The Cleavage Conundrum

A week or two ago I became aware of a sinister plot against me. Actually, it was originally for me, but I was never aware of it, so it wound up being against me after all. “Details?” you say? Why, of course!

Back at school I had this friend. We’ll call her Mia. Mia had a roommate her freshman year (my sophomore year) whom we’ll call Molly. I, of course, noticed immediately that Molly was very cute, but like most other cute/hot girls, I just as quickly stuck her up on the “you can’t have that” shelf. Holes in your self-confidence will do that to you.

And it made sense — Molly had a boyfriend from back home at the time. There was nothing I could do. Fast-forward to my junior year I’m becoming aware of Mia and Molly’s increased presence in my room. They never seemed to stick around, but they drop by for a bit on a frequent basis. Often they show up twice in a given day — once before going to do a thing and then once after. Sometimes they are quite drunk. Sometimes I instead find myself over in the their room watching movies.

More often than not I just happened to notice Molly liked to wear low-cut tops. Very low-cut. All the time it seemed. It was rare that I wasn’t greeted by gratuitous cleavage — enough to faceplant in — whenever she came around. There was one instance in particular where she wasn’t quite sober and I practically got a front-row seat to Boobtown as her shirt hung carelessly and loosely in all the right places.

This was all fine and dandy except that, well, she was off-limits. Cute, probably too cute for me, unavailable, and perpetually off with Mia to do things that didn’t involve me. She and Mia also hung out with this tall guy all the time; if anything I figured Molly would’ve liked him. Not only that but we didn’t talk that much; for the most part Molly was simply a friend of a friend. One who happened to enjoy showing off a large percentage of her breasts to strangers.

That’s just the thing, however. Not even two weeks ago I was told by Mia, in discussing how oblivious I am to things, that there was a very specific reason I was privy to Molly’s curves back then — she had been interested in me. She didn’t actually like showing herself off to strangers. I mean, she did, of course, because all girls do, but apparently the cleavage I saw frequently was specially tailored for me. Additionally, by the time the boobs were coming out around me she was boyfriendless.

I, of course, was oblivious to this because that’s how I am. And why wouldn’t I have been? Molly and I didn’t really talk, so we never hung out in any capacity, and, since my room always seemed to be an intermediary stop between other more important activities, I figured Mia was merely dragging Molly into my presence while she said hi. The two of them were frat party frequenters too, so surely the boobage was intended for someone else. It only made sense that this be case. To me, at least.

Upon hearing this claim of interest back then, I didn’t find myself getting happy at the thought. Rather, I became somewhat agitated over the ordeal. Why hadn’t Mia let me know this back then when it would have been very useful information? Even the slightest, most noncommittal hint — “I think Molly might kind of like you a little. Maybe.” — would have sufficed. As vague as that is it would have clued me in to pay a little more attention to Molly and the things she did. But the boobs should have been enough, right? Why would I need another hint when there is so much excess skin involved, right? Wrong!

On its own cleavage is never enough.

And that, my friends, is the ultimate issue. Girls love displaying their cleavage if they’ve got some display. It’s a normal, casual, everyday occurrence. And guys, growing up in a never-ending sea of half-covered breasts, learn early on not to give it too much mind. Look at them, sure, but don’t look at them. They’re there, acknowledge them, but don’t pay them much mind unless you want to get labeled a pervert.

And so I’m posed with a quandary. How the hell could Molly expect me to notice her supposed interest by merely adjusting herself for extra boobage before she saw me? It strikes me as illogical. Unless you’re doing something directly for or to a guy, no amount of cleavage says “I want you.” Flirting, for instance, is a very good way accentuate cleavage’s message. Without something extra involved, even the greatest of cleavage is most likely to say, “Hi. I have great breasts. Don’t you wish you could squeeze them? Too bad!” Because that’s pretty much what cleavage means to a guy when it’s on a random girl. Without proper accentuation, there is a fairly large jump in logic:

1. Cleavage.
2. ???
3. Making out, dry humping, and sex.

There must be a second step if the goal is to show you’re interested, dammit! And there wasn’t one with Molly! No flirting, no hanging out, no sexy eyes. Nothing. There simply has to be more than me going, “God damn, woman!” in my head whenever you come into my room with half your boobs showing. Especially when you feel unavailable and you’re about to head off to a party and rub your junk all other some other guy’s junk. Do you know how hot it would have been if she’d looked at me and then adjusted herself and looked back? That’s an effective second step! As is dragging me off to your little party and rubbing your junk on my junk.

Alas, I was never able to bridge the logical gap, so I never knew Molly was interested in me back then. And why would I? Guys are usually fairly logical about things even when there are boobs involved. I know it’s hard to believe, but even when faced with such seemingly unsurpassable obstacles, the logical wiring of our brains is still present. Thus, I never did anything with Molly even though the potential was there for greatness.

Sigh.