#5 Booby Trap
Booby /// 1. boob, breast. /// 2. an ignorant or foolish person. /// 3. “boob” an embarrassing mistake.
Trap. A trap is a device or tactic intended to catch an intruder or an enemy.
Booby trap. As the word implies, they often have some form of bait designed to lure the victim towards it, or the device can be triggered when the victim performs some type of everyday action e.g. picking something up or switching something on.
Big, round, abundant rolling hills sway in the heat, with a slight lilt and a golden shine that hypnotizes you, regardless of your orientation. In between, the deep crevasse conceals a few glistening sirens, calling your gaze. If your eye should fall in, they say it never returns.
“Sometimes it’s the smaller the better!”
Her boyfriend’s comment jumps out at Shane in a spark of confusion from under the photo of a cleavage into whose shade is plunging a small pendant. Harmless surely, inappropriate, definitely. Thoughts flood her neurons at once. Firstly, protective thoughts that want to remember all the times her very own bouncing flesh was the center of a thousand boring boob-jokes. Or even how she is so often shamelessly seduced by other women’s low-cut tops, surrendering their warm bulges like gifts ready to be shared. Harmless, surely. But crashing with inappropriate clumsiness, for sure. She is trying hard not to judge, as more thoughts fumble into the confusion. She clicks on, and the next five shots reveal enough titty-wit to write an anthology, and now the lure of her curiosity is turning into a voyeurism shrouded in disappointment. He is not living up to the image she has carefully crafted of him. The best jokes are the shortest. This, however, is barely even amusing, and has become a sort of worrying obsession with this girl’s mammary glands. She remembers a sentence Cobain had enough wisdom to spread, scribbled on one of his diaries that had been published after his death: beneath the crossed out words DO NOT READ – he had added “go ahead, figure me out”. Precisely because you have to take responsibility for your interpretations, you must tread carefully. Ugh… I don’t want to… I didn’t really think I’d have to. Not like this. It’s just easier to ignore discomfort, until you find yourself folded into acrobatics in order to avoid the sharp edges of reality, and when the tension finally gives, your body uncoils and springs back to it’s original shape, whipping with elasticity and getting sliced in rapid succession by all the blades it avoided during its meticulous stretch.
Sometimes it’s hard to be honest with yourself and the ones you love simultaneously.
Is it? I mean, social networking sites are surely the root of all evil, but stumbling into the boob-obsession of your boyfriend splayed all over the net is just embarrassing. I wondered if it was more embarrassing for me or for him. I wondered why it mattered at all. And then I remembered how insecurities that are waved off and given no importance grow to find an uglier face later. The little things you choose to ignore as you walk on. They come out, through one crack or another, even if they get distorted on the way. And they do. They may pass through the net, but never for very long. It was an ugly sight, the fish, mouth agape, obediently letting the hook get placed gently in its cheek. I felt stupid for being with a man who loved my very own opulence so much. I felt so common. It didn’t matter, but what did matter was the lack of finesse. It wasn’t the what, it was the how. The entire goddamn context. Everything is context. After what seemed like a very, very, long haul, I disentangled myself from those thoughts.
He had a hard time letting me go. I had very large breasts.