Some kind of strange and unexplainable primal forces are at work when the cleavage is exposed. When a man’s eyes make contact, our breath turns to short little panting noises as a pleasant warmth begins to develop in the nether region. Remember the Seinfeld episode where George stares at the NBC executive’s daughter’s low hanging fruit? Jerry says they are like giant and powerful magnets to the eyes with an effect much like Kryptonite has upon Superman.

Once again, it cannot be explained by mere rationale, but when the globes are in orbit, our eyes MUST make contact. Whether they are small and firm, or large, round and jiggly, it does not matter…we HAVE TO look! We HAVE TO. It’s like some unwritten law in the ancient records, scribed on the walls of the Mayan Temples. The luscious valley between the mighty peaks grips a man’s being much like the Sirens who seduced Homer in the Iliad and the Odyssey. Its spell is intoxicating driving a normal man to the very brink of childish behavior, not to mention – utter stupidity (or is that udder stupidity?)

We males have become masters of our craft. We have studied this vertical space of flesh and nothingness and have learned how to catch that sacred glimpse of nirvana at the perfect time. We look the female in the eyes, smile as we talk, nodding as if we are actually listening to a word the shrew is saying. It’s a peek of the holy grails that we are after and nothing will stop our valiant quest. We use cunning and guile to move their attention elsewhere – and the moment their eyes turn, OUR eyes dive in for the kill.

“Oh, look… that kitten must be lost.” We say with an innocent yet sinister glow.

“Oh, where?” she says, as her head moves about.

“Over yonder, in the bushes” you point, as your pupils all but burn a hole into her chest.

“Where?” she asks, “I don’t see a… um, what are you looking at?”

SNAGGED! You have been snagged! She begins to change the subject while awkwardly tugging her blouse upwards. As she continues to talk, you sit there like a fool – a large pulsating letter “L” is emblazoned upon your forehead as the beauty that once was is buried six miles deep in cotton and polyester fibers.

This previous action on the part of the female, I do not understand, as it confuses the male species here and abroad. Let me explain. A woman wears a shirt or sweater that by her choice, is low cut, as her ta-tas are in full display for all the world to gander. They’re swingin’ high and low, loose and free, giving the male populous the joy we so richly deserve. Yet the moment our woman – this teasing harlot – notices where our eyes are fixed, she folds her arms or grabs the nearest Cosmo to cover up those mountains of grandeur. UNFAIR I say!

I, the Zman, speak on behalf of heterosexual men everywhere on this wretched planet. Women, take heed. When you “CHOOSE” to wear a low cut top that exposes your upper region, DO NOT act so alarmed when we men are gazed upon your earthly beauty. Why do you wear such attire if you do not wish for us to stare? Why do you purposely dress so provocatively, yet cover up the moment we sneak a peek? I’ll be honest, ladies… since my early manhood this phenomena has really irked me to no end. You put the sale rack up on display, but when an interested shopper passes by, the curtains are drawn and the shop is closed. Again, UNFAIR I say!

I have to admit that this very horrid plight happened to me only today and I could not go another moment without speaking up for my fellow man. I was taken aback as my character was unfairly thrown into question. This was rude, degrading, and unjust in every way.

I’m telling you, there really was a lost kitten in the bushes. I swear.

- Zman