Category Archives: Lady Lumps. In The Back And In The Front.

Don’t leave home without them.

Ripped Pecs To Man Boobs And Back Again


For the final week of February I had chosen to write all about boobs.

Well it’s the final day of the final week and I am still going to stick to my plan.

But I’m gonna talk about my boobs.

My man-boobs.

There was a time when my boobs weren’t boobs… they were rippled pecs. 

I’m 31-years-old these days and although I may appear not to be overweight… I can feel myself slipping away.  I used to be able to eat ice cream every night, beer every weekend and an entire pizza if I was hungry enough and still look like this:

Circa 2005

Now, after years of consuming mass quantities of various crap foods without consequence… it’s finally starting to catch up with me:

Circa a few months ago…

Or this:

Circa a year ago…

Or more specifically this:

And this:

I’ll spare you a picture of my sagging breasts even though I know you’re begging to see them.

I’ve been noticing my body taking the “I’m a married man with kids and I’m just comfortable” form for a while.  While I still think it’s humanly impossible for me to become grossly obese it doesn’t mean I’m impervious to being grossly out of shape, overly buoyant or just looking like a pasty outta shape dude.

I’ve alluded to taking this weight gain seriously on this blog several times and set out to obtain Ryan Reynold’s abs numberous times… but nothing has materialized.

But luckily for me, my wife sprung this question on me several weeks ago, “Hey honey… do you want to do Weight Watchers with me?’

I was in the process of cooking some Pillsbury cinnamon rolls for breakfast but I didn’t waste a second in answering her, “Yes.  Absolutely.”

It was that morning almost three weeks ago that I decided to get happy with my body (and my man-boobs) again.  I’ve started sweating my ass off in the gym and sticking to the Weight Watchers method of eating correctly for almost three weeks.

And I’ve lost nine pounds already and my beer gut is steadily shrinking along with my second chin.  My nipples may point straight ahead again some day.

I’ve never dieted before… EVER.  I’ve never had to.  But my age is showing and I’ve got to adapt.  I’m ready to be ripped again.  I’m ready to be sexy again like Bunny.

You wait and see.  It’ll happen.  I’m gonna be a sexy beast (with a six-pack).

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What Are Your Unspoken Rules?


Believe it or not, I’m looking forward to March 1st so I can start talking about whatever I want to talk about again.  This February challenge I put upon myself (to set aside each week during the month to blog about someone/something I love) is wearing on me!  I appointed this week (February 2/22 – 2/28) to talk about boobs and it’s quite difficult to write about them without sounding too much like a total Neanderthal or erotic novelist.

But I’m doing my best.  Only a couple of days to go…

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While upping my tweets yesterday, I happened upon a new “celebrity” I wanted to follow.  That “person” would be Quagmire from the delightfully obnoxious show Family Guy.

Giggity giggity goooo!!

His most recent tweet said this, “Girls complain when guys stare at their (boobs) when they talk, but If our (wiener)-was on our chest I bet they’d do the same thing.”

Hmmmmm… that would be exponentially more weird but I think it’s pretty true.

It would also be exponentially more disgusting than this point of view

Some time ago, I established some rules for what I believe to be the acceptable amount of time every straight, red-blooded, married or single male should be allowed to glance at a woman.  Let me be clear:  I do not think that all men should ogle at girls and claim its the evolutionary nature of men because that’s a total cop-out.  What makes a man is acknowledging beauty when he sees it and treating it with respect.  I know I make a lot of noise about how much I love boobs on my blog (because I do) but I also value and respect the relationship with my wife.  I wouldn’t say or do anything to disrespect her.  I’ve been there and done that once and I’ll never do it again.

So with that being said, what do you think is acceptable?  It’s hard for me to accept that NO MAN should ever look at cleavage other than their wife or girlfriends.  It’s quite unavoidable sometimes and should be treated with some kind of rules. 

I’ve given you mine… what are yours?

When Is Science Going To Bring Mannequins To Life?


Anyone ever seen the movie Mannequin?

If you haven’t then consider yourself lucky.

It happens to be one of my wifes favorite movies and every time we happen upon it while channel surfing she demands we watch it despite my groans of agony. 

In the movie, a female mannequin comes to life and the clerk involved in arranging her in the department store window falls in love with her.  “Hilarity” ensues.

It’s all fine and good but I dislike the movie because it gives certain individuals an unrealitic view on a time where, through science, we will be able to bring mannequins to life.  It’s not fun to toy with people’s emotions like that. 

While the mannequin in the movie was a semi-attractive one, there are some mannequins that would scare the partially digested BLT right out of me if they came alive.  You know the ones I’m talking about.

Or

Or

What’s up with that?  Are these mannequins with half a head or no face a product of department stores that can’t afford the rest of the head and/or face?

Anyway, while most mannequins are pretty creepy, there are a few who warrant some sort of futuristic plasma ray gun that brings them to life.  Like this one:

Bunny, DLG and I were in Miami last year going in and out of souvenir shops when we happened upon a shop that had nothing but extremely realistic looking female mannequins.  Well… perhaps I should say they were realistic looking “erotic swimsuit models with unnatural enhancements” mannequins.

It was a little shocking and I had to stop myself from staring.  I had to look away because I thought I might get beat up by the mannequins boyfriend once she tells him how much I stared at her.  This is of course after he’s brought to life through the miracle of science in probably another year or so.

I quickly arrived that we were in Miami and that there’s really no way for an enraged mannequin-boyfriend-just-brought-to-life to find out where I live in a years time.  So I did this:

Yes.  I’m five.

It’s been a year and I haven’t had a silver-faced dude with the upper half of his head sliced off knocking at my door yet so I assume I’m in the clear. 

In closing I… wait a minute… there’s someone at the door.  OH HOLY SH…………………………….

helllo mynam is bret and i am a mannequin brot to lif throo the miracle of sients i jst smashd papa k face wit a larg steel beem becaz he exposd my grlfrend boob last yeer let this b a warnng to al of yoo to stay awa from my grlfrend

sory its hrd fr me to tipe becaz the top haf of my hed is slised off,,,,,

Gluteus Maximus Finally Receives The Recognition It Deserves


I make a lot of noise about (  .  )(  .  )’s on this blog because… uh… well, because it’s my blog gosh darn it.  I happen to be a hormone-enriched Neanderthal of a man and am not afraid to admit my fascination with God’s most fabulous accessory creation.  Men are visual creatures and I am no exception to the rule.  Rather than worship them in hushed tones, I choose to say, “Hey… I’m a Neanderthal!  Me likey!!”

But this post isn’t about what I’ve written about in jest several times before this.

“But Papa K,” you’re asking yourself, “You’re supposed to be writing [all classy-like] about boobs during the whole fourth week of this month of February [where I set aside a week to talk about individual people/things I love]!”

I know.  I know.  But this post isn’t about boobs. 

It’s about the derriere.

I was somewhat horrified when scanning everything I’ve written in the two-and-a-half years I’ve been doing this and not one single post was dedicated to the tush.

What a horrific revelation!

I have nothing against rear-ends.  In fact… I quite fancy them!

Thus my fascination with Academy Award winner Kim Kardashian I suppose:

My fascination is not far beyond most rappers infatuation with boobs’ southern cousin.  Countless songs have been written by bejeweled and/or grilled rappers regarding the ba-donk-a-donk to a point where I’m sure it could warrant its own XM radio station.  In fact, more songs have been written about the tail-feather than have been written about its more flaunted cousins from the north. 

Sir Mix-A-Lot was really ahead of his time.

Now, this is real deep stuff… but quite frankly, the booty and the breast would be helpless without one another.

Disney’s Booty and the Breast… what a great flick

You may claim to be a breast man or a booty man but if you have one without the other it’s like eating a sandwich without bread or kicking ass without taking names or watching The Wonder Pets without Ming-Ming. 

So, am I a boob man?  No.  I’m a boob AND arse man.

It’s time for me to give these lovely lady lumps their dues.

CABOOSE!! I SALUTE YOU!!

(PS – Do you know how hard it is to come up with so many different names for Gluteus Maximus?)

(PSS – I’m thinking about submitting this post to Rearders Digest)

(PSSS – I seriously can’t believe I came up with that joke.  I’m laughing at myself.)

(PSSSS – It was really late when I wrote this)

Victoria’s Secret Is Cooler Than Archie Comics


I grew up fairly sheltered.  My parents didn’t let me watch rated “R” movies, we didn’t have television, I wore two pairs of underwear, we didn’t believe in Pee Wee Herman and the only music resonating within the walls of our house was mostly Christian music.

My house certainly wasn’t like those of my (limited number of) friends whose parents let them watch “A Nightmare On Elm Street” while the scariest thing I was reduced to watching was “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang”.  Or while some of my friends had complete access to their fathers “hidden” stash of Playboy magazines, I was reduced to bookmarking my Archie Comics where Betty or Veronica might happen to be wearing a bikini.

Yes… I had this issue. 

As a homeschooled, hormone enriched tween with testosterone coursing through my body at a frightening pace… Archie Comics honestly introduced me on a regular basis into what exactly the female body looked like in a bikini.

That is… until I discovered one of my mothers Victoria’s Secret magazines.

Now, I have no idea who Victoria was or what secret she was keeping from me because quite frankly… there were chicks in their underwear in this magazine!  The only underwear I’d ever seen anyone wearing was myself… in the mirror.  If my eyebrows could have gone any higher while looking bra and panties (I just said panties… tee hee) they’d be levitating a good six inches from the top of my forehead. 

As a result of my newfound love for Victoria and her absolutely awesome secret, my first crush in amidst my courtship with puberty who wasn’t a cartoon character was Stephanie Seymour:

She was no Betty and Veronica

You may remember her as being the other part of Axl Rose for a little while:

Gross…

We broke up after I found out she was dating Axl who was a satan worshiper from the one band he was in for a while.  What was it called?  Guns and Sacrificed Baby Kittens or something like that… I don’t remember.  My heart was forever broken.

Stupid Victoria’s Secret model.

Anyway… I grew up and I married my own Victoria’s Secret model named Bunny.

I have pictures… but if you think I’m going to show you then you’re crazy.

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Do you have a testosterone-enriched OR estrogen-enriched puberty story you want to tell the world about?  I just did… that means you have to too.

How My Wife Can Get Me To Do Anything


Day twenty-two of 30 posts in 30 days

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So I’m  going to cheat on my post today and post a slightly edited post I posted on my previous blog about a year ago.  How many times can I say the word “post”.

Not to sound too much like a typical dude… but when I first met my wife… my eyes weren’t drawn to her loving, caring soul or her desire to be completely committed to me if I turned out to be “the one”.  The plunging neckline of her white tank top had me timing the moments where she looked away to steal a glance into sights that pumped blood through the chambers of my heart a little faster than usual.

This totally unedited photo caught me in the act of looking down Bunny’s shirt

My sister always told me I would marry a girl with giant flesh pillows.  She always attributed my love for the enlarged female pectorals on the fact that I was nursed as a baby until well after my first birthday.  This may have affected my unconscious memory to a point where I knew there was comfort, sustenance and happiness to be found in between the two of the greatest wonders of Gods creation.

Don’t let the face (or double chin) fool you… I’m comfortable, sustained and extremely happy.

I definitely would not say that if Bunny wasn’t sporting a pair to my liking… I wouldn’t have been interested in her because that is the furthest from the truth.  The fact that she was on her way to back problems past the age of 50 certainly received an immediate check mark on my list of “Things I Like About Bunny”… next to “Incredible Laugh and Smile”, “Beautiful Face”, “Hypnotic Eyes”, “Ridiculously White Teeth” and “Easy to Talk to”.

Again… this completely unedited picture shows me sucumbing to the gravitational eye pull of Bunny’s boobs… fortunately for the other guy in the picture he was able to overcome because he knew that I would smash him like a egg shell if I caught him looking…

Like most men, I am a visual person.  My initial attraction to Bunny was a physical one, and really… there’s nothing wrong with that.  If she hadn’t been wearing a swimsuit the size of two pieces of pepperoni held together with dental floss… oh wait… that was a different time!! Sorry…

Let me start over… like most men, I am a visual person.  My initial attraction to Bunny was a physical one, and really… there’s nothing wrong with that.  If she hadn’t been wearing that airline stewardess outfit and asked me if I “wanted to join the ‘Mile High’ club” then… wait… dangit!!  That was my dream last night.

One more time… like most men, I am a visual person.  My initial attraction to Bunny was a physical one, and really… there’s nothing wrong with that.  If she hadn’t been wearing what she was wearing the initial attraction might not have been there to learn everything I know about her now.

So… I’m not scared to say that her breasts brought us together.  Perhaps God had a different plan in mind when he destined our lives together before time began… perhaps “plan A” was to meet at a bible study.  But as seeing that our lives didn’t work out that way, the magnetic pull towards each other converged over cleavage and smoke at a bar.  I’m sure that was somewhere around “Plan ZZ”.  Now, in some backwards way, we’re having bible studies together and staying away from the bar.

If she knew any better… those weapons are a good way to get me to do chores and menial tasks around the house.  Hmmm.  Food for thought there honey.

If I had a beer right now, I’d raise my glass and say a toast to the greatest boobs the world has ever known… but will never see… except for me that is. 

Yeeessssssssss….

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Who’s going to get my bloggy link of the day?

Creative-Type Dad was one of the first daddy bloggers I discovered.  He hasn’t been posting very often (recently because his wife just had a baby and he got the chicken pox!) but when he does I generally read an make a comment.  And you should too.

Click the newborn to go there too:

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Why Do Guys Go To Hooters?


Day seventeen of 30 posts in 30 days

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“Delightfully Tacky” – That’s how Hooters advertises their establishment and they live up to it.

Hooters was started by six Florida businessmen who thought, “Hmmm… lets have a restaurant where hot chicks bring out sub par food while dressed in high-waisted booty shorts and tight tank-tops!  We’ll call it ‘Hooters’ and we’ll have an owl with great big eyes like he just saw a big pair of hooters himself!  Hey… his eyes can even be the two ‘O’s’ in ‘Hooters’!  Is anyone writing this down!”

I wish I had thought of the idea honestly.  I mean, you automatically tap into 50% of the human population with every straight, red-blooded American male (cavemen) as potential spenders despite whether or not your food is even good (or in my case… gives you the ever-lovin’ runs the moment I walk in the front door of my house)!

Let’s not kid ourselves here… no one goes to Hooters for the food.  HONESTLY!  SERIOUSLY!  C’MON DON’T LIE TO ME!  Guys go to Hooters in hope that they’ll get the one waitress that has to put in her five hours of work a week to be able to compete in the Hooters International Swimsuit Pageant.

I fit into that demographic.  I’m straight, I’m red-blooded, I’m American, I’m male and, if you’ve read my blog for any length of time at all, you know I love huge tracks of land (Monty Python reference… anyone… anyone).  I don’t frequent a Hooters but I’d be lying if I said I’d never set foot in one.  Only on special occasions have I ever gone to a Hooters i.e. fraternity outings (in college), bachelor parties, guys night out, bat mitzvahs, etc.  Never have I turned to Bunny and said, “You wanna go eat at Hooters tonight?  I’m really craving some wings.”  You know why I would never ask her that?  Because she  knows I’m not going to eat their food! C’MON!!! SERIOUSLY!!!

Hooters taps into the most blatantly obvious visual stimulation to sell food and people don’t care that they’re being led like lambs to a slaughter.

“Hey you… you want to eat these chicken wings that are guaranteed to give you the runs later?”

“No! Are you crazy?”

“How about a perky young college student with big hoo-hoo’s and booty shorts serves ’em up to you?  Would you mind getting the runs then?”

“Hmmm… do you have any artery clogging, high-fat ranch I could dip those wings into?”

Hi there cutie!  I hear you wanted the runs?”

Hooters uses boobs to sell food!  They’re not well-known for their food!  “Man… that Hooters has some GREAT food!” is not something you’re ever going to hear! 

For some reason, my oldest sister has a turned somewhat of a blind eye to what’s really behind Hooters “marketing strategy”.  My 17-year-old niece is in town for the summer because she’s gotten her first paying acting gig with a local theater group (Go Daisy!  Remember… I’ll be your bodyguard when you’re famous) and I called my sister up tonight to see if they’d like to pick out a place to eat with Bunny, DLG and I.

“We wanna go to Hooters!” was her response.

“Uh… I don’t really feel comfortable taking my two-year-old daughter to Hooters!” I said.

“Oh… we went there last week.  It’s not that bad!  Little girls in their Easter dresses were there along with some families and older couples.  It’s more of a family establishment!!” was her rebuttal.

I have to admit, I was a little taken aback.  I guess I remember there being kids in the Hooters restaurants I went to… but I always thought it was weird.  Somewhere in the deep inner recesses of my mind I always knew I definitely wasn’t going to take my daughter to a place where the main purpose is to look at hot chicks! 

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against Hooters other than it’s blatant, “in your face” tactics at selling chicken wings.  Hell… Bunny even considered working at Hooters years ago when we were just dating as a way to make ends meet.   They’ve got no qualms in advertising what’s really so awesome about Hooters… they might have well just called it “Boobies”… then you still could have used to huge eyes for the two “O’s” in “Boobies”.

Quite simply, Hooters leaves less to the imagination than Olive Garden and that’s why dudes like it.  I don’t want to and WILL NOT expose my daughter to that… it’ll undoubtedly get shoved in her face eventually no matter how much I try to protect her from it.  In the meantime I’ll do my best to keep her from it.

Would you take your two-year-old daughter to Hooters?  Would you take your kid to Hooters?  Would you go to Hooters?  Have you been to Hooters?  Do you like Hooters (the restaurant AND the body part)?  Let’s see… tell me anything ANYTHING…

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Alright, allow me to introduce you to the next of the bloggers of whom I frequently visit:

Hot Dads isn’t really one particular person, there’s one dude that created it of course, but it’s more a collection of dads who are hot.

I know what you’re saying, “Papa K… why aren’t you a contributing writer?”

Well, that’s a great question.  The answer is, “I’m trying”.

Some of it’s a little racy, a little wrong, a little profane and yet heartfelt at times.

Click the picture of the Hot Dad below to go there:

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I’m A Simple Man


Several months ago for my birthday, my beautiful wife fulfilled my every fantasy and took some boudoir photographs for me which I eagerly filled up a picture album with.  I enjoy “reading” it from time to time… okay… all the time.

Unfortunately for her, I suffer from OCD tendencies, so I’m constantly obsessing about new things I can do with these pictures.  I wanted to get a poster of my favorite “pose” and hang it in the garage but haven’t been able to find a place that can blow up a large poster with very good resolution (yet… if you know of one let me know).  I thought about getting my favorite picture on a t-shirt… but I wouldn’t really be able to wear it out.  Then, after some internet research, I finally decided what item would be the least expensive yet most useful and fun:

Voila!  That would be bunny on a frosted beer mug.

I’d show you a closer image… but Bunny would smash me like a taco shell

I drink a few beers on the weekend and what would I rather have looking me in the eye while I’m drinking a beer than Bunny in lingerie? 

Absolutely nothing.

Just Wanted To Keep You Abreast Of A Way We Can All Unite As One People


What’s one thing that atheists, Christians, evolutionists, creationists, gays, straights, different races, giants, midgets, mutants, humans, terrorists and freedom fighters can all agree on? 

Well… it’s that boobs are incredibly awesome.

Quite literally where my mind was at the time…

I know I’ve talked about this before but it is one of the easier things for me to write about because they are so close to my heart… and hopefully my face later tonight if I’m lucky.

As I’ve mentioned before, when I first met Bunny, my eyes weren’t drawn to her hair, her high cheekbones, her incredibly sharp jaw line or her beautiful green eyes.  My mind was racing at the possibility of one day actually being able to cliff-dive into the plunging neckline of the white tank top she was wearing that night.  I was forced to whisper to myself not to “look down there” for fear of getting caught and denied of ever being caught in her headlights.

“Okay… she’s looking at the camera!  QUICK GLANCE!  Man… hope the camera didn’t catch that!” I thought.

This brings me to a quick question: “What is it that is so fascinating about these mammary gland duos?” 

I’d be interested in hearing your theories.

If you think about it… they’re really nothing more than two sacks of flesh filled with a varying degrees of  fat, muscle, veins, glands and milk (depending on the situation) that tastes like its been diluted with tap water.  It’s great for helping make chocolate chip cookies though.  Just ask my sister.

Thus concludes the most unattractive description of boobs ever written.

I suppose the reason they’re so fascinating is that they aren’t revealed so easily.  If everyone started leaving their nether regions exposed while covering up their hands, feet and face then all teenage boys would eventually be clamoring to catch a glimpse of Pamela Anderson’s bare forehead in the newest issue of “Sexy Forehead Magazine”. 

Whoa… you better put that cosmetically enhanced forehead away before you put someone’s eyes out!

Victoria’s Secret would carry their newest line of sleek, sexy socks with underwire push-up for your hammertoes or ankles.

These are “The Miracle Ankle  – by Victoria”.  Notice the underwire under the ankle that enhances the ankle, creates more ankle cleavage and makes the ankle look bigger than it actually is.

Cinemax would replace all their late night programming with storylines centered around getting the characters to shake hands… without their gloves on!

It’s time to make a mocha handshake…

That seems like a reasonable explanation to me.

Anyway, I think it’s safe to say that boobs are a pretty universal symbol of something that EVERYONE in the world is fond of, correct?  If this is so, then is it so hard to believe that our world can’t get along?  Despite our differences in religion, politics, race, orientation and world views… why can’t we arrive at some sort of peace in the realization that we all like b00bs?

Does Fidel Castro (I think he’s dead… but that’s besides the point) have weapons of mass destruction?  I don’t know… but I know he likes boobs.  So he and I are bro’s now… in a very very very very incredibly small way.  But hey, it’s something.

Does Richard Dawkins have completely skewed views on how our human race came to be?  Yes… but he likes (monkey) b00bs too!  I could give him a fist pump for that.  Then I’d punch him in his old British face.

Richard Dawkins will tell you that boobs came from an evolutionary need for sustenance… I’ll just put him into a banana outfit and throw him in a ring with hungry silverback gorillas!!  Yeah… take that Richard Dawkins… let’s see if your “science” can prove me wrong there!! HAHAHA!!  Also… did you just *pop* you head out of that sweater-shirt thing?   Because it kind of looks like it…

Does Tom Cruise annoy everyone?  Most definitely.  But I’m willing to bet he likes boobs too because he’s been married to Nicole Kidman, dated Penelope Cruz and is currently married to Katie Holmes (notice they’re all women with b00bs).  I’ll give him a high-five for our one similarity right before kneeing him in the groin.

Does Richard Simmons make you want to jump in a vat of steaming hot maple syrup?  Sure, but I’m willing to bet that he likes b00bs because….. well… because…. uh….

Okay… maybe he’s the exception.  Off with his head.

Now, I’m not saying we should resort to walking around topless all the time, but I’m saying we should consider it.  Wait… that’s not what I meant to say!

Let me start over: I’m not saying we should resort to walking around topless all the time, but in a world where we’re bombing our neighboring countries because they’re different or because they did something bad or because they said something threatening, shouldn’t we be saying “Do you like b00bs brother?”  99.95% percent of the time, the answer will be “yes”.  Then you have something in common… and something to build on.

So I now hoist my flag for a new world revolution!  An Earth where, despite our differences, we all know that peace comes in knowing we share one common bond.  A day and age where countries can once again be united!  A world where estranged brothers can once again be together!  A world where peace lies in knowing when everything else fails… there’s always a universal love of boobies.

I will raise my flag and fly in proudly.

Copyright of “Hands To War”… feel free to borrow it… but don’t claim that you made it up…

WHO’S WITH ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Our First Date


Before you read the story below… read about how we met

After Bunny and I met that one fateful night at Hudson’s and drove away in my Lamborghini/house, we had a romantic evening under the waxing moon at a point overlooking the city called “Boner’s (pronounced Bonner’s) Paradise”.

My old ride.  And house.

She had a good time discovering all the tattoos I had hidden under my clothes… and I had good time trying to differentiate what was real and what wasn’t.

Seeing that I was on all different kinds of illegal testosterone enriched muscle enhancers to give me the edge in my cage matches… my head was literally about to explode with the realization that I might be able to get a preview of her not yet released Playboy issue in person!!  I had never seen a more beautiful creature in my life.

Despite my rough exterior lay the heart of a man wanting nothing more than to find the woman of his dreams.  The woman of my dreams didn’t have to be cosmetically enhanced in every way possible, have men throwing money at her on every coastal city in the US and (unbeknownst to me) be ranked in the top 10 of “Maxim’s Hot 100” list.  But… it just happened that she was all of those things.

What I clearly didn’t know was that beneath Bunny’s plastic exterior… there was a heart of a moral girl not wanting to be looked at like a real life Barbie doll… but like a “lady”.  She was a lady who wanted to be rescued from her life of being ogled by passers-by and solicited by escort services with promises of raking in more money than the Sultan of Brunei.

Bunny could have made more money than this guy…

She had a soul and despite the fact I happened to be the hottest, strongest, most tattooed piece of man meat she’d ever seen she was willing to forgo the impending titillation to see if that slow motion fight sequence she’d seen at Hudson’s several hours earlier was really an indication of love at first sight… or lust at first sight.  There had to be more to me than just muscles, tattoos and badass dance moves.

Something just felt right when she looked into my bloodshot eyes.

“Could he be the one?” She thought to herself!

“Boobies.” I slowly kept repeating to myself.

I had never seen such fabulous lady lumps in all my life.  They were a perfect defiance of the laws of physics and gravity.  They both sat there staring at me… waiting for me to introduce myself. 

She sat close to me and forced small talk from her chemically enhanced lips that seemed to slap together forcefully whenever she accentuated a word.  This made me want to kiss her.

I sat close enough to her to realize that her deep green eyes really were green… and not contacts.  Perhaps it was the only quality physical attribute that wasn’t somehow corrected by means of tucking, cutting, adding or enhancing. 

As she talked the wind blew her blond extensions and she shivered a bit.  Her extensions blew and tickled my arm that I had strategically placed around her shoulders in the first step of a carefully orchestrated plan to kiss her pouty lips.

I grew nervous.

I suddenly began to doubt the situation.  Despite the impressive display of strength, agility and sheer hero qualities I had displayed at Hudson’s earlier… I feared I would never be able to provide for her on a monetary level.

“Provide?” I thought to myself, “I hardly know this girl and I’m already thinking about providing for her!  I must be crazy”.  Despite my best efforts to push the thought into oblivion… I couldn’t shake it! 

There was something more here than just physical attraction.

“I’m just a poor NHB fighter.” I thought to myself.  “I could never give this girl what she wanted.  She needs the Prince of Persia, King of France or Lord of the Dance.  All I have are some bulging veins, 22-inch biceps and the teeth of those I’ve knocked out tied to an old piece of dental floss around my neck!  I don’t have a castle, Rolls Royce or expensive attack dogs!  I spent all the money I had on this  Lamborghini that I live in!  Who am I kidding!  I don’t have a chance!”

Despite being able to pound dudes in the ring (like this fight I had back in ’02… that’s me in the camo shorts) I was unable to feel secure with a woman as caliente as Bunny

You could visibly see the veins in my arms slowly deflate and recess between my sinewy muscles as my confidence simply disappeared at the realization I probably wasn’t much more to her than another notch on the handle of her Gucci purse.

She noticed my deflation and said, “Why don’t we call it a night?”

I felt more deflated.

Not realizing she just wanted to remove herself from a situation that could get physical too soon… I interpreted it to mean she didn’t like me.  I may have had an exterior covered with tattoos, skin pulled tight from muscles screaming to tear from my body and scars but inside I realized there was a man just wanting a good woman by his side.

Perhaps… she wasn’t “the one”.

I pulled the car out from between the oak tree and dumpster where we were parked and started the drive back towards the city.

After a quick stop at 7-11 to get gas (which she paid for because I lost my wallet), I arrived at her upscale gated apartment community on the upper side of town where only models were allowed to live.

Bunny’s former living arrangements…

She leaned over the driver’s side seat to punch in the gate code through my window.  I could feel the pressure of the weight she was carrying in her tube top.

My heart raced.

I stopped by her apartment building and leaned to give her a hug.  She countered my attempt and we embraced for a moment.

“Ask her for her number!” I thought to myself.

“Ask me for my number!” She thought to herself.

“It would never work.” I thought

“You may be poor as crap and live in your  Lamborghini but we can make it work!” She thought.

We both sensed the unbelievable pull towards each other but the parallels between Romeo and Juliet were just too similar.

She was a Playboy model… I was a poor NHB fighter.

She lived in a high price apartment community… I lived in my Lamborghini.

She was flawless and beautiful… I was beaten and bruised

She was entirely made of plastic… I wasn’t.

We released the hug we’d shared and she waved a cute little “good-bye” wave despite only being in the passenger seat… merely a foot away.

I smirked and nodded and didn’t ask for her number.  I didn’t think she would have given it to me.

I enjoyed what I believed to be my last moments of watching the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.  They were good moments because she just so happened to live on the third floor.  Watching her glutes flex then release after each step she took up the staircase were clearly visible through the skin-tight daisy duke shorts she wore.  Her calves sharply flexed with each step as I was sure it was hard to stabilize on 10-inch heels.  As the lights in the stairwell cast varying degrees of shadows over her body as she moved… I could clearly see the definition in her back and arms.

“Whoever her trainer is… he deserves a Nobel Prize for that work.”  I thought to myself.

Without having to endure the pain of watching her walk away anymore I pulled out of my parking space and sped out of the complex.

I looked in my rear view mirror longingly at the apartment complex.

“Goodbye my love.” I whispered.

“Goodbye my love.” She whispered as she turned the key to her apartment and flicked on the light in the living room.

There in her living room sat Hugh Hefner and three very large body guards.

A startled Bunny shouted “Hughey… what are you doing here?!  You scared me to death!”

Hugh stared from underneath his old man sunglasses and said, “I told you I was going to make you mine… and I’m here to do that right now.”

The three men slowly walked from their post towards Bunny.  One was carrying duct tape, one was carrying rope and the other wasn’t carrying anything… he was just there to learn how to kidnap girls for Hugh Hefner.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” she shouted as they easily overtook her in the kitchen as she was trying to grab anything sharp to defend herself with… but could only come up with a potato peeler.

Her phone suddenly rang.  It broke me from the trance I was in.  I looked over and saw the passenger side seat light up from the iPhone accidentally left there by Bunny.  It was her friend Sasha who she had left at Hudson’s earlier in the evening.

My heart suddenly raced again, “She forgot her phone!  Perhaps this is a sign… I’m getting a second chance!” I thought to myself.

Without waiting for a legal U-turn opportunity, I cut across the grassy median of the highway and sped towards Bunny’s apartment to return her phone.

………………………..

TO BE CONTINUED….

Will I kick Hugh Hefner’s ass?

What will happen to Bunny?

How much of this story is true and how much is a complete ruse?

You’ll have to keep on reading to find out….