Snips, Snails, and Mammary Tales
When four or more men are gathered on a hot July night, any given conversation can quickly turn to the virtues of the feminine form. The other night's BBQ was no exception. An apparent breast augmentation at the local YMCA sparked a lively discussion, and everyone was compelled to offer up an opinion on what constitutes "the perfect breast", and what we'd think of someone who gets a boob job (with our spouses goading us on, I might add).
Much to the pleasure of the spouses, the consensus opinion was that breast augmentation is usually the outward manifestation of a truly insecure and troubled personality. As far as men are concerned (at least the ones I know), an attractive woman with small breasts is an attractive woman. The a priori assumption of breast augmentation is the classic American "bigger is better" starting point.
Although I have no personal reason to reject the "bigger is better" hypothesis, for the sake of breasts everywhere I took offense, and took it upon myself to deconstruct the dehumanizing premise. To accept it would be to constrain my contemplation of breasts in mental whalebones more restrictive than the most chafing of Victorian corsets.
When my interlocutor inquired whether I preferred a B or a D cup, I inquired whether the B cup had an element of perkiness, whether the D cup required an underwire, and whether either breast possessed a mole with a protruding hair. Are the breasts symmetrical? Are the nipples a pleasing color?
Breasts have as many manifestations as the pantheon of Hindu gods, and all are worthy of praise and adoration. The perfect breasts belong to the woman you're with, and it doesn't hurt of remind her of it.
Much to the pleasure of the spouses, the consensus opinion was that breast augmentation is usually the outward manifestation of a truly insecure and troubled personality. As far as men are concerned (at least the ones I know), an attractive woman with small breasts is an attractive woman. The a priori assumption of breast augmentation is the classic American "bigger is better" starting point.
Although I have no personal reason to reject the "bigger is better" hypothesis, for the sake of breasts everywhere I took offense, and took it upon myself to deconstruct the dehumanizing premise. To accept it would be to constrain my contemplation of breasts in mental whalebones more restrictive than the most chafing of Victorian corsets.
When my interlocutor inquired whether I preferred a B or a D cup, I inquired whether the B cup had an element of perkiness, whether the D cup required an underwire, and whether either breast possessed a mole with a protruding hair. Are the breasts symmetrical? Are the nipples a pleasing color?
Breasts have as many manifestations as the pantheon of Hindu gods, and all are worthy of praise and adoration. The perfect breasts belong to the woman you're with, and it doesn't hurt of remind her of it.
