Pardon me, I couldn't help noticing your tits

Summer in New York City brings out the best and the worst in women's fashion. On the plus side, it does seem to be a time for females to showcase their chest cleavage, with usually desirable results. I am for this practice, being that I am 1) a male, and 2) the sensitive type that believes ladies deserve a little cooling off in that area which is hampered by excess fat and apparently some kind of hypnotic machine which makes men do their bidding. I'm a fan of the "snapshot" method of checking out females, that is, to glance quickly at a woman and then hold within the recesses of my sitcom television-choked mind an image of her, with which I can do as I please without any complaints from her or officials that take our arcane statuatory rape laws too seriously. Peripheral vision can help fill in any details to make the image more three-dimensional. This is a practice I have perfected over my lifetime, and I believe it has served me and my parole stipulations well.
I'll be honest: when a woman catches me staring at her chest and makes a scowl, I get embarassed. I'm not trying to violate ladies with my eyes. I'm just trying to file these fine honies into my mental rolodex which includes Vida Guerra and Daphne from Scooby Doo. So I take particular umbrage at ladies who walk around with Band-Aids over their nipples or tank tops with slogans and logos emblazoned across the chest, and yet still get all in a huff over a little innocent staring. It doesn't just happen to me; I see men all around New York City getting caught out there trying to read some paragraph-long admission to slutdom below a woman's neckline. Don't cross your arms and glower at me, young lady. At least not until I've finished reading the ribbed tank top snugly hugging your rack that says, "take a picture, it will last longer." And then if I do take a picture, now I'm the one in police custody for harassment charges. Yeah. That's justice all right.
Here's the thing: if you're going to walk around in a scrap of material that says "it's only cheating if you remember it," I'm just going to naturally assume you want me to look at your tits. There are plenty of regular-sized t-shirts and such with nothing written or printed on them that can be worn if you want to keep your mammaries more innocuous. This is not to say that I won't take my mental snapshot, but if you catch me gawking and you're wearing a plain ol' Russell Athletics t-shirt, well then you've got me dead-to-rights. But if your neckline is hovering a millimeter above your areola and the shirt reads "the hills of Virginia," and I find out your name is actually Virginia, well then I think that I should be able to gaze as long as I like. And I think that our elected officials would probably agree with me. The dudes will, anyway.