It's The Pits - Or, How Armpit Hair And The World Cup Got Me Drunk

Earlier this spring, just prior to the World Cup firing up, I spent some unexpected quality time conversing with a nineteen year-old girl who stood not four feet away from me amid a small crowd of other kids her age. Not much was going on. Games and random stupidity surrounded us (it was a church college-and-career group of all the crazy things), but we kept talking happily, safe inside our little bubble of mutual interest.

She is a girl I've known for quite a long time. She's smart, funny, athletic, and beautiful. Mexican-American. Angelic.

Her eyes are round. They are liquid. Large and black. She smiles slowly, shyly, and deeply. She glows.

Today she was wearing a yellow tank top, thin denim tap pants, and Pumas.

I know. I know.

I see her a lot. Talk with her a lot. But until today, she was just a girl I happened to know. A girl in my neighborhood.

About halfway through our conversation - about the glorious impending World Cup, no less - she leaned back, shifting her feet a little, putting her weight mostly onto one leg, and she raised her arms and rested both hands atop her head. She interlaced her fingers and continued to talk to me, completely absorbed in World Cup speculations, with her elbows out, her armpits completely exposed.

And they were so wonderfully hairy.

It was a miracle, no doubt about it: I managed to stretch out that convo for another five minutes; somehow, she didn't have any problem with me staring at her black-wispy pits the whole time.

Once I realized that particular fact, I had to leave.


And, after eight beers, I finally did something (to myself, that is) about it.

imunderher imunderher
36-40, M
Aug 13, 2010