Stumper and The Girls

The phone rang at 10:30 p.m., and the caller on the other end was a complete surprise.  It was Stumper on his way home from his weekend with his lady friend in upstate PA.  “How the heck are you?” he queried, and I noticed more than a bit of happiness in his voice.  “I’m fine—hope you had a good Palm Sunday.”  He was calling me to let me know that he was becoming a member of the Catholic Church on Saturday.  He spoke of his sponsor who has a crush on him, but she’s not a spring chicken.  “She’s the same age as us,” he lamented.  “Excuse me—I’m not the same age as you.”  He didn’t believe me, and I said, “I’m 33, soon to be 34.”  “But you’re so…so…so mature,” he stuttered as he hopelessly grasped for a way to save the insult.  Then something moved him to speak off-color, which he warned me that he was going to do so before he did it.  “You have a set on you that men die for.”  Oh, God, here we go again.  “Your chin’s never felt the floor,” he remarked.

I like the girls—they are part of who I am, and they've been with me since high school, as I was well-endowed even when thin.  However, I’m more than the owner of one hell of a rack.  My personality should intrigue men more than the girls.  Seriously, I’m a damned good date because I’m intelligent, quick-witted, and fun—these things have nothing to so with the size of my chest. I wondered for a brief moment what I lacked compared to his older lady friend who lives up North.  Then I decided not to worry about it; I know who I am, and it does happen to be his loss.