You were on the sidewalk with a gaggle of your friends and you were all rushing toward the curb. I hit my brakes, afraid that you were going to run into the street, but you flashed me instead.
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Never before have I believed in love at first sight. They were shapely and round and oh-so-generously proportioned, with smooth creamy skin, and they were proudly standing up with the resilience of youth. I immediately began thinking of all the things I could do with your breasts -- we could go for long walks together on misty mornings, have dinner in romantic restaurants, go for bike rides around the lake. I began to imagine a lifetime of waking up with your breasts in my face, continuing to love them as age and gravity inevitably take their toll.
I could write poems for your pom-poms, ditties for your titties. Eat your heart out Keats -- who needs a Grecian urn when I've got a pair of ice cream sundaes with cherries on top?
I'm almost certainly too old for you, but I think I could still have a meaningful relationship with your boobs.