Classes started at the University this week. Since I live in a student ghetto, it's hard to miss this event. All the apartments that have been empty, forlorn, over the summer, are suddenly full. Where once there was a forrest of 'For Rent' signs, now there are new curtains, fresh paint, laundry hung in windowsills to dry.

I know, objectively, that roughly half of the students on campus; half of those taking up previously vacant apartments, are male. I don't ever seem to see them, though.

There are some drop-dead gorgous women this year. Let's face it, there are some drop-dead gorgous women every year, and every year, I feel as if I'm making this discovory for the first time.

Today, I went over to campus to visit the library. I mean, what's the use of living right next to the largest library in town, if I don't use it, right?

As I was going through the stacks of Romance Literature (I'm still trying to find Martyr to the Queen, second of the Years Between trilogy... someone's had it checked out for months!), I became aware that there was someone behind me.

I turned to look, and to let her past. I have no idea what her face looked like... she was wearing a crop-top, little more than a bikini top, into which she had squeezed rather larger than average breasts. As I turned, I had an incredible view right down her neckline.

The thing that went through my mind first was, "Wow... freckles!" She had a liberal dusting of freckles across her breasts; something I've never seen before.

I think that freckles are underrated. I have a thing for redheads, which of course, generally means a fair number of freckles. I've been intimate with women who had freckles on their noses; on their butts... but never on their breasts.

We didn't speak to each other, freckle-boobs and I. I was looking for French pulp; she was looking for... well, I have no idea what she was looking for, actually, but it pretty clearly
wasn't me.

Nobody's actually looking for me.