I can’t speak for every man who lies, but I have to confess this for myself: when I say I’m “people-watching?” Not completely true. I’m boob-watching. (It’s a dark, ancient art that, for the entire ’90s, was euphemistically referred to as “Baywatching.”)
Pointy nipples, free range jiggles, the occasional implant–all were the landscape I boob-ranched, whiling away the half-hours you spent in Charlotte Russe. I didn’t even notice their hats or facial hair.
In my defense, though, I once spotted a woman’s very early stage breast cancer from across the mall. She died, though, because she ran for security when I ASL’d to her, “Nice tumors!”
I guess the moral here is that public schools should teach signing.