The Breasts of Vegas

Las Vegas…..Thursday night a couple of weeks ago….blackjack….I’m ahead…it’s a miracle.

I’m sitting on the right hand of the table watching the dealer.  She’s a lovely twenty something brunette with long smooth hair and dark eyes.  Her shirt is tight and low and I’m doing the best I can not to leer, I just want to be a casual, unnoticed observer.  

There’s a fine line between observing and leering and I think you hit that line at about 65, I’m 58 so I think I’m okay as long as I don’t get caught staring too long.

I get through several hands, my manly curiosity humming, the part of my DNA that makes me a daughter’s father keeping me repressed, my eyes still sharp and quick for someone of my age.  A lady in her thirties comes and sits beside me to my right; at first base for you blackjack aficionados.  She’s blond, a little plump, but not too, really quite lovely.  She’s wearing a tight white undershirt kind of thing that is very low cut.  Her ample bosoms were held tight by the miracle of modern foundation garments but they were close to bursting free. 

I am sitting in the cleavage capital of our country.  God bless America.

I am an observer of life, of life on all levels, of life of all kinds.  I love to observe the comings and goings of the people, of all people.  I watch for those things on display and for those things hidden, I am an inveterate people watcher and people lover.  I’m older, I’m married, I’m dedicated to my wife, I’m alive with really good eye sight and a real appreciation for natural beauty.  There is no better place to satiate that appreciation than Las Vegas.

Where else can you see a 60 year old man smoking a cigar while wearing bling, a bad toupee and skinny jeans?  (Someone please talk to Randy Jackson about skinny jeans) Where else can you see a somewhat overripe group of ladies from the Midwest wearing spandex and baring midriffs that really don’t need to see the light of day?  It makes me feel plumb sophisticated in my bowling shirt.

Back to the boobs – they are on display everywhere.  Skinny women, not skinny women, white, brown, sun-burned pink, cleavage is omni-present.  We went to the MGM Grand on the night before the Floyd Mayweather-Miguel Cotto fight and it was amazing.  I set myself up at a cheap video poker machine just to watch the parade of underdressed, under supported women pass by and display their décolletage and other accoutrements.  I swear butt enhancement surgery is booming somewhere, those derrieres were not naturally occurring.

I don’t really know if those people dress like that on a normal basis, they certainly don’t in little ol’ Waco Texas.  I doubt if they go to their marketing job or their job in the call center dressed with a deep display of cleavage, not that there’s anything wrong with that.  It really is the aura of Las Vegas, it really is about suspending reality, it really is about saying to yourself, “if not here, where?”

None of this really relates to things Marty has taught me.  Well maybe a little, on more than one occasion she poked me in the ribs with her elbow and gave me one of those quiet, yet shouting whispers, “Quit staring.”  She taught me that you can’t just gawk at stuff like Vegas cleavage; you must be much more surreptitious than a blatant stare.  She really taught me that.  

I always come back from my little mini-adventures and give Marty a full report, I always have.  She generally just laughs and enjoys my detailed descriptions of all the things I have seen and what was unseen.  

I do have to say I miss having her there to have those critical, catty and petty conversations while this parade of flesh is marching through the casino.  An occasional shot to my ribs from her was never a bad thing; it kept me in line and made me just a little bit sneaky in my observations.