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The Girl With The 10 Pound Tits

Posted on Thursday, July 10, 2008 in teenage tales

When I was in the 10th grade I had this girlfriend named Bobbi Ruffino. Bobbi was real pretty, but the trouble was, she had no tits to speak of. All she had were these sad little nipples. But it was OK though. I mean, what the heck; it was sure better than sitting in your stupid room with a stack of jackoff books.

My mom always caught me with those jackoff books anyhow. I mean, just when I’d get a real good rhythm going, she’d barge right in. I’d try to get my hand out of my pants real quick, but I never quite made it. Oh man, it was awful. Of course, she’d always pretend like it was an accident, but I knew better. Moms are sneaky like that. They really are.

Anyway, Bobbi went away to school the next year, so I didn’t see her for a while. But when she came back the next summer, something truly amazing had happened to her. She had sprouted these incredible melons on her chest. They were stupendous, wonderful, and absolutely fascinating.

“How did you get those?” I asked happily.

“I grew them, silly!” she replied matter-of-factly.

Yessir, Bobbi was quite a gal. And fortunately, she was very happy  to let me inspect her new zoobers. I spent hours checking them — pulling, probing and tweaking them to my heart’s delight. Truly, I felt  I could have done it for the rest of my life. I could simply imagine no better way of spending my time.

Anyhow, one night I took old Bobbi to the drive-in. We saw The Ten Commandments. I’ll never forget it. I especially loved the part  when Charlton Heston parted the Red Sea. It really looked fake, but old Charlton was such a ham, you had to love the guy, with his big old phony basso profundo voice and all.

Anyway, Bobbi and I fooled around a  little during the first movie, and during the second one I finally got her bra off. Christ, what a bra! I’d never seen anything like it in my entire life!It was this monstrous Cross-Your-Heart number, and it had all of these goddamn straps on it. It looked kind of like a gigantic corset. It took me a million years to get the damn thing off but it was worth it. There were those tits again!

“Hi,” I exclaimed.

“Hello there,” they replied.

I swear, every time I got those tits in my hand, they seemed to have grown bigger. “Jesus,” I said to Bobbi, “These things must weigh ten pounds each!” Bobbi didn’t seem to be too amused by this statement.

“I’m gonna go get some popcorn,” she said, buckling up the gigantic bra.

“OK” I said, “Get me some Juju Bees while you’re at it.” Bobbi always paid for the candy when we went out–that’s another reason I liked her.

Anyhow, pretty soon she came back with the goods. We put the popcorn between us and started eating. I was thinking of doing that old trick where you put your dick through the bottom of the popcorn box, but I couldn’t figure out how to get it in there without Bobbi seeing me.

At any rate, after twenty minutes or so, I had her bra off again, and soon I got my head in between those wonderful tits of hers. One time I looked up and all I could see was this gigantic nipple staring me right in the eye. God, that nipple was as big as my whole head!

The problem  was, for some reason, it reminded me of that scene in 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea” when Kirk Douglas was getting pulled into the mouth of that giant squid, and all you could see was a close-up of the squid with his one old goggle eye staring at you. I didn’t want to think of it, but I couldn’t help myself for some reason.

Pretty soon I started  laughing like crazy.  It was awful. And before I knew it, Bobbi had that goddamn bra back on again.

Boy, was she mad. I told her a million stupid times that I was sorry, but she wasn’t having any of it. I told her she was being silly, but she said she wanted to go home. I told her I wanted to see the movie.

“Take me home.”

“No.”

“I said…take me home!”

“No!!”

“Yes!!”

“No!!!”

It certainly wasn’t a particularly intelligent conversation. Finally, Bobbi got all huffy and got out of the car — to get some Milk  Duds, she said. Bobbi was sort of a pig, to be perfectly honest with you. Anyhow, after she’d gone I started thinking about her up there at the snack bar with her big old dumb tits and all. Right now she was probably standing in line with a bunch of those stupid Canoga Park people … you know, the kind of jerks who wear undershirts and have a million tattoos all over their backs and stuff. It was a pretty depressing thought, to tell you the truth.

But then I had this flash of inspiration! The next second I started my car — then I proceeded to leave the drive-in.

I felt good driving home, even though I knew it was kind of a crummy thing I’d done. But it wasn’t that crummy if you stop and think about it. I mean, heck — we were at the Canoga Park drive in and Bobbi only lived in Reseda, so even if she didn’t get picked up by one of those stupid undershirt morons — even if she had to walk home – it wouldn’t be such a bad deal. Actually, she sort of needed the exercise. Anyhow, I figured that I’d gotten the rotten end of the deal. After all, I had just lost the greatest pair of tits I’d ever have probably in my entire life!

I never quite figured out why I left Bobbi at the drive-in like that. It just seemed like the proper thing to do at the time. The only thing I regret is that I didn’t get her to give me a Polaroid photograph of her tits. If she had, I would have asked her to autograph it for me. I really would have. And later in life — you know, when she had a bunch of stupid kids and some crummy husband that worked as a car mechanic or something — I’d even have let her borrow it if she wanted to. Probably by then she’d have been tripping over the goddamn things, so what could have been nicer than to show her kids then a picture of her tits when they were still firm and attractive and everything? But see, girls don’t think of stuff like taking Polaroid pictures of their tits to keep for posterity. They should, but they just don’t. That’s what I mean about girls. They’re funny.

See, the actual deal is, I don’t think that men and women can ever truly understand each other. It’s just not in the cards. Like for example, you can be married to a woman for years and she’ll never really understand you. But you can go down to the local bar, or the Greyhound Bus depot and sit down next to a total stranger and tell him your whole goddamn life story in ten minutes, and the guy’ll know exactly what you’re talking about.

But listen, I’m not complaining — about women I mean. I love women  a lot. But understand em? Nah, forget it.

Not in a million years.

© Stuart Goldman

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