J U S T M E M I K E   MAI PEHNRAI     In my last column, I wrote of an adventure with a big-busted, Cantonese-speaking lady. Sadly, the dreamy Mai Ling was just a dream. That dream, notwithstanding, leads me to remind you that the Merc Bar is, in fact, a real place frequented by real people, some of which have really large breasts. For now, I must put those thoughts aside. We will return to the Merc Bar, in another column, but in this edition I will tell you how a special memory was created on the way to work. I awakened Friday morning and soon enough began my travels to my office. New York has been so sultry lately, the hottest July on record. You would say that it has been a killer of a month if you were to take a look at the statistics for heat related deaths. But this is BEhavior, and we write here about the mobile and the nubile, not the currently inert or formerly active. I have found that one of the best places to see the most fabulous endowments is the New York Waterway Commuter Ferry Service whose Manhattan Terminal is at West 38th Street and 12th Avenue. There, three separate commuter ferries disgorge hundreds of passengers apparently every 8 to ten minutes. The Hudson River is not all that wide, so a routine river crossing is about a seven- minute ride. Given that Manhattan's average temperature for the month of July has hovered around 81 degrees, and given that the total rainfall for the entire month has been just less than one half an inch; you would be quite safe to say that no one is carrying, much less wearing, a coat these days. So as every new boat arrives at this ferry terminal, an abundance of breasts come into view. This particular Friday morning, I parked myself down on a bench with nearly a straight-on line of sight facing the slip where the Port Imperial Ferry, coming in from Weehawken, would arrive. To the left of this slip, the Ferry coming in from Lincoln Harbor would dock. My arrival had been a good half-hour earlier than usual. The weather report had called for another scorching day -- and yes, it was Friday -- a good many firms allowed their staffs to dress down during the summer, so the amount of clearly visible eye-candy would be considerable. An early seat would enable me to see a whole series of arrivals. The most attractive woman to capture my attention this morning was wearing faded tight jeans and a white tank top. She was a five-foot-four dirty blonde, a definite DD Cup who reminded me of a Casey James type, except not nearly so dramatically huge. I had seen her many times before; she was a regular commuter on the Weehawken Ferry. And it was a regular occurrence for me to hold my hands out in front of me, palms up in that classic male stance, when describing this big breasted woman to another man after seeing her. Today was no different in that, as she walked up the gangway, a group of men surrounded her. Those behind her sort of jockeyed around to maintain their positions and their sight-lines. Those alongside kept their strides no longer than hers, and a few guys in front found excuses to stop, or turn and look back. From my perspective, it was kind of comical, as the group seemed set into lockstep. Like a crew whose oars all hit the water at the same time, these guys all walked at the exact same pace, swung their arms in the exact same manner, and had their heads locked at the same angles. But I was destiny's darling today. As the distance shortened between us, more and more detail came into view. A side-to-side swaying of her breasts became more and more evident, and her nipples were clearly, prominently erect beneath the white tank top. She walked with a purposeful stride, her strength, pride, and bravado all visible. Her head was high and her shoulders back. This was a woman who knew she was being watched, and she reveled in the sensation. I was getting into it. I was feeling the blood flow into a part of me that, under normal commuting conditions, usually remained "uninvolved". But, who am I kidding? "He" is always involved. Why do you shop at a particular department store, or walk through a certain section of the park, or even go to a particular bar? Do you have a clue? Did you think it was simply a spontaneous decision? I think it's the breast imprints that you have locked away in your memory banks. Your little head is constantly directing the neurons to fire in the precise sequences needed to project those images to a place in your mind... so you can think of nothing else. Without even trying to think about it, your little head is the navigator, and he decides where you need to be or go. Sometimes he is over-ruled, but he has his revenge by making you think about ta-tas, oh, at least once every few minutes. So here she comes. I am mesmerized. There is a slight change in her angle. Wait -- she isn't going to go by me to the right of my bench and continue toward the buses. No she is coming right toward me, and slowing down. She stops -- in front of me -- she leans over. The tank top allows for an enormous amount of cleavage to be visible. She bends over further, and more of her breastworks are there for me to see. But this is real life, not a dream. The show is over in less than half a minute. This event could best be described as... the tying of a shoelace. And in a blur, she is gone. I'll never forget that moment, or that cleavage. But let's not tarry while sitting here on the dockside. I have my own ferry to catch. As my boat crossed the Hudson, I replayed that scene of the busty lady tying her shoelace directly in front of me. Was it intentional? Was she deliberately showing me her tasty cleavage merely to tempt and tease a man whose eyes betrayed the secret of his desire? I can't say for sure. So instead I will say forget about it, or Mai pehn rai...