You might wonder, once you get a bit further into this post, if I'm going to keep writing about last weekend in Chicago until you want to spoon your eyes out. And the answer is possibly.
Although this post is really about Kelli's breasts, and location doesn't have anything to do with it. They just happen to be in Chicago.
When I re-met Kelli a couple years ago, after a zillion years between 10th grade and our reunion, she had much larger breasts than I remembered. I asked my brother if he remembered them from Delhi. He is good at telling, as he has not only seen many breasts up close, but also spent years in San Diego, where, if you walk down the beach, you see many, many breasts standing straight in the air, as if they'd been scooped on to bodies with an enormous ice cream scooper.
He took a good look at her and said, "You know, it's an excellent job, but no, she paid some good money for those."
It got late, rounds and rounds of drinks had been consumed, and she and another woman at the reunion, who we hadn't known before, started talking about their boob jobs. I was involved but of course had nothing to add to the conversation.
And so we spent some time talking about their respective breasts. And finally I asked Kelli if she'd mind if I felt them. Because, I said very honestly, I have no friends with large breasts. And I have always been really curious what they were like.
She said sure, go ahead, no problem.
What surprised me was that they were heavy. I wasn't interested in feeling her up - I was mostly wondering what they'd be like weight wise.
So there I was, holding her breasts from underneath, talking about the surprising weight of them, when the other woman, who had brand new ones, said, "Don't you want to feel mine?" So of course I went ahead and felt hers, mainly to be polite, even though my curiosity had already been assuaged.
The guys then all wanted to do the same, but of course for very different reasons, and the answer on both parts was a resounding no. Except, I think, one old friend, who cited "clinical curiosity" or something of the sort.
All this to say, I knew already that Kel was pretty casual about her breasts. But what I didn't realize was why.
Now back to last weekend in Chicago. This guy that we had been talking to for quite a while on Saturday patted one of her breasts. He did this a couple times. Not in a lascivious way. In the way you might briefly pat someone's shoulder, or put your hand momentarily on their arm for emphasis.
It really didn't come across as sexual. And he and Kel were not interested in each other. They were just talking about really intimate topics. So in the scheme of things, I suppose it was sort of in context, and not actually a huge thing. But it shocked me.
And so I blurted out, "Why are you touching my friend's boob?"
She replied, "Oh, no worries, honey. You know, they're fake. So they're not really mine."
My contention is, they're on the front of you, they're your boobs, fake or real. They're part of your body. We brought this up with Christy. She agreed.
Kelli said, "But since they're not real, I don't think of them as mine. I look at them as more like a detached garage. It's on the property but not actually part of my house."
Christy replied, "But it's still your detached garage! You wouldn't say you park your car in a garage on your property. You park in your garage. And those, those are your boobs!"