Pure bliss inside

Her, Her Boobs, and Me

There are rules we need to respect if we all want to live in harmony.

I think about my wife’s boobs as much as anyone who’s obsessed with boobs. — Pexels

At work, I can’t touch them. If I need to — and I should never — I can refer to them as breasts, as in,

“Your breasts are beautiful, Boss. I can’t wait to motorboat them at home tonight.”

But if I told her that at work, she would fire me on the spot, and there would be a risk of divorce. She made the rules very clear. Work is work, and she expects a professional attitude from all her collaborators. Particularly me.

She knows me.

She sees me (in the mirror, looking at her breasts).

In public, I can call them boobs.

When we are at the swimming pool together, I’m authorized to make nuanced references to the beautiful globes adorning my wife’s chest. For example, “Your boobs look great in this new swimsuit, honey,” is acceptable.

But “The jacuzzi’s bubbles make my rod of pleasure bigger and bigger. Shall we have some booby time in the private love-sauna?” is not allowed. Not anymore. When we were newly wed and living in a big city, illicit booby time in private saunas might have happened…