October 3, 2005


The breasts of the woman tonight… so yummy. And yet I hardly talked to her, despite her apparent interest. It was because of her outfit, which seemed designed for no other purpose than to guide my eyes to her breasts. “You have a fondness for breasts, sir? Please follow me, I have a pair that may interest you.” It struck me as overkill, a lack of subtlety. Whatever she wore, I would have noticed her breasts, so why the flashing traffic arrow? I felt insulted by it, for it made me think she thought this was all I cared about. And here I was, proving her right. Which I resented because while I notice breasts, I notice 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 with large, shapely breasts. On some excuse or another, or sometimes no excuse at all, 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 breast-delivery vehicles. What must it be like to think, I am here for my tits?

This was what disturbed me – that she seemed to think she was there for her tits, or that I was, and that this represented, for her, an opportunity. Such is the new feminism: objectification is good when you’re the object of it and can use it for your own ends.

Later, walking to the subway, it struck me 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.