Who’s in da DAMN House Wednesdays - Flutter

Introduction by our very own Lindaloohoo:

This week we feature Christine, aka, flutter.  Discovering her site really brought me full circle on this whole internet thingy.  In my mind, reading words like hers are the reason the blogging world exists.  She is funny enough to make Tip Tucker slow down, quirky enough to make Lucy Ricardo take a back seat and eloquent enough to move the mountain that stands firm.  And of course, her own introduction is way, way better than anything I could come up with, so stop wasting time reading my shit.  Here, read her shit:    

A survivor, a writer, a knitter, a cook. Sometimes someone who kind of sews, a beginning painter, a diabetic. A singer. An amazon with a predilection for high heels and vamp nail polish. A wearer of red lipstick. A friend, a fiance, a sister, a daughter, a soft place to land. Able to belch like a trucker, write the perfect thank you note and laugh at a fart joke. Poetic, loving, struggling. Dark and divine. flutter is a girl named Christine, and she can be reached at http:byflutter.com but be nice, she bites.

And now, on to really important stuff, like making George Carlin smile through his dirt nap dreams:

Tits. 

Honkers, boobs, funbags, milk-makers, hoo-has, jugs, cans, puppies, sweater jockeys, breasteses, tatas, mams, girls, the twins, boulders, peaks, bosoms, hooters, knockers, melons, pillows, rack. Bee-stings, bazookas, chesticles, coconuts, headlamps.

Whether you are a member of the itty bitty titty committee or if you strain the straps on your over the shoulder boulder holder, every day as a woman in some way includes your tits. It just is the way it is. 

Those of us who have jigglers (the big ones that move around when you walk) deal with back pain, digging underwires and ogling passerby. Women of the smaller persuasion feel the pressure to pad or to enhance to adhere to a standard of beauty.

Guys are pretty lucky we don’t have the same standards for balls, aren’t they?  Can you imagine men walking around with their giant balls in a sling, jiggling to and fro in front of the catcalls of rabid women?

“YYYYeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh baby! Shake them balls! Oooooooh yeah! I wanna bury my face in them nads!” Um, yeah. No.

I worked, for a very short time at an escort agency. Now, before you get your knickers in a twist, I wasn’t an escort. I was the unfortunate soul who answered the phones and sent the girls on their “assignments”. I would put on my best sex-kitten voice for the men who called in, describe our girls, get credit card numbers and addresses. This sometimes went smooth as silk, other times the sheer stupidity of tit-blind men was beyond comical. To wit:

“Thank you for calling, how can I service you?” I would purr.

“Yeah, can you send me a blonde with big tits?” I always knew when this was the ice breaker, that idiocy was sure to ensue.

“Well, sure. I have Candy who is a 5′7″ blonde, her measurements are 34d, 28, 36…”

“Bigger than that.”

“Um, ok. I have Danielle who is blonde, 5′2″ her measurements are 36dd, 26, 34…”

“Bigger.” [insert pervy snort here]

“I’m so very sorry but double d is the largest I have available, right now…”

“I don’t care about the cup, I want like a 46dd, but she can’t be fat.”

“So you want a thin girl with a 46dd?”

“yeah.”

“You do realize that is like, physically not possible, right?” I had dropped my sexy voice and didn’t bother to disguise my irritation.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I have tits, I do know.”

I then proceeded to give him a fifteen minute lecture on what measurements mean. I could swear I was able to hear his erection deflating as I spoke. Poor guy was just trying to get his rocks off and I am giving him an in depth anatomy lesson. Clearly I have remarkably innappropriate instincts.

I was not long for the escort service. The last straw was when a frat house called, some kid whacked off in my ear and I asked him if he felt like a big man…now that his frat brothers had been witness to the only sex he’d ever had. They called back and complained to my boss.

Me and my tits, out of a job.

My boobs have gotten me into more trouble than out of trouble. By a large margin. Which, I have to say is one of the best things about the internet. I know you aren’t looking at my chest when I am talking and that? Well, that’s just tits.