I never really gave much thought to the nipples of my neighbors until I saw Hilary Swank’s.
We’d just watched the compelling Clint Eastwood’s 2004 “Million Dollar Baby” with our 12-year-old. The film won the Academy Award for Best Picture and stars Swank as scruffy boxer who beats the odds to earn an ill-fated Vegas title fight.
Josie liked it and found Swank very appealing. She asked me to Google up some pictures of her to see what she looks like when she’s doesn’t have sweat rolling down her nose.
The page of images contained maybe 20 shots of Swank smiling and looking radiant.
My guy eyes instinctively ignored each of those and zeroed straight in on the one you see above. I full-screened it so I could bask in Swank’s lovely hooters.
Sure, when Josie approached I minimized it in favor of something you’d see in People Magazine. But the instant she turned away I clicked back on the one more suitable for Peep-Hole Magazine.
I gave those puppies a good long look. Very nice.
Amidst my juvenile leering, I realized I was in a moment of self-discovery.
I’d never really considered the nipple before, overlooking its individualistic charms in favor of the whole breast.
You could say when it came to mammary glands, I was missing the forest for the trees.
What surprised me, too, is the realization that I’m being inundated with nipple sightings and until I saw Swanks’ it never dawned on my how repulsive they can be.
Of course, the nipples I see most often are the ones on old men in my neighborhood.
Now, I’m 50. I am by any standard an old man in my neighborhood.
But these guys, man, they’re pushing 80 and they can’t seem to keep their shirts on. It’s seems like it’s an unwelcome trend: old men who stopped caring what they looked like back when Nixon was still president are letting it all hang out.
And there’s a lot to let hang out.
There’s this one old timer whose nipples I see more often than those of my wife.
And he’s a disgusting, hairy slob.
I’ll drive by at lunch and there is, riding his John Deere in just his shorts. When he’s done, he’ll sit on the porch and sip a beer. Later on he’s out there reading the paper or listening to a ballgame. He reminds me of Frank Costanza on the “Seinfeld” episode where Kramer tries to convince the old crank his ample bosum would benefit from the innovative male bra he’s calling the “Bro.”
If Hilary Swank has high beams, this guy has blinkers. They are way over on the side of his chassis. When I spy him straight on jiggling on the tractor, it’s like looking at a hitchhiker who’s heading in both directions.
I feel like screaming at him to put some clothes on, that there are children in the neighborhood.
There should be some dignity about being a man, and being a father, certainly. That means the more clothes, the better.
They only place anyone other than my wife is going to see my handsome nipples is at the swimming pool.
In case you’re interested, mine are about the size of nickels coyly hidden under a thatch of chest hair, another example of not being able to see the forest for the trees.
Of course, who am I to judge?
Maybe one day I’ll age into a state of mind where I consider clothes a nuisance, too.
Maybe guys my age will take it even a step further and we’ll sit around with nothing but our abundant body hairs to conceal our shriveled modesties.
Of course, that would be an example of not seeing the tree for the forest.
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