To Cleave or Not to Cleave, That is the Question

Okay Peopleaneous. I’m about to perform a little exercise in exposure therapy. Here goes. Are you ready?

Breasts.
Boobs.
Jugs.
Tits.
Tatas.
Funbags.
Bouncy pillows of joy.
Those jiggly things.
Gazongas.
Hooters.
Knockers.
Rack.

Whew. I hated that. Like seriously, I’m cringing. You see, while I wasn’t raised in some sort of puritanical household, I was raised in the South where boobs are hidden except by tarts and women with boobs that defy the laws of nature and could never be covered even by the quilts of a thousand grannies.

It has been pointed out to me that I take it more seriously than most. Like. Super seriously, man. It’s not that I’m a prude, though I’m prudeish. I don’t mind sex jokes. I can handle sex scenes in movies, though uncomfortably at times. I’m totally vulgar and crude at times. To the point where I’ve embarrassed some of my male coworkers. But those instances rarely have to do with sex. As far as I’m concerned, no one in the world is having sex. I don’t want to know about your sex life. And I sure as fuck don’t want you to even think I’ve ever had sex in my life.

And I don’t have boobs. My shirt just sticks out up there. That’s all. And you don’t have boobs, either. And you don’t have dicks or balls. Except, we all do. No. Wait. We all have something. But few of us have all at once. Whatever. You get my point.

But when it comes to dressing myself. Y’all. Seriously. If I even think a top is gonna reveal cleavage, I won’t buy it. I won’t wear it. I won’t even consider it. Unless I can be assured that the cami I will wear beneath it will cover the rest and preserve my modesty.

The only person I want seeing any part of my breasts is whomever I may be intimate with. Which is not something I wanna get into here, but suffice it to say my sexual experiences have been rather limited.

So. Bible Belt upbringing + Inborn modesty + Hardcore aversion to attention + Not wanting to be perceived as one of those girls (like my sister who lets all that shit hang out, Free Willy style, except Free Boobies) = Stephanie blushing like mad when Geeky Boy Scout casts his eyes downward because fuck, my sweater slipped. Today, for example, I’m wearing a light sweater, a cami beneath, and a scarf! All to hide cleavage and any extra chins I may or may not have. (Dudes, I just like scarves. I don’t actually use them to hide cleavage, though it’s a serious added bonus.)

I not only cannot handle my own cleavage, but I cannot handle seeing the cleavage of others. Because while I’m straight as an arrow, exposed cleavage draws the eye. Period. I don’t care if you’re a man or a woman, you’re gonna look. You can’t help it. And I don’t wanna think about your tits! I don’t wanna see the cleave! Cover yourself, you harlot of Satan!

Oh My God, Zooey! No! Bad! Bad! Cover thyself, heathen!

You know I’m exaggerating, but for seriouses. Cleavage makes me super uncomfortable. For the most part, around where I live, I don’t see it often. So lack of exposure makes it shocking and appalling when I do see it. I’ve been told, “You’re gonna HATE it if you ever come to Sydney, because chicks walk to the shops in bikini tops sometimes.” Or, “You’re gonna be in for a major shock in Seattle, because the rivers of cleavage rival the mighty Amazon.”

And I know. But I can’t help it. And if you do so happen to see my cleavage or my traitorous nipples poking through my top, please don’t stare too long. I’ll blush like a schoolgirl and cover myself with the nearest thing possible: my hands, shirt material, stapling paper to my chest. You know. The logical choices.

So ladies and gentlemen, pervs and pervettes: tell me. To cleave or not to cleave? For that, my dears, is the question.