the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Month: March 2008 (Page 2 of 3)

Happy St. Paddy’s Day

Her hair was red.  It burned of poetry and stubbornness.  I was a afraid of her.  Her eyes flashed.  She was not like any other girl I had ever met.  She had the spirit of a prize fighter. She would use language like the writer she was, then knock you out in the ring with her tight fist.  Was it her red hair that made her like fire?  Dublin was hot that summer.  She had no air-conditioning in her flat.  I loved the multitude of freckles on her chest, like stars in the sky.  You could spend forever counting them with your finger.  But she was too impatient for that. After a few freckles counted, she’d be saying, “Let’s get on with it!” The Irish are like that.


Support Your Local Male Belly Dancer

A couple of months ago, there was a meme going around titled “What I Believe.”  It was cool to read about your strongly-held beliefs.  I wanted to participate, but I didn’t, and I remember that it bothered me that I couldn’t come up with a list of beliefs.  I’m pretty wishy-washy.  Sophia always makes fun of me, saying that whenever someone opposes something I say on my blog, I immediately run to apologize in my comments.

I’m working on this in therapy.   So, be prepared for me to be more stubborn and obnoxious as I get healthier. 

Today, I’ve come one step closer. I surprised myself. I am close to coming up with a strong Belief #1.  I’m not sure how to phrase this belief yet, but I think it has something to do with wanting opportunities open to as many people as possible — even if it goes against the norm of the day.   That Pete Seeger documentary on PBS reminded me of all the hard struggles of the civil rights movement, as well as those of women and gays fighting to be accepted as equals. (see yesterday’s post)

Isn’t that a belief?

Anyway, let’s change the subject completely for a sec —

Tonight I was feeling a little frisky, so I went on YouTube to find something that might catch my eye.  I’m not a connoisseur of plain ol’ pornography, which I’ve always found boring.  Who wants to watch another couple have sex?  It’s like watching another person enjoying an ice cream cone.   What do you get out of it?  No, my stimulation is something more like watching a woman shaking her stuff while belly dancing!  Now, as I was exploring, I accidentally stumbled across the videos of Tito Seif, Egypt’s most famous male belly dancer.  I became totally distracted from my original salacious goal.   I was totally intrigued.   I had no idea that men belly danced!   In Wikipedia, I discovered that male belly dancing is controversial in many traditional circles, where it is considered a female art, but some men are pushing the boundaries.

Are you seeing how these two extraneous topics are going to tie together — What I Believe In and male belly dancing?   I believe in opening up opportunities.   If men want to belly dance, I say GO FOR IT!   Why should women have all the fun! Why shouldn’t a man be able to woo a bunch of women with the shaking of his hips? I hope you will join me in supporting male belly dancers around the world.

Check out the video that I embedded on top.  I think belly dancing looks fun, and it is probably very good exercise.  It looked pretty sexy, too. (Men, there is also a hot babe in the video, so stop complaining)

The Hip Club and the Coffee Shop


I noticed a few people on Twitter chatting about a site called Alltop. It is a clever idea. One opinionated, well-connected entrepreneur collects all the most buzz-worthy blogs in each category — Moms, Religion, Gadgets, etc., and creates a definitive list, a starting-off point for what people “should read.” Not only does this create a buzz among bloggers, it instantly makes this individual into a cultural arbiter. Since the final say comes from the creator of the list himself, bloggers are now desperately clamoring and wooing this person to be included on the list, since having their name included “means” that they matter. And why exactly is one mommyblogger listed and another is not? I think mommybloggers should get together and refuse to be listed if EVERYONE isn’t included. Doesn’t anyone question authority anymore?

Sure, there is a place for this in the blogosphere, just as there is in the real world. I imagine there is no better feeling for some than getting entry into a hip club while others stand outside in the rain. Alltop appeals to this type of blogger. I’m not immune to this. I’m sure I’ll get a buzz when I’m included in the “Most Flirtatious Bloggers” category. Part of the fun is getting “in,” so you can feel that you are different than the masses. Who doesn’t like being a VIP? Us and Them. It’s human nature!

Unfortunately, I’m a Queens boy at heart. I grew up in coffee shops and diners, where I would talk with my friends for hours while eating tuna fish sandwichs, linzer tarts, and drinking coffee. I like that diners and coffee shops have a diverse mix of crowds — from homeless people using their last quarters to high-powered attorneys grabbing a quick lunch, a cross-section of the city, sitting side-by-side. I’m a sucker for this populist stuff. In fact, I just watched this great documentary on Pete Seeger on PBS, crying when he sang his union songs. Now that’s poetry.

I think of my blog less as a hip club, more of an online coffee shop. I sit by the computer with my cup of coffee and talk about “stuff” with whomever showed up. I go so far as to even think about my “blog crush of the day” as a representative of the waitress working that night. That’s why I usually I pick a blogger with a nice rack who I can imagine bending down low while serving me the french fries.

The Great Interview Experiment is pure “coffee shop.” There is an open seat at the counter. Whoever comes in, takes a seat, and is stuck interviewing/being interviewed by whomever was before/is next. There are no reservations needed. Most of all, I have nothing to gain from it.

I want to give a special thanks to so many of the “popular” bloggers who are participating in the interview experiment. You are bloggers who, despite the ability to get past the velvet ropes online, still chose to take some time hanging in the coffee shop with the mailmen and construction workers of the blogosphere. As for those who are ass-kissing to get on that Alltop list, but weren’t interested in being interviewed because “you don’t want to be interviewed by some “D-lister,” it’s cool, but the coffee is better here — and so are the women.

On My Wall

Something seems to be going on with me… in my head.  I’m all over the place.  Today I’m finding the last post I wrote a bit embarrassing.   I’m still glad I wrote it but, just so my mother understands, I wasn’t really writing about prostitution.   I was more interested in the make-up of super-achieving men in business and politics, and how they will go for what they want, even if it means breaking the rules.  Anyway, I’m bored of the Spitzer story.  I hate how the media moralizes about salacious stories, then milk it for attention and ratings.

I wrote another post this morning about some other subject, but then decided I didn’t like where it was heading.   I was going to write something about Sophia, but I’ll get in trouble if I don’t ask her first — and she isn’t home.  Is it possible that I am so co-dependent that — without having a woman as a muse — my writing falls apart?   It’s as if I’m now using my blog as my own high-priced hooker.  I don’t know what that means, but it seems accurate.

I also received this nice email from Brett from Dad Talk:

Your Spitzer post has a number of typo/grammatical errors, which is most unlike you. I don’t want to make you paranoid, but I thought you’d want to know.

My wife is always on my case about my mistakes, too.

Thanks, Brett.  (anal!)  (Pearl, help me find the typos!)

Desperate to put something here to knock the Spitzer post one notch down, I’m going to show you the two framed posters that I have in my office.  I have owned them for at least 15 years, and I look at them every day.  They are by Matisse and Dominique Appia.


I find the woman in the Matisse painting very very sexy.  I would much rather be there than any strip club on Hollywood Boulevard.  Men… imagine your woman walking around the house at night in THAT!


I like the chaos of the  events in this surrealistic painting.  It has a calming effect on me.   OK, it’s pretentious.  But I like it.

We Talked About Eliot Spitzer in Therapy

I spoke about Eliot Spitzer in therapy yesterday. It was a weird conversation with Brenda. Usually, I walk into the office and we fiddle about until we fall into some sort of topic. Yesterday, I sat down and immediately said, “I think we should talk about sex today. Isn’t that what we are SUPPOSED to do in therapy?”

The conversation turned to the news about the governor of New York because, well, frankly, I’ve never been with a high class hooker. Or a moderately-price prostitute. Or cheated on my wife. Or even been to a Hooters. And THAT was on my mind.

Now before my female readers go, “Wow, what a wonderful fella,” DON’T. Who knows what would happen if I actually became governor of New York and had the opportunity to afford some high priced hookers. I’m sure Mr. Spitzer was a nice Jewish boy at one time also. Hell, now that I see what high priced hookers make, I might want to BECOME a call, uh… boy. Writing is slave labor compared to what they make! And they get free dinner, too!

Note: The following is a bit rambling and I may disagree what I say tomorrow, but I’m just spitting it out anyway.

Yesterday, on Twitter, I noticed some discussion about Eliot Spitzer. A woman was describing him in negative terms. She was saying that he was arrogant. She also made mentioned that a lot of high powered men feel the need to have sex on the side. After all, he wouldn’t be governor if he didn’t have big cojones. She was mocking him, but I have to admit, that to a guy like me, her negative portrayal almost made him sound cool, as if this super-powerful guy just has so much sperm building up in him that it had to go somewhere. Like he was a nerdy Superfly. Remember when I once wrote a post about some spam I got about some pill that could increase the amount of your semen so you could flood the entire neighborhood with your “seed” and impress your neighbors, as well as fertilize their lawn? Men are into that sort of stuff. I could even hear some guys talking about Spitzer in the locker room. “I bet you his wife wasn’t giving him enough p***y!” Even Spitzer himself only apologized to his wife for embarrassing her. He is more ashamed of getting caught than breaking his marriage vow. He probably thought it was a healthy release. Hey, he is a powerful man with powerful needs.

I’m no saint. And I don’t moralize. I enjoyed seeing your bras on my birthday. But, all in all, my sexual adventures are pretty tame. I pretty much went from hopeless nerd to being married. Why she married me is still a mystery. I never really had wild and crazy days, so that’s dangerous. Take that as a warning. Maybe I should go to a prostitute someday, just to see if I can do it. Almost like sex therapy. The idea of sleeping with some complete stranger that I’m paying for freaks me out and seems totally unappealing. But maybe it is good for a man to be able to just take some woman and be selfish about it. I bet you never get performance anxiety. You can come fast. You can come slow. She doesn’t have to have an orgasm. You can have sex standing on your head. You are paying for it! It’s sort of like going to therapy… but more interactive!

I am totally FOR legal prostitution. I feel that hookers are here to stay — who can refute thousands of years of history — so why not make it safe and get some tax dollars. Maybe we can let the Native-Americans run the prostitution rings? They do a pretty good job with the casinos. But don’t expect to see me with a prostitute soon. Not for any moral reasons. I just don’t think my personality fits the bill. And, in a way, that bothers me. Shouldn’t a man’s c**k go up just because a naked woman is in the room with him? I know… I know, it doesn’t work that way. But maybe I would be the governor of New York if I was more that type of personality.

I’m sure some of you have cheated on your spouses. In fact, I have spoken to a blogger who has cheated on her husband with a married man. Again, I don’t moralize. The woman was having some problems at home, and this was an outlet.

“How do you feel about the other wife?” I asked.

“Well, not too bad. She wasn’t satisfying him,” she answered.

It was another case of a man who just needed a lot of f**king — so what could he do?! He had no choice! It almost seemed to be part of his appeal!

Over the course of my life, whenever I wasn’t getting enough, I usually turned… well, myself.

My Penis: “Do we really have to talk about this…”

I’m just saying, as a dramatist, those exploits aren’t very dramatic. They are almost uncomfortable to talk about. I don’t go to my friends in the bar and say, “Hey Brad, John — you won’t believe how good my masturbation went this morning!”

But, they sure would be all ears if I told them that I just “did” a beautiful $3500 high-class hooker. Or I had an affair with the buxom brunette from the office.

OK, I’m going to stop this post now. Maybe I’ll finish it later. I’m losing my train of thought. Eliot Spitzer is probably resigning as I’m writing this. I’m sure there are thousands of blogs talking about him right now. I bet you that this is the only blog on Technorati that uses Elliot Spitzer as a segue into talking about masturbation.

Eh, this isn’t really about masturbation. It is about being a man and what his sexuality is all about. And how I somehow associate power and money and creative talent with the need to f**k a lot. Can you think of Picasso painting without visualizing him f**king all the time?

Tags: Eliot Spitzer, male sexuality, therapy

A Sh***y Post

For the first time in a very long time, I spent a good hour just looking at a blank screen.  I was thinking about why you come here to this blog.  I figure you come here because you like something about the writing.  Maybe I commented on your blog at some time, and then you commented on mine, and before you know it, we assumed we knew each other. 

There is a dark side to this.  If I start writing boring stuff, you will probably go away.  After a whole bunch of tedious posts — say, about my fingernails — only my mother would be left reading this blog.  My mother would not abandon me.  She would keep reading the blog no matter what.  That’s what mothers do. 

Sometimes, I’m afraid of writing something shitty.  I’m worried that you will drop me like a hot potato.  After all, there are plenty of other blogs out there.

It would be cool to write something really shitty.  I think I would enjoy writing something really shitty once a week.  Should I tell you in the tags or beforehand, so you know when I KNOW the post is conceived as shitty, opposed to when it just comes out shitty by poor planning or distraction?

For instance, this is a pretty shitty post.  I know it.  It is not an accident.  I enjoyed writing this shitty post.  I’m writing it on Notepad.  I can delete it or I can copy it and publish it on my blog so you can read it.  The question remains:  Why would you want to read it? 

I have no idea. 

No, that’s a lie.  I actually do.  I think I would enjoy reading it if YOU wrote it.  But I’m odd in that way.

A few days ago, some blogger wrote a comment where she said, “I love you, Neil.”  I took this nice comment as meaning that the person liked the current post, or that something in my writing connected with that person.  I know the person doesn’t REALLY love me. I’ve had this lovin’ feeling myself at times.  On my last count, I have been in serious love with seven female bloggers over the years, and three male bloggers.  These are bloggers who I have grown attached to in the most unhealthy of ways — caring about them way beyond normality, crying when they write about being miserable, laughing when they are happy, worried when they don’t blog, mad when they didn’t comment. 

I usually fall in love with a blogger because of her writing.   And then she writes something shitty, and the magic is gone. 

But gradually, I learn to respect her in a healthier manner, as I see that her writing that shitty post was important for her to write.  It reminded her that her writing is her own — and not others — and that if she wants to write something shitty, she should do it, confident that even if everyone thought she sucked, her mother would still read her blog.

Oprah’s Big Give


I watched this show on Sunday:  Oprah’s Big Give.   The very concept of the show made me uncomfortable:  An Amazing Race reality show where contestants compete by seeing who can give away the most stuff to poor, miserable, and disabled individuals in need.  It is a bizarre meshing of Oprah’s “My Favorite Things,” “Extreme Makeover Home Edition,” and “The Grapes of Wrath.”

Good Samaritan:   “Mr. CEO, I want to thank you so much for your generous donation.  This money will go a long way for opening a school for homeless children who lisp, and for hiring the finest in speech pathologists.”

CEO:  “Hold on, hold on.  Let’s wait until the cameraman shows up.”

Good Samaritan:  “What cameraman?”

CEO:  “Isn’t this donation for Oprah’s Big Give?  Aren’t you a contestant on the show?”

Good Samaritan:  “No, I told you on the phone I wanted to ask you for a donation for a school for homeless children who lisp.”

CEO:  “You’re doing this on your own?”

Good Samaritan:  “When I was younger, I lisped, and well, kids laughed…”

CEO:   “You mean you just called up and I let you in — and you have nothing to do with Oprah?”

Good Samaritan:  “Well, I saw how generous you were on her show last night and –“ 

CEO:  “Get the f**k out of here!  I don’t just let anyone walk into my office.  I thought this was another donation for Oprah’s show.  I thought this was going to be on TV.”

Good Samaritan:  “Oh, I’m sorry.  But what about the donation?”

CEO:  “Give me that check back.  You’re an idiot.  Why are you collecting money for charity for NOTHING when you can be doing it on Oprah’s show and winning a million dollars!”

Good Samaritan:  “A million dollars!?”

CEO:  “My father always said, “Charity begins at home.””

Good Samaritan:  “Hell, yeah.  Can I borrow your computer for a second.  Let me sign on at  I’ll come back here next time with Oprah’s camera crew.”

CEO:  “Now we’re talking charity!”

How I Learned to Love Body Scrub


It’s not easy being a modern man.    You try to be a good male feminist by promoting a woman candidate to be the first female President, until all the women you know start telling you that it is the MALE candidate who is better at understanding the needs of American women.   What next?  A male speaker at BlogHer?!

And then, if I ask for photos of female bloggers’ bras for my birthday, I’m a sleazy, typical male.   But if I profess my love for ABBA, I get emails like this one, a list of the “50 Gayest Songs Of All Time” —

20. Dolly Parton “9 to 5”
19. Coming Out Crew “Free, Gay And Happy”
18. Village People “In The Navy”
17. Frankie Goes To Hollywood “Relax”
16. Village People “Macho Man”
15. Judy Garland “Over The Rainbow”
14. Bronski Beat “Smalltown Boy”
13. Diana Ross “I’m Coming Out”
12. Cher “Believe”
11. Gloria Gaynor “I Am What I Am”
10. Alicia Bridges “I Love The Nightlife”
9. Madonna “Vogue”
8. Olivia Netwon-John “Xanadu”
7. Kylie Minogue “Better The Devil You Know”
6. Pet Shop Boys “Go West”
5. Kylie Minogue “Your Disco Needs You”
4. The Weathergirls “It’s Raining Men”
3. Gloria Gaynor “I Will Survive”
2. Village People “YMCA”
1. ABBA “Dancing Queen”

Now, I actually like ALL of those songs (other than #19, which doesn’t sound familiar to me), but so what!

This was not the first questioning of my sexual orientation this week. 

On my birthday, Sophia gave me the best present she could have given me – she was super-nice to me.  Although things haven’t really changed between us — I’m still moving out — at least we don’t have to glare at each other as we pass each other in the morning.  I give her a lot of credit for making things better. 

I always complain on Valentine’s Day that the woman gets flowers, while the guy nothing, so I was surprised when Sophia brought me flowers for my birthday.  How thoughtful.  I know it is corny for me to ask for flowers, and sort of ABBA-ish, but I appreciated the special gesture. 

Later, I told Sophia about this old Italian restaurant nearby that a friend recommended, so we went there for dinner.  Wow, was it a bad choice.  It was the worst food either of us ever had.  Open since 1945, the restaurant’s menu only had two items — spaghetti and lasagna, and each was awful — soggy pasta and ketchup-tasting tomato sauce.  The patrons seemed to have been bused in from a convalescent home.  Normally, a bad restaurant choice on my part puts Sophia in a bad mood, but this establishment was so lousy, that it was quite amusing.  When our hapless waiter asked us if we would like to have bibs with our spaghetti, we both laughed out loud.  It was that type of place.  Sometimes bad experiences turn out memorable.

On the way home, I called my friend and asked him how in the world he could RECOMMEND this place.   I told him how much Sophia hated it. 

“Dude,” said my friend, being one of those guys who says “Dude.” “This is totally your fault.  I said this is a place where WE should go.  You don’t bring a girl there.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” I asked.  “And why would I want to go there even without Sophia?  It’s terrible.”

“Yeah, I know it sucks.  But they have cheap beer.  And it isn’t fancy.  You know, it is a place to go with the guys.  Like having a chilburger at Tommy’s.” 

The last time we met, we had a chiliburger at Tommy’s.

“So you think that when I’m with Sophia, I go to a nice place with good food, but when I’m on my own, I just go to Tommy’s for a chiliburger?” 

“Sure, don’t you?” he asked.

“No, I actually don’t like eating crap either.  I like good food.”

“I can’t stand those fake Beverly Hills Italian restaurants where they give you little portions and put pesto sauce on your pasta.  That is so gay.”

“I like pesto sauce,” I stated.


Why do some men still use that “gay” term to describe something they think is “unmanly?”  And is pesto sauce really that unmanly?

Anyway, back to the body scrub.

Now that Sophia and I reached a detente in the house, we decided to get our lives a bit back in order before I start my apartment searching.  The house was in a serious mess.  Neither of us had done the dishes in days.  The patio, once a haven of beauty, was in a state of disarray again.  I threw some of the old pots and scrubbed some of mud away.  Skanky water filled some hanging pots without the proper filtration.  I emptied them out, holding my nose, hoping not to catch malaria.

While I dealt with the patio, Sophia met with the cable guy, who had come over for the third time this week, trying to fix the spotty TV connection. 

After helping outside, all I could think about was… a shower.  I felt utterly disgusting, with all this mud all over me.  I went into the bathroom upstairs, undressed, and turned on the water in the shower.  Now, I love showers, for a whole number of reasons.  They are relaxing.  I can think.  I can sing.  I can dance.  Who doesn’t love a shower?  But today, it was all utilitarian.  I wanted the dirt off.   But there was no soap!

I jumped out of the shower, soaking wet, ready to grab the soap that is usually by the sink.  But it was another casualty to our in-house tensions during the last few weeks.  No one had put out any new soap.  I was about to open the bathroom door and run to the other bathroom for soap, when I heard the cable guy working on the TV in the next room.  I jumped back into the shower. 

That is when I discovered Sophia’s “body scrub” sitting on top of the railing, next to the shampoo and conditioner. 

I had seen it there a hundred times before, but like a workaholic who never stops to smell the flowers, I had never thought to actually try something called a body scrub.

The liquid was grainy and reminded me of the texture of some long-forgotten acne medicine.  Unlike that teenage elixir, this liquid was fragrant, making me feel as if I was running naked through a grove of wild apples.  I put the body scrub all over me — my back, my feet, my face — and scrubbed away.  When I was all done, I had never felt cleaner or more refreshed. 

Body scrub, I don’t care if you are in the same category as ABBA and pesto — you have won me over!   If YOU are considered gay to enjoy… well, then I am proud to march in your parade.

A Birthday Chick-Lit Tale: The Royal Bra


Thanks for all the cool photos! I know that this is going to sound sappy, but I can’t think of a BETTER birthday present than having you come to this site and actually READ the nonsense I write. So, thanks.

I have no idea where this is going, or if I’ll ever finish it, but just knowing you’re reading it makes me laugh —

The Royal Bra by Neil Kramer

Chapter One

“I can’t believe I’m actually here,” Sarah said, pinching her own arm. “Me, lil’ Sarah Rothberg, here in Manhattan at the British Consulate at an exclusive party for the Royal Family.”

She closed her eyes thinking it all a dream, but when she reopened them, the amazing reality had not disappeared. The whole night had been a whirlwind for Sarah, from the moment she entered the British Consulate. What glamour and elegance! And so far from her typical dorky life of a Brooklyn-born working drone/editorial assistant for Science Interest Magazine.

Sarah knew she was out of her element from the moment she was announced at the door, and saw all the well-dressed guests and the lush 19th Century interior. She immediately ran to get a glass of champagne to calm her nerves. And then another. And then a third. Since when did she become such a lush? She knew she was getting a bit tipsy after that third glass of champagne.

“Sure,” she rationalized, “I was hoping to become a little more comfortable and social by having a few drinks — it is a party after all — but how in the world did I end up in the second floor “library” making out in the darkness with a virtual stranger? I’m a good girl. Sarah Rothberg doesn’t do one night stands.”

Although she couldn’t make out the books on the shelves, she was sure that Jane Austen was there, watching her.

“Would she scold me for being so brazen, or would she say “You go, girl!?”” Sarah wondered, giggling to herself.

Maybe tonight will be the night.

Sarah’s mind drifted back to the man on the sofa who was kissing her so passionately. And what a kisser he was! If this is wrong to do, let it be.

“No jury would ever convict me, ” she thought. “I would tell them about his lips, the way his hands tenderly feel my body. Oh, he’s good. Real good. Not guilty. By reason of insatiable.”

Sarah’s impure thoughts were just getting good when they were rudely interrupted by the alarm blasting from her iPhone.

“Oh no, I have to go,” screamed Sarah, gathering up her clothes and running out the library door.

“But wait…” said a deep male voice. “Don’t go. I don’t even know…”

But Sarah was already halfway down the stairs. She was feeling dizzy. The champagne. The man. The emotions. She had to stay focused. She had to leave the Consulate before the stroke of midnight, when her Guy Larouche sapphire-blue gown would dissolve back into a pair of Levis.

It’s what the fairy godmother told her.

Back in the library, His High Royal Highness Prince Robert of Cornwall flicked the light to the library, revealing a shirtless man with the toned chest of a sportsman. Rushing to the window, he hoped to still catch a glimpse of the woman he has just met, but he only saw her for a second, until she disappeared into the New York dark.

“Please come, back.” he whispered to the night air. “I don’t even know your name.”

In all his years, Prince Robert had met many women — specimens of the gender who were thought to be his “equal” — beauties with exquisite taste, proper upbringing, well-travelled, pencil-thin daughters of billionaires who knew how to place a baccarat bet in Monte Carlo or what wine to order at Alain Ducasse in Paris. But never has he met a woman like the women he just kissed. What passion. He could still taste her on his lips and feel her skin next to hers. Had she even known that he was the Prince? Did it matter? The more he thought about her, the more he could feel the Mountbatten of his loins saluting at full attention. Hail Brittania!

He must find her. But how? If only he had some sort of clue, some information that can lead him to the woman… the one who he must make the Princess!

And then he saw it. The clue. Hanging on the edge of the sofa, was… her bra. He remembered how he gently unclasped the back of the bra and it fell down, away from her, like falling leaves during Autumn in Hyde Park.

Prince Robert walked over to the hanging bra, savoring the feel of the material, remembering how her breasts responded to his caresses. It was a purple bra. He read the label. It was from a company that he had never heard of mentioned in his social circles, where bras are usually tailor-made in France.

“Playtex Cross Your Heart,” he read out loud to himself. He took it as a sign from God. “I DO cross my heart that I will find you.”

Prince Robert dressed and went downstairs. He saw his father, the King of England, deeply in conversation with his friend, the new President of the United States, President Obama.

The King waved Prince Robert over.

“President Obama, this is my son, Prince Robert.”

But Prince Robert was not in any mood for pleasantries or chit-chats. He had something more important on his mind.

“President Obama, I know we have just met. But I have something very important to ask you that will play a significant role in Anglo-American relations. I need your help.”

Then, in one strong, swift, upward gesture, Prince Robert lifted up the purple bra for all to see.

“We need to find the American woman who fits perfectly into this bra!”

Within hours, there was a frenzy in the media, both on TV and in the blogosphere. Twitters were being sent all across the world, spreading the news. New York was in an uproar. The New York Post was the first to announce an open call with their headline:

“Prince Robert to New York: BRA-VA!”

“An open call will be held tomorrow afternoon at Madison Square Garden. Women will be expected to try on a specifically-sized bra. Only one woman will fit perfectly in the bra.”

By morning, there was chaos. Women of all shapes and sizes lined up outside Macy’s on 34th Street and little by little, the line grew. And grew. The line snaked it’s way uptown, past Central Park, past the Upper West Side, past Harlem, and into the Bronx. Many of the women, knowing that they were going to try on a bra once they reached the Garden, made a point of just wearing a bra in the street — hopefully catching the attention of the Prince before they even got to the Garden. Some women dispensed with bras completely, going topless, thinking the Prince would appreciate their resourcefulness. And besides, it was a beautiful day.

It was a sight never seen before in New York, and probably never again. Thousands and thousands of women of every religion and color, shape and size, standing in line, the fresh air hitting their exposed bras and breasts. For once, women found themselves free to talk about their breasts in public. Some talked about breast-feeding. Buxom women were supportive of women with A-cups, saying how athletic they looked. Flat-chested women spoke of their envy of full-breasted women. Big-breasted women complained about back pain. Women started taking donations for breast cancer research, and gave each other bra-buying advice. Some women wore special, elaborately-decorated bras for the occasion, and New York’s artistic community came out in force, with female artists constructing their own bras out of unique materials, such as felt and tin cans.

For men, it was a major holiday — a day every male New Yorker will remember in happiness for the rest of his life, much like VJ Day, or the Mets winning the World Series. Throughout the city, women were walking around, taking the buses, eating hot dogs — just wearing their bras. By afternoon, men began to even see it as normal and just enjoyed the view, without making such a big deal over what God gave women.

Of course, for many men, it was overwhelming. Ronald Boxner, age 78, had a massive heart attack and was rushed to Mount Sinai Hospital. As he was being rushed by ambulance, he knew his time on this Earth was up. He asked the emergency worker if he help him lift his head, so he could just watch the women with bras walking in the city.

“Of course,” said the EMT.

Ronald Boxner died a few moments later. His final word were, “This is the happiest day of my life.”

Of course, this outpouring of women into midtown Manhattan was not all for noble reasons. For many women, this was all about MONEY and POWER. They were there to snag a rich husband. These golddiggers would never truly love Prince Robert.

Sadly, New York City is filled with these golddiggers. Like Shirley and Jackie.

Shirley and Jackie have always been on the prowl for men. They also have no respect for the male gender, thinking them as horny dumb creatures, who are only after sex. Shirley and Jackie use whatever it takes to nab a wealthy man. Both are owners of the latest in breast enhancements, created by — and they would be proud to tell you this — the older brother of the doctor who worked on Pamela Anderson’s boobs in Los Angeles. This is not the first time that they have had surgery on their breasts, or their lips, or the thighs.

“There’s no way I’m gonna be stuck with a loser guy from Brooklyn.” is Shirley’s motto. “If wealthy guys like big tits, that’s what I’m gonna give them.”

It was a typical evening at home, when Shirley and Jackie heard the news about the Prince. They were in the middle of their daily “Wheel of Fortune” showing, when Eyewitness News broke in with the news the purple bra and the big event at Madison Square Garden sponsored by the Royal Family.

The newscaster showed a photo of the bra.

“From all accounts, the “Royal” bra is a 34B.”

“Hell, I CAN fit my DDs in that, if I really squeeze them tight.” announced Jackie.

“Not if I get on line first,” said Shirley.

Jackie and Shirley adjusted their huge breasts and rushed to the door, each hoping to get on line first, passing their youngest sister, Sarah, on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor with Ajax.

“You stay here and keep cleaning, pancake chest.” said Jackie to Sarah. “We have important business to attend to.”

As Jackie and Shirley slammed the door behind them, a tear fell from Sarah’s eye onto the already perfectly clean kitchen floor.

Sarah IS the owner of the purple bra.

(to be continued or not, depending on my mood)

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