Broken Glasses – An Erotic Story

Bobby grabbed the last bottle of bourbon and meandered back to the couch. But he stopped at an odd China cabinet. The old-fashioned piece of furniture was suited for a grandmother’s house, not a young guy’s place.

Even stranger, though, were the contents. There were no fragile plates, gravy bowls or prissy tea cups on saucers. Instead, inside were only a few Army-issued items. Ronnie’s colored pins and medals, patches, an Army beret, a triangle-folded American flag.

Then he noticed a pair of brown, thick-rimmed eyeglasses.

Bobby set down the bottle on the dining room table.

The loose glass in the cabinet doors rattled when he opened them. He picked up the eyeglasses but only half lifted.

“Ronnie, these glasses are broken. Why are you keeping them?”

He brought the lens close to his right eye. He pulled it away, immediately, blinking. “You are blind, man.”

Ronnie walked to the cabinet. “Those are special to me.” 

“Were they broken in some attack or a frontline fight—your personal Battle of the Bulge?”

“No, no. I was a tank mechanic. I didn’t leave base much.” Ronnie picked up the other half of the glasses. “It’s just memorabilia. Something that sticks with you all the days of your life. You know what I mean, right?”

“I still have my high school letter for varsity football and the hat I wore at high school graduation.” Bobby shrugged.

Ronnie took the half of the frames that Bobby held. “Kind of the same, sort of. This is greater than both football and a degree.”

Ronnie fit the parts together at the bridge where they were broken. He stared at the thick frame.

“Your eyes have glazed over, man. I know what this means. You’re obviously reliving it. So, come on, out with it. Tell me the story.” Bobby put his hands forward, as if expecting a thief to hand over stolen merchandise. 

Ronnie set the glasses gently by the American flag.

“I had some time off base. And there’s nothing to do but get in trouble on R&R, see. Especially in Iraq, the desert—hot, boiling hot. No rest for the weary.”

Ronnie closed the cabinet door, making the thin panes of glass shake. He twisted the lock, holding it momentarily, as if recalling the past.

“The guys found this club in a city nearby. A place like this was not, in no way, supposed to be in the desert. I guess the club knew a big base of johns was the perfect place for a flashy business.”

“Smart, very smart. Men with nothing to do and money to spend.”

Ronnie chuckled.

“Anyway, the place was banging, dude. Dancers and swirling lights, alcohol galore. Cheap prices—not that prices would have stopped me from spending and partying. And, Bobby, the women! Bobby, those women were crazy. I never had more girls grinding on me, rubbing me up and down. Saying things in my ears. I couldn’t understand much with their accents and the loud music, but, trust me, I got their point.”

Ronnie picked up two drink glasses from the kitchen.

“It was hard to find wild, party women in that part of the world.” Ronnie poured the glasses full.

“Wrong assumptions.” Bobby took a drink. 

“Complete mistake. I found them.”

The two guys relaxed with their feet propped up on Ronnie’s dining room table.

“The place is pretty conservative on the front side. Women are covered, not showing anything. I was so glad when I got back to the good ole U.S. of A. To see California girls again. Tiny bikinis, showing off everything. Being stationed overseas is no easy feat, hear me?”

“Hot weather and no girls to stare at.” Bobby shook his head as if feeling the pain.

“Being all conservative in the streets, these women in the club were a sight for sore eyes. Mini-skirts, tight tops, nice legs.”

Ronnie sat up abruptly. His chair screeched on the floor.

“High heels, Bobby! I was drooling over plain high heels. Do you understand how deprived I was? I had to be a sexual camel.”

“So inhumane. You deserve a handicapped parking permit for that. It’s a new side of war.”

Ronnie picked up the bourbon bottle. “Refill?”

“Sure.”

Ronnie poured.

“Well, the girls were—according to my American standards—average. Decent bodies, young and flirty, skinny. Some, like any club across the globe, were not what I would have been wanting to look at. But it was war. We had to grade ladies on the curve, right.”

“I was grading on the curve back in high school.” Bobby hissed after swallowing the harsh bourbon.

“Then this group of ladies came over to me. One was huge.” Ronnie shook his head dreamily. “I mean, I have always loved titties. You know that. I could stare at them all day long. They mesmerize, turn my mind off. Well, this lady was, like, ‘boing’!”

He cupped his hands around his eyes.

“Compared to Evelyn Webber from high school?” A grin smeared across Bobby’s face, awaiting an answer.

“This lady’s boobs were like twice the size of ‘Watermelon’ Evelyn.”

“No way, not serious!” Bobby’s grin curled into mistrust.

“I am serious.” Ronnie pointed to the China cabinet. “Do you see those glasses over there? Proof.”

“Your broken glasses are proof?” Bobby squinted at his friend across the table.

“Let me tell the story, would ya?”

Bobby poured each a glass of bourbon. “Go ahead. Finish.”

“Okay, this one lady was huge, putting Watermelon’s to shame. I mean sandbags for tits.” His hands emphasized their size and girth.

“Outsizing Watermelon’s. Amazing.”

“Just massive things that bounced and shook when she danced.” He shimmied his shoulders wildly. “And the cleavage just gettin’ deeper and wider. I don’t think I had smiled that much before. Her tits shut my mind off faster than hittin’ Snoop-Dogg-quality weed. You get me?”

“So these knockers actually were a ‘contact’ high.”

“That is more true than you think.” Ronnie laughed as he dragged over the bottle. “Another drink?”

“Sure,” Bobby said, “but get on with your story. Hooters and broken glasses, this is an interesting tale.”

Ronnie slid the bottle to the center of the table. “A tale. Ha! Listen, man, I’m not talkin’ Paul Bunyan and Babe the ol’ Blue Ox. Not even Bigfoot. This is real.”

Bobby finished his bourbon. The ice clinked around in the empty glass. “Well, get on with it.”

“The woman was too big for a mini-top, so she was wearing a long dress, a flowy kind of thing—what are they called moomoo gowns? So the harder I’m drinkin’ the wilder I’m dancin’. Like humpin’ her leg, sliding up and down like a pole. And her hands are movin’ all over me too. It wasn’t all one-sided. She had no shame.”

“Best kind of women, no shame.” Bobby upped the empty glass.

“Suddenly, her hands grab the top of my head and shove me to my knees. I’m thinkin’ what the hell. What’d I do? Did I do something object-able, overject-ion—”

“Objectionable,” Bobby corrected, then urged on the story, “Yeah, okay, okay.”

“Sorry, bourbon and this lady make my tongue not work. Well, I assumed I made her mad. But nope! She flings this dress-thing she’s wearing over my head. I’m, like, in a tent now.”

“A tent in the desert, eh.” Bobby circled the base of his empty glass around the condensation on the table. The ice clanked.

“I look up and see her boobs right there. And guess what? No bra! These gigantic tits hangin’ there, the fruit of heaven!”

“No bra! The fuck!”

“I don’t know if it was there and she took it off or if she didn’t wear one. But I was too drunk and turned on to care.”

Bobby and Ronnie laughed.

“Her tits are just beggin’ to be goin’ in my mouth. Nipples, round, like flying saucers, and obvious even in this dark tent I’m in!”

“Big?”

“Do I have to even answer? These were like porn-star big. But they were real.”

Ronnie walked to the refrigerator. “A beer?”

“Of course.”

Ronnie slid a can across the table. It left behind a trail of condensation.

“Then the lady started to dangle them just out of my mouth’s reach. I was like one of those lizards that, you know, stretch out their tongue really far to get their food. Except I couldn’t get what I wanted.”

The pair nearly fell over laughing at the comparison.

“You, a fucking lizard! So funny!” Bobby wiped tears from his eyes.

After regaining their senses, Ronnie continued. 

“She’s startin’ to be playful. She’s swingin’ them back and forth under the gown.” He swayed languidly in his chair. 

“First they were in motion together, but they got out of rhythm. They hit each other. Clangin’ is the sound I heard but it was prob-ly smackin’.”

“That where they got the name ‘knockers’ from?” Bobby interjected with a deep laugh.

Ronnie wasn’t listening. 

“These were glorious tits. I still hear church bells, high in a steeple, bonging and echoing all over a city.”

“A religious awakening,” Bobby said.

“I saw heaven, man, heaven. I now know the afterlife exists now. That was until she pulled the dress off of me. I didn’t realize how stifling hot I was in there. Outside of it, I was in air-conditioning. I could breathe.”

He took a long drink of his beer. He turned in his chair toward the eyeglasses in the China cabinet.

Bobby downed his Bud. “This really affected you. I mean, your mind is practically overseas right now.”

“She dragged me off the dance floor to like some karaoke room. But we didn’t sing. Ha-ha. No way. She got naked and got me naked too. Laying there, I was pinned. She spread both tits. What was she doing? My mind was so warped that I didn’t know. I tried to figure it out. But didn’t have time. The next thing I knew though was my head had been smacked between two hot, sweaty bags. She did it again! Fuck! Pulled her tits wide apart and let go. They hit both sides of my head at once. Crushin’ me. Like deafening my ears. I sat there smiling. Like beautiful torture.”

“A POW—prisoner of women.”

“My head was pounded and pounded. Nothin’ like it!”

“Is that when—”

“Yep, broke my glasses. The sandbags crashed into my cheeks, and I heard the crack.”

Laughing, Bobby’s forehead banged the tabletop, a deadened thud. He remained there, not moving, but still laughing toward the floor. He laughed and laughed until he toppled over. Splayed out, he cracked up. He rolled from side to side.

“I got those tits though, Bobby. I sucked the hell out of them fuckers. Sucked till they were elated.”

“You mean deflated,” Bobby corrected from the floor.

“Whatever they were. She was crying out in some language. Hugging my head. All I know is that women moan the same in all cultures.”

“Women, yes, they all love their titties sucked,” Bobby said.

“Not sure how it ended for sure. I thought people barged in and took her. Maybe friends. Never sure. How ever it happened, when I had enough sense to think, I was still in that karaoke room. My broken glasses were in my front shirt pocket, split in two.”

“I understand why they’re important. They are an air balloon,” Bobby said.

“Hair loom, Bobby, they’re a hair loom.”

“That’s what I meant to say.”

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