A Californian dentist argues that massaging a woman’s breasts can cure her of toothache. I suppose it might take her mind off it, but it didn’t stop the 27 women he artlessly groped from reporting him to the authorities. He hopes that the court will not revoke his licence if he promises to stop feeling up his female patients and examine them only in the presence of two chaperones. I am not one to prejudge these complex legal cases, but I get the feeling that his proposed plea bargain may be too little, too late.
My advice to the fellow would be to quit while he’s ahead. Having fondled 27 bosoms without retribution, it’s time to cash in his pension and move to Florida. His days of bamboozling women about the therapeutic benefits of the boob rub are behind him. After relocating in the Sunshine State, perhaps he could find work milking cows or squeezing oranges. A humble occupation like that is just what he needs to calm his restless spirit and maintain a low profile in the local newspapers. It might also be a good idea to send a $500 cheque to each of the women he groped. Penance is good for the soul, particularly if it encourages your victims to maintain a discreet silence.
There’s really no way back for the distinguished man who’s been exposed as a tit fiend. Have any of you been following Paul McCartney’s divorce? I sensed things would turn nasty when Ms Mills alleged that her husband forbade her from suckling her baby on the grounds that he had exclusive rights to her udders. Of course, one shouldn’t automatically accept the word of a woman willing to air dirty linen in the hope of getting 50 million rather than 30 million. But the image of Sir Paul mooching possessively over Heather’s boobs is difficult to banish from the mind. “What kind of man would refuse to share his wife’s nipples with his baby daughter?” is the question one cannot avoid asking. “One about to have his own assets well and truly milked” would be a possible answer.
Now there are a few professions where it is possible to touch a woman’s breasts in the line of duty. Dr Whipsnade has a friend who is a Harley Street consultant specialising in sexual maladies. A newly-wed woman once came to him complaining that she found sex with her husband to be painful and joyless. After summoning his dildo-equipped nurse, the doctor began caressing the patient’s breasts. The nurse attended to the woman’s lower half and presently slipped in the device without difficulty.
“Does that feel good?” asked the doctor in a matter-of-fact voice.
The blushing bride admitted that it did, whereupon the doctor told her that she was perfectly normal and should ask her husband to do as they had done, rather than ramming her like a frustrated satyr.
I had the same kind of disinterested concern for my female fans back in my circus days. I never knowingly touched their breasts, but I kissed quite a few hands and signed countless autograph books. He who inspires that kind of adulation needs a strong moral fibre to keep things in check. With the festive season approaching, I should imagine that many male bosses are contemplating frisky forays with female staff at the office party. My advice to them would be to think of the embarrassment that one drunken lunge can produce well into the New Year and beyond. In the evergreen words of Sheriff Buford T Justice, “You can think about it, but just don’t do it.”
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