My forray into yardwork was not a pleasant one, I'm sad to admit. I whined, I moaned, I plopped on to the hard ground and felt my low-rise jeans slide below the Equator line, mooning my upper-class neighbors and further cementing my place as the "black sheep" of the neighborhood.
"Hold this bag open," Harry asked of me. So I pried myself from the brick patio and huffed and sneezed over to where he stood, arms full of mulch and Oakley's masking his expression of (probably) disdain for my lack of love of nature. I grasped the large black trash bag and leaned over. Harry promptly stuffed the old mulch into it - and down the front of my shirt.
"Aaaagh! YOU MULCHED MY BOOBS!" I yelled. The kid across the street stopped in mid-swipe of his daily auto washing to look at us, the unlikely couple covered in mud, dirt, bugs, and mulch.
"Sorry," Harry said, grinning and looking very much un-sorry.
He made it up to me later when he - WARNING - RACY MATERIAL AHEAD! - fulfilled his manly duties with a rabbit-like fervor that I quite enjoyed - UNTIL HE ALMOST RIPPED MY BOOB OFF.
Why is it that it's sometimes forgotten - in mid-coital bliss - that those things - those "happy fun bags" - are ATTACHED?! You can bet that if we, as females, would "forget" that their member was attached, we'd have hell to pay and our visiting rights would be revoked faster than Kate Moss' modeling contracts after her "surprisng" cocaine bust.
"Aaaaaagh!" I screamed, "That's attached, ya know!"
"Sorry," he said again, still looking very un-sorry and switching to the other, less injured breast.
And who says that chivalry is dead?