The Magic of White Cleavage: Gold in Them Thar Hills?

I was at a golf function for work manning the prize room. Drunk guy attempts to erase some of the numbers on the dry erase prize board. Then he notices me. He’s a small, white guy. I’m not. “Oh, dude, sorry. I’m trying to impress these girls, they gave me their tickets…” I’m not overtly violent. But here’s how I felt about the golf outing in general and him in particular:

One of the “girls” he spoke of came by and, lo and behold, pale, lifted, separated, 30-something careerist cleavage, maximized by the act of bending slightly to adjust a heel strap. And I thought: ‘This little drunk advertising sales rep is willing to get his ass kicked for the love of a V.’ Presidents have risked their office. Priests have – well, not so much them. Athletes have ruined marriages and bank accounts because of the magical cleavage of white girls. And don’t get me started on the Black Man’s kryptonite! What makes white cleavage such a heady brew? Is it, for white male career types, the call of the mythical West so ingrained in American Caucasian consciousness where women represent acquisition and the taming of the land? And for all other brothers from a different mother, is it the tantalizing tease of taboo’s restrictions lifted, separated and possibilities calculated in the male mind with all the diligence of a physicist pondering alternate universe string theory? What happens if I show you this?

Odds are good you entertained a light-speed unconscious flash of fantastic sex whether you’re man, woman or half blind. It’s Pavlovian. In America white women are cocaine; everybody else is either weed or beer. Of course we know the racial history of this, but it’s 2012; we’ve been exposed to international cleavage for a good while and we like it. But we still go coo coo for Caucasian puffs. The cool, vanilla perfection of a slide down that glide. The warmth of breasts that long to see the sun. We want to free the cleavage from its nest as though cupping rare, delicate birds, and place the boobs on a tall pedestal where their light will shine for the ages. And when I say we I mean y’all. I’ll spelunk a boob whether it’s chocolate, tan, olive or albino. I’m just that kind of guy. The color of the cleave doesn’t bring baggage to my mental flights. No checking/scanning for things that go boom on my lust field. Yet for something so powerful, strangely enough the portrayals of this beautiful offering often show the head above as bubbly or empty. I’m sorry but bubbly and empty can’t possibly be sexy. Which means a lot of folks get off on power trips and not the sweet nibbly bits. Poor deluded bastards. Intelligent cleavage splits atoms and pinpoints the existence of god. And in that most folks stand up and take notice when intelligent white cleavage enters our lives, I’m going to stand here and proudly say intelligent cleavage creates the world. I’ll need to put a little more thought into this. White cleavage is the Calgon of cleavage; discuss. Unless you’re a drunk, white dude hoping to get laid. In which case, see first graphic above for handy reference point on not only my but cleavage bearing women’s everywhere position regarding you.