Note: No sex in this story.
I live in a small college town in upstate NY. My dog is adorably cute, and super friendly. Whenever I take her for a walk through the kitchsy downtown area, we get stopped every ten feet or so by people who want to pet her. Which is great, and she (the dog) loves it. But it does make a ten minute walk turn into an hour long affair. It's a pain in the ass, but it has fringe benefits.
In the late spring/early fall, downtown is populated by thousands of lovely coeds, many of whom are experiencing freedom from mommy's and daddy's rules for the first time. Nobody is there to yell "go back upstairs and don't come down until you're dressed like a proper young lady!" when they come down w/o a bra, or in too-tight jeans, or a top that shows a lot of cleavage. Even without my cute-as-heck dog, a walk downtown has some very nice scenery.
But WITH my puppy? It's a whole 'nuther game. Honestly, I'm mostly just out there for the dog. But is it MY fault that every college girl in a five-mile radius misses her own puppy back home and just HAS to stop and say hello to mine? And is it MY fault that they aren't wearing bras and their loose tank tops slip forward when they bend over to pet her? And is it MY fault that when they sit back on their heels to hug her, their micro-mini's hike up and reveal the fact that they aren't wearing panties?
To a voyeur, a college town and a dog add up to pure heaven. I like to bring a book and claim a table outside of the Starbucks. My puppy is a people magnet. She'll hang out near the sidewalk and make cute "hmmph!" sounds whenever people walk by. Girls stop, say "awwwww!" or make high-pitched squeals, and then rush over to hug/pet/scritch the doggie. Thinking I'm busy reading, they don't even notice as I stare intently at their breasts, usually completely exposed when their loose shirts fall forward. If they do, I just raise an eyebrow, smirk, and make it seem as if I'm mildly amused at their "wardrobe malfunction." Nine times out of ten, they'll just let it go and keep petting my dog. And since my dog never gets tired of the attention, the girls often stay there, tits dangling right in front of my face, for minutes at a time.
Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights around 10:30-11:30 are the best. That's when the sloppy drunk girls stagger out of the first bars they struck out in and stumble their way to the places where they'll find some standards-compromised young buck to take home to their dorm rooms. No bending over required. By then, they're in such deshabille that often they'll have a boob hanging out without even knowing about it. They'll get sloppy and maudlin, grabbing my (only too willing, the little furry whore) puppy around the neck and sobbing hysterically about how much they miss little Fluffy back home. All the while practically falling out of their shirts.
My favorite, though, is when one of the region's frequent sudden rainshowers hits. The awning of one of the many little coffee shops is a perfect place to sit at a little wrought-iron table and watch the impromptu wet t-shirt contest hustle by. After four years of college, you'd think that at least some of those girls would learn that May and September are the "wet" months around here. But they don't. They go out on an afternoon, braless in their cotton halter tops or thin t-shirts adorned with feminist slogans. And then when the deluge arrives, they huddle under the awnings next to me and adore my little dog while I adore the puffy stiff nipples attempting to poke through their tops.
Yep, it's wonderful living in a college town. Lots of culture. Plenty of trendy bohemian shops. Great night life. And untold thousands of loosely-dressed coeds with no shame just walking around for your viewing pleasure. Forget nursing homes. When I'm 90, just prop me up at a table at one of the local coffee shops and give me a cute puppy for the hot girls to come over and pet.