I burned my boobs shooting a .45 caliber Glock pistol the other day. Not your typical shooting injury I know, but excruciatingly painful none-the-less. After firing several rounds and hitting my bad guy target square in the forehead, a brass casing ejected and headed straight for the cleavage. Gun safety is always my first and foremost priority in any given situation. So even as I danced around holding the pistol in one hand and desperately trying to wrap my fingers around the hot shell casing searing into my flesh, I kept my finger off the trigger and the firearm pointed downrange. My husband stood by watching, unwilling to approach the crazy screaming woman with one hand shoved down her shirt and the other holding a loaded Glock. Later when he realized what had happened, he applauded me for my superb gun safety skills and for “keeping cool in a heated situation.” That was after he stopped laughing of course.
One thing I can say about this whole experience is that while my husband has never been a one to find tattoos attractive, the shape of a .45 caliber shell casing between my breasts doesn’t seem to bother him so much.
Wife, mother, writer, procrastinator. Find more from Susan at Creative Procrastination.