Brassieres Positively Scare Me to Death

While most of my school chums became familiar with the basic principles and mechanics of the brassiere in high school, I confess my first encounter with the mysterious undergarment was in my dorm room during my sophomore year in college.  There I was, having just singled my way to first base with a cute co-ed when, with no warning at all, her shirt was on the floor.  You can imagine the mix of terror and curiosity I was feeling in the presence of this baffling amalgam of straps, cups and bosoms.

Well, she sort of turned around and pointed with her thumb and, possibly sensing my reticence, said in the sweetest possible voice, c'mon, help me out of this thing. I didn't really know what to do, and I was pretty scared of what I might find underneath, but it didn't matter anyway because the darn thing may as well have been padlocked on.  After wrestling with it for about 45 minutes she asked me how much longer I thought it was going to take, because she had to get to class in a few hours.  I stammered a bit and told her that it would probably help if she had some WD-40 or something, because this little plastic doodad wasn't budging.  I was about to run and get some help, but she just sighed and unhooked the danged thing herself in about two seconds flat.  I thought I had ruined the mood, but she smiled and playfully threw the bra at me.  Well, you would have thought she had tossed a bowl of scorpions or something, the way I panicked and batted the thing away.  She wasn't real pleased when it landed in the pizza we had ordered, and even less so when my slob of a next-door neighbor barged in hollering I smell pepperoni!

I suppose there must have been a brief moment there when a pair of naked breasts were free of their harness, but for whatever reason, all I can remember was that Matlock was on the TV at the time, and I couldn't help wondering what old Andy Griffith would have thought of this business.

Before I knew it, her shirt was back on and she was out the door.  My slob of a next-door neighbor helped himself to a breadstick and waddled back to his room.  And there the brassiere remained, cheese and lace fusing together for eternity, cotton fibers drinking from little greasy rivers.  I had a mess on my hands, but it seemed the easier thing would be to drop out of school, and so that's what I did.

And that's the story of how I became a minimum wage earner.

nwb