Cleavage and Public Service

I went out with Mr. Disney* again last night. His only request was that the place we went served Sierra Nevada. My only request was that the place we went wasn't his hotel bar. We each got our wish.

Dinner was nice. He has a very dry wit and a great deal of self-confidence (read: he's a self-admitted asshole). We had a conversation that was entertaining at the time but which leaves me struggling today to remember any details an outsider would find remotely interesting.

Hmmmm... scratch that. There were the five or so minutes devoted to discussing my regular display of cleavage as a public service. It went something like this (the abbreviated version):

Disney: (After a few moments of silence) Mmmmm.... boobs (Happy sigh)
Belle: (Laughs)
Disney: What? I'm not looking at your boobs.
Belle: I noticed. I thought that was funny.
Disney: What, you would've thought it a great compliment if I stared at your boobs all night?
Belle: No, but I'm just surprised you haven't been looking more. I mean, I put this shirt on for a reason. The waiter has checked me out more than you, and I think he's gay.
Disney: You put that shirt on for me? Because you knew I liked boobs?
Belle: Well, you and every other straight guy on the planet like boobs, and I put this shirt on because I'm doing a public service here.
Disney: Wait, what?
Belle: Okay... it's like this... I could hate my boobs like all my big-breasted friends who spend all their time trying, unsuccessfully, to hide their boobs and disappointing themselves and everyone else in the process. Or, I can wear shirts that show a little (glances down), okay, a lot of cleavage and potentially give a few guys a little something to make their day better.
Disney: Interesting... but how is it a public service?
Belle: Well, let's suppose some guy is having a shitty day. His boss yelled at him, he had a flat tire, he was late leaving work, his wife's going to bitch at him... everything's going wrong. But just before he gets in his car, he glances over at my cleavage. Maybe it lightens his mood a little bit to think about my boobs. And maybe, just maybe, when some douche cuts him off in traffic, he doesn't run him into the ditch...
Disney: Because he saw your boobs! That's great! It is a public service! You totally save lives!
Belle: I know, right?

The actual conversation went on to include, among other things, the term "nipplage" (how does one even go about spelling that?) and how a peek of as much isn't part of my service agreement.

The rest of the date, much less interesting.



* A friend pointed out that I hadn't identified the source of Mr. Disney's moniker in my last post about him. The reason for the name is that he professes a deep, lasting love for Disney World. He's one of those annual passholders. He claims he goes about once a week, even if it's just to grab a beer. He seriously seems to believe it's the "Happiest Place on Earth," which is a misguided belief on his part for two reasons: 1. A cursory search of the internets revealed that the phrase actually refers to DisneyLand, Not Disney World. 2. He claims that beer options are pretty much limited to Bud and Miller in the parks. WTF? How could you possibly think the happiest place on earth exclusively serves these sorry excuses for beer? (Before I even hear any crap about it, I know I have been seen consuming Miller Light, and I will choose it over Bud if those are my options, but it's certainly not my preference, and it doesn't fit into any scenario I can imagine that has the word "happiest" in it.)