**"I don't think you're ready for this jelly." -- Destiny's Child
It happened on my way home, in this cab ride that usually takes about 25 minutes on average because it's about 3:30 in the afternoon then, and we're approaching rush hour.
It happened on this FX. It's this third world cab that can fit about eleven people including the driver. It's designed in a way wherein three people will fit like a glove on the front row, four people in the middle row, and then another four people in two parallel rows at the back, two people in a row. It's the awful dread of morbidly obese people who want to travel in comfort but can't afford a real cab. Because they either pay double or remain indifferent to the person next to them who are cursing them in silence because they're far too uncomfortable and maybe getting some attitude and cramps.
I was on the back row, and seated directly in front of me was this cadaverous little thing in her mid-twenties, perhaps 26 in zombie years, and she was hunched over this mess of baby clothes that were hanging from what was likely to be her poor malnourished kid. It was a girl. And the little thing was feeble and uncomfortable and altogether wasting; it looked to me like it's dying.
Allow me to exaggerate; I don't like poor and ugly kids.
I never expected this little shit to have any life force on it, let alone energy, so you'd imagine my surprise when sounds started to issue from it. Crying sounds. What started as soft sobs endorsed by its uncomfortable cradle magnified into whimpers that sounded like the terrible hunger pangs of a Siamese cat. Those things are dreadful when they're at their noisiest; they make this simultaneously sharp and guttural wailing that can only be Sarah Geronimo power-belting a Celine Dion hit while being kicked in the cunt. That's what it sounded like. And it was awful. Oh motherfucker, it was.
On cue, it's mother lifted her shirt from the right and she popped out a boob.
She gently took the little one's head with her left hand and guided it's crying lips towards her nourishing tits (haha, "nourishing tits"). She was pacifying her little goblin with those affectionate shushing sounds to drown out it's fading complaints. It's whimpers soften as it helped itself to its mother's meager provisions. Seriously, it had the makings of a pretty picture if only our subjects weren't poor and ugly in the first place.
I had the nasty opportunity to steal a glance at the mother's dried out and withering nipples, and my heart suddenly softened towards this poor infant; she's too young for powdered milk.
Tits do nothing for me; I have this protective layer about me, a Level 100 invisible force field that's made of sequins and glitters and has Sauron's blessings, and it throws magic missiles and projectile vomit at anything that would otherwise arouse members of the heterosexual persuasion. So you'd understand how indignant and confused I got when I found out, to my awful dread, that my mouth started watering when I heard those sounds, "Tch...tch...tch...tch...' as that baby started sucking the milk out of it's mothers tits.
(To be continued. Oh you god damned better believe it. And click here for Breastfeeding in Cabs Part One.)