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Arrow | Oct 03 2005

The breasts of the woman tonight… so yummy. And yet he hardly talked to her, despite her apparent interest, and left the party abruptly. It was because of her outfit, which seemed designed for no other purpose than to guide his eyes to her breasts. “You have a fondness for breasts, sir? Please follow me, I have a pair which may interest you.” It struck him as overkill, a lack of subtlety. Whatever she wore, he would have noticed her breasts, so why the flashing traffic arrow? He felt insulted by it, for it made him think she thought this was all he cared about. And here he was, proving her right. Which he resented because while he notices breasts, he notices other things as well, including things one cannot knead or suckle, such as wit and intelligence.

In TV sci-fi shows these days, there is always at least one character (not necessarily human) with large, shapely breasts. On some excuse or another, this character is obliged to wear a skin-tight outfit. Doubtless the actresses who play these roles realize they were chosen because of their breasts and that the characters they portray were created for the same reason, that both actress and character are, essentially, breast-delivery vehicles—the shows’ writers having begun with the obligatory need for a large-breasted character and worked backwards. What must it be like to think, I am here for my tits?

This was what disturbed him—that she seemed to think she was there for her tits, or that he was, and that this represented, for her, an opportunity. Such is the new feminism: objectification is good when you are the object of it, and know it, and use for your own ends. However, what ends can it possibly help you achieve? None of any worth, he thought, although he knew this was unfair to her. His sense, instead, was that she wanted love, the same as anyone, and was going about finding it as best she could, which to her mind (and who is to argue with her?) began with her breasts.

Later, walking to the subway, it struck him that men have probably gone for her breasts first, again and again, and that over time she has formed herself around this maneuver—the stray hand in her sweater—in order to not feel repulsed by it. That is, even if she enjoys it, which one would hope she does, she must grow weary of men wanting her for her breasts and not for her, whoever she may be beyond them.