I am a hypocrite.

A charlatan.

A fraud.

I have made a mockery of everything I said recently, about not getting caught staring at someone’s cleavage.

I got caught.

It was all going so well; we had been working together for a few days and getting quite friendly. Not overtly flirtatious, but there was still a hint of sex in the air; a suggestion, that if not explored now, there may still be a possibility of it in the near future.

Or, in other words, I hoped a shag might be on the cards shortly.

But when he walked in one morning last week, wearing a t-shirt that hung low, I could not stop myself looking at his cleavage.

Now I am not talking about man-breasts, since extra flesh in the male mammary department is not something that appeals to me. Rather I am talking about man-cleavage: the hair on a man’s chest that shows above his clothes.

Just as seductive as the pressing together of two female bosoms (a delightful sight, by all accounts), the sight of a man’s chest hair poking above a t-shirt, or being revealed via a shirt with the top-button undone, is like a drug to me: my eye is drawn to it, and my pants get wet. It is so unbelievably sexy to me, and when faced with it, I just want to run my hands through it and kiss the fuzzy mass.

This man had gorgeous cleavage: his chest hair rose right up out of his t-shirt, and tickled the underside of his neck, whilst pushing against the collar like a soft furry lining.

It was driving me crazy; all I could do was wonder what he would look like with no clothes on, the glimpses of his chest hair a delightful pointer to what lay beneath. And every time he leaned forwards, his t-shirt dipped downwards, and I got a view of his chest, full of glorious hair. It was mesmerising. And I couldn’t help but stare.

At some point, he bent over towards me, and I found myself with a clear view of his nipples; it filled me with an incredible urge to reach out and touch them, and caress them through the fur that covered them. Just seeing this – previously hidden – gorgeousness made me want him; didn’t he realise what he was doing to me?

Clearly he did, because as I looked up, he was staring at me: he had caught me ogling his cleavage.

Nothing would change the fact that he knew I had been staring at his chest; not even a quick eye movement elsewhere. He knew, and I knew that he knew.

I felt myself going red, and all I could do was grin at him stupidly. To my relief, he grinned back. Somehow, we then ended up having a serious discussion about getting older and wanting meaningful relationships and thankfully the moment seemed to pass with no further embarrassment.

And later on, I caught him glancing at my boobs, which ironically, was actually some relief to me, since I had been a bit out of order staring so intently at him and felt like I deserved some kind of retribution.

Especially since I’m sure he caught me drooling.