE, I would like to see his eyes stay where they belong when I am in range. It's not like he is a bad guy. In fact, he is one of the good guys in my opinion. Non-abusive. Understands how to be authoritative without being an authoritarian.

But those damn eyes.

I know I am not the only one. I am not naive. I have seen how his eyes creep along the bustline of so many others. Efforts to be discreet are routine, but there is never a doubt as to the fact that his eyes migrate to a woman's breasts like a duck to water.

Never an off-color comment. Never a suggestive word. Never a flirtatious expression. Yet those eyes never cease to slither over my veiled flesh. Sometimes I feel vulnerable when I am sitting in front of him as he stands - towers - over me. I feel his eyes diving towards my cleavage. I have no place to hide. The private thought of "I should not have worn this top today" thumps in my brain.

He never dares reveal any of his thoughts regarding the reality of his wandering eyes. It is more than plausible deniability though, it is a crazy, passionate pursuit of maintaining a certain image that he craves. Respectable. Dignified. Honorable. Holy.

I file his papers and screen his calls and edit his writings and schedule his appointments. I am in many people's assessment, his protector. The irony is striking. If that is indeed true, which I do not argue against, the fact is that I am perhaps the least protected of all those caught in the crosshairs of his secret leerings and never-revealed lusts.

A woman knows. We know the difference between eyes on us due to the basic animal instincts of lust as opposed to the eyes on us reflecting admiration, desire, and a sensual craving to know us, have us, become a part of us. Some eyes burn with perverted lust, others with smoldering romance. Some eyes look once then move on while others return over and over again like playful bounces on a trampoline.

I have never been unnerved by his eyes to the point of no return. But I have never had a moment's rest from his ever-present fixation. It is not so much that I believe that I deserve better as much as it is I believe that he is much better than that. It's as if his weakness really belongs to somebody far inferior to his character.

So I endure those damn eyes.

I feel sorry for his wife. I know she knows. She knows, yet seems limited to secretly bargaining in hopes of discovering a cure. I can only imagine the ways she must try to divert his attention, to satisfy his cravings, to fulfill him in ways that might inoculate those eyes from wandering. I sometimes worry that her trust in me is compromised by things beyond my control; namely his eyes.

I can sense it. Perhaps not as strong as I can sense his eyes on my breasts, but I can sense her distance at times. As if she does not trust me. As if I am the threat, not the victim. But she remains close to me. Whether it be a strategic, defensive move or a genuine, relational connection I am not sure. But if it is true that one hold their friends close and enemies closer, I sense her holding me closer.

I have never heard him say anything critical or demeaning about her. He rarely speaks bad of anyone; but of her he has only good to say. I admire her and sometimes wonder if he is worthy of her. When she arrives at the office for one of her frequent and regular visits, I embrace her and welcome her genuinely even though I know there is the real possibility that his eyes may very well thrust unspoken awkwardness - if not tension - between she and I; both of us silent and secret victims of those damn eyes.

Some would say it is only natural that someone ten years younger than his wife, more shapely and busty than his wife, would be noticeable to his male appetite for sensual gratification. I find that to be a disappointing argument when trying to justify the actions of a man like him. A man of character, of respect, of religious leadership.

I am not blind to my own assets. I see myself naked every day. Although I struggle like anyone else with trying to cover up my deficiencies and emphasize my assets, I should not be condemned for possessing a pair of breasts that are attractive. I do not flaunt it. I am not a sex-kitten or flirtatious vixen or secret slut aching to show as much of my flesh as possible. I am modest with a sense of fashion. I find it neither my responsibility or desire to apologize for the curves I possess that others find to be a delight to their eyes.

I spend time most mornings trying to decide which outfit would best fit the competing demands I encounter on a daily basis; my own need to be affirmed for who I am and the constraints of modesty. I am certainly more than a body. I am a person with depth and desires and all sorts of capabilities and dreams which far outrank the voluptuous suggestions of my body.

I cannot fend off those eyes. No matter what I wear or where I go, there are always seekers. I only wish that HE was not one of them.

I understand. Perhaps I even feel sympathy for him at my own expense. I wonder to myself, "what if my breasts were smaller or less perky," as if the problem is somehow my fault. I want to make excuses for him, but I know better. I want to reassure his wife, but the topic is muted between us.

Whether it be in the office or during the service, I am never more than a subtle glance or discreet opportunity away from feeling his eyes caressing my full, 38d breasts. I can almost sense his mind licking at my flesh. No matter how often I turn away or find polite excuses to dodge his piercing eyes, I can never escape the next time or the next moment.

I know others would say I am weak for not confronting him or lack courage for not exposing him. But his actions are never overt; he never acts out. How can I articulate a respectable argument that begins and ends with "how his eyes look at me"? I would be accused of equal, if not worse, dirty-minded thoughts. I am neither a fool nor a martyr.

So I continue to serve. I continue to balance my stated duties and role with his unspoken lusts reflected through those damn eyes. I tell nobody about my conflict. There are those who certainly know. Plenty of others, including his wife, upon whose radar the reach of his eyes registers.

To some this might seem like a slight, a small matter, an insignificant point of imperfection, a benign habit that poses no danger or threat; these opinions would also be at the ready to take his side and make a defense of him that would obliterate me. I know that. I cannot beat that.

So I do not abandon my life, my job, my church, my comfortable niche I have carved out in my space of the world. I do not entertain thoughts of toppling a leader or tainting his reputation in light of the overwhelming mountain of good deeds he has credited to his name. Somehow, someway, good must be balanced against bad. True accomplishment must not be blighted by the abstract vibes of potential lust wandering out of bounds.

I seek distance from his eyes, a degree of separation during his welcoming embraces, and a safe haven in the presence of others. Whether he is working in the office or operating as a public figure, I know he counts on me, needs me, appreciates me. I also know those eyes are part of the package. More than once I have dreamed of a perfect world between him and I where either he is blind or I am breastless.

He is my pastor, but those damn eyes.