Seeing the Light

It used to fascinate me, how those D cups didn't feminize her, or even stop people from calling her 'Sir'.

It took eight months of pleading, to get back my things. A couple of my friends went to her apartment, and waited in the open doorway. Her towering bulk blocked the light as she shouldered down the narrow hallway, kicking aside cardboard boxes and piles of dirty clothes, hauling my lampshade, sleeping bag, and shopping bags of personal items. Like children seeing their father undressed for the first time, my friends stared at her boxers, mesmerized by their nostalgic duck-hunting motif. “Where’s Lynn?” my Ex asked, in her steely way, and they jerked their heads up, blinking at the halo of harsh light around her cruel, handsome face. They stammered that I was getting the cab, and she snorted, amused. A single bulb swung from the ceiling and basted her crew cut; a black muscle T stretched menacingly over her huge breasts. It used to fascinate me, how those size D cups didn’t feminize her, or even stop people from calling her “Sir,” and yet my own sassy set of twins, so much smaller, radiated girlness, and even blushed when the mood hit. Opposites attract--and then, repel. My advice to others on that path? Think twice when she clears off a shelf for your stuff. Don’t leave anything at a lover’s apartment you’re not willing to lose.


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