Not All Men From Las Vegas Are Douchebags (For Ladies with Little Boobies, Everywhere)

As I mentioned last week, I will be writing a weekly column for, where readers are invited to write in with questions they may have about sex, and I will answer them with the all the authority of someone with absolutely no medical/professional background. I invited people on Facebook to write to thewiseasswife at gmail dot com with their questions, and got an anecdote that was so hilarious, I couldn’t not share it.

It’s not a question, so much as a hilarious story from a friend of mine, about meeting her boyfriend, and having tiny boobs. When she sent it to me, I knew it was gold and had to be posted here. Enjoy:

Seven years ago my good friend, Julie, introduced me to my now boyfriend Tom. Having just gotten out of a drama ridden ten year relationship I had no intention of even tapping my big toe into the flames awaiting outside of the frying pan I had just leaped out of. He was incredibly attractive, so I knew that I at least wanted to have sex with him. However, there were only two tangible facts I knew about him thanks to Julie’s boyfriend (man friends don’t really provide the greatest information).

He was born and raised in Las Vegas. All I could picture was the parade of vaginas, albeit bedazzled and well groomed vaginas, that he must have been exposed to. I envisioned a pie chart (pun intended) entitled TOM’S EXPOSURE TO LAS VEGAS VAGINAS BY CATEGORY where the largest slice was relegated to stripper-ginas, the next to cocktail-waitress-ginas and finally the smallest sliver to the wanna-be-stripper-or-cocktail-waitress-girls-from-his-high-school-ginas.

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He had only ever dated girls with big-ol’-boobies. To be clear, I think boobies are fabulous but as a grown ass adult who could still fit into a Hannah Montana tween bra, I knew he’d be in for a whole new landscape. Based on my limited research comprised mostly of visits to Las Vegas for bachelorette parties, I knew Las Vegas as not only the land of bedazzled vaginas, but the land of big-ol’-boobies be they fake or God given.

Fast forward a couple of months and many, many rum & Cokes later to one of our very first make out sessions. Oh the kissing and the grinding and the…painfully obvious avoidance of second base. He rubbed my back, my ass and strangely even my stomach. It became so distracting that I started to fixate on the image evolving in my mind. I saw myself as a child’s playground where the tan bark is the imaginary lava. Avoiding the lava is the cardinal rule. DON’T TOUCH THE LAVA! Except in this case my tiny boobs were the lava. Was he thinking in his head, “DON’T TOUCH THE TINY BOOBS!”

I had had enough. Being in my 30’s and having come out of that aforementioned ten year debacle of a relationship, I was far more bold than I had ever been. I already am what friends call “filter challenged”, meaning that the filter between my mind and my mouth rarely function as society would like it to. I broke from the lip lock and blurted out, “Are you afraid of my boobs?”

He visibly shuttered. Seems my question, while poignant, was a tad shocking even for a guy born and raised in sin city. Fortunately, my self esteem was not in danger because of two things:

1) I had gotten over being self conscious about my boobs over a decade ago.

2) I live in a world where if I really wanted boobies of big ol’ proportions, I could go out & buy them.

I really, really wanted my boobies touched, so if this guy wasn’t going to be willing to work through this, then game over.
His response was completely unexpected. I’m not even sure what answer I expected. I suppose, I thought he’d get defensive and things would fall apart and that would be fine because I was perfectly content with dying in a one bedroom apartment where myself and my future pack of ten cats lived.

“I’m afraid to hurt you”, he said, “I mean afraid to hurt them, I guess.” I immediately thought, “Jesus! What the hell does he intend to do to my poor boobs?! Is he going to clean & jerk them?” The room quickly went from sexy hot to “can we please open a window or turn on a fan before I die” kind of hot. Awkward.

I assured him that this was not a legitimate concern, but that I was thrilled with his honesty. That exchange actually set the tone for our entire relationship. Me saying painfully awkward things and him compelled to respond with painful honesty. It has worked for seven years. He has learned, with some instruction and encouragement, how to manage tiny tweenager-sized boobs with great skill and he has yet to hurt me. In this case, a little honesty went a long way. My boobs still thank me.


One thought on “Not All Men From Las Vegas Are Douchebags (For Ladies with Little Boobies, Everywhere)

  1. Pingback: The Secret is Out, Us Child-Free Folks Love Hookers, Blow, and Swinging | The Wiseass Wife

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