So, I went to the dentist for my semi-annual cleaning and checkup. Nothing unusual, a nice hygenist about my age who I’ve never seen before sits me down and leans that chair way back. She starts to work as I close my eyes and try to pretend I’m somewhere else.
But, what’s this ?? What’s this soft round thing poking at the side of my head? Hm, nice breast. Well, that kind of thing can happen. Try not to react - not embarass her (or me, for that matter).
But then, there it is again. Centered neatly in my ear, rubbing gently back and forth as she works. Hmm, this is getting interesting.
Then, there’s the other softly poking the top of my head. Then they scoot around the top. I swear to god, my head is parked squarely in the center of this gal’s cleavage down to the top of my ears as she’s poking sharp and mechanized tools into my mouth.
She stops and asks, routinely “you doing alright?”.
“ooh, yeah baby - make sure you get that one way in the back for me”
No- I didn’t say it. Didn’t say anything. Just sat there like any red-blooded American male and enjoyed the moment for what it was. Afterward, I needed to comb my hair and smoke a cigarette.
Then, I swear to god- the dentist checks me over and suggests that maybe my gums would benefit from more frequent cleanings.
When I was an awkward teen getting my braces worked on if it was a female one would always end up on my upper arm/chest and the other below. Viva la difference!
I wonder if any females here would appreciate the opposite?
Me too. The only reason I ever looked forward to visiting the orthodontist. Those female technicians were among the few highlights of early adolescence.
My dental technician (a woman) sounds just like Mr. Burns from The Simpsons. While she’s hacking away at me with her implements, she’ll say, “turn your head to the left,” and when I do, she goes, “EX-cellent,” in that voice, and I start laughing, and the little sucky-tube falls out of my mouth.
I was 17 and having my stitches removed from having two wisdom teeth extracted. The assistant doing this was a gorgeous redhead, and I also got a “boob job” on my head.
Dear Straight Dope, I never thought this would happen to me, but…
When I was 18 I was in a high-school play. The girl doing the makeup was a serious babe; sometime catwalk model, very tall, and stunning. In order for her to apply makeup to my face, she, um, straddled me. Sometimes grinding her ‘bits’ very hard against one thigh or the other, and once sitting the full works on my lap, legs either side of me. It took an extreme amount of self-control not to ‘let her know’ that I was enjoying myself. To this day I don’t know whether or not she was aware of what she was doing, and if so, aware of the effect it was having on a hormonal young chap.
How could she not? Maybe she was enjoying it, too! Although, I have heard that people in modeling are pretty free with their bodies, since it comes with the job. How old was this girl?
She was the same age as me: 18. But I was a spotty, ugly little twerp, and she was a willowy babe. Hence my confusion.
I suppose this elicits a larger question: how aware are ladies of their bodies intruding into chaps’ personal space? There was a girl a few years back who gave me a bit of tit-to-upper arm pressure in the pub one night. I dismissed it as her insouciance, but a few months later found out to my surprise and delight (for reasons I’ll not go into here) that it was either consciously or subconsciously deliberate.
I used to get my hair cut by a short, butsy, full-figured blonde. She made sure my chair the chair was all the way down and I had to scoot down even farther for her to cut my hair. Her boobs rubbed my shoulders when she was behind me and softly swayed onto my arms when she moved to my sides.
Did I mention that this was my best friend’s wife?!
When I lived in Montana I enjoyed the attention of a nicely buxom barber. She knew her work well but no doubt she knew part of the appeal was her soft flesh. My boss was pretty upfront about it. When he went for a haircut he’d loudly announce to his wife he was going to the barbershop for a boob rub.
“Poke?” How the hell do you poke someone with a breast short of wearing a fifties style rocket bra or those bizarre European nipple stretching devices.
Cardinal Fang, poke him with the soft cushion! Confess! Confess!
Next week, while you’re in the waiting room, eat an entire box of Oreo cookies.
[sup]–You’ll be there all afternoon![/sup]
The only thing remotely similar to this that’s happened to me recently was yesterday afternoon at the end of my eye doctor appointment. The next patient was waiting at the reception desk as I was checking out and I think her name must have been E. Norma Zgazongas.
Problem was, the doctor had given me those damned drops, my pupil’s were the size of quarters, and it was taking me ten times as long to focus on anything. What should have been a cursory glance at The Cleavage of 20,000 Fathoms wound up taking too long and ended with HER staring at ME. I can only assume it was because my eyes looked like I was pulling a Roger Rabbit–
