ME, MY BREASTS, AND I
ME, MY BREASTS, AND I
In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth. And then, since he was on a roll, he created Hollywood, which was neither. He populated this place called Hollywood with especially good-looking men and especially good-looking women, and then, to make sure these especially good-looking people were not too happy, He invented agents and producers.
What He didn’t figure on was that the agents and producers would begin tampering with his other creations. The agents and especially the producers thought they knew how to improve on everything, including His handiwork. So they urged all these good-looking people to make their noses smaller and their lips bigger and to move their hair to places other than where God had designated. And they drove them to enlarge themselves in the chest area, particularly the woman. If you wanted to be a movie star, or even if you just wanted your boy friend to not compare you unfavorably to one, you had to enlarge your jugs, hooters, puppies, balloons, yabbos, knockers, mountains, or – to use the genteel word, currently used only by cosmetic surgeons – breasts. Whatever God gave you, it suddenly wasn’t enough.
I’ve been learning that as long as I’ve been in Hollywood because, as I’m almost ashamed to admit, mine are real – totally and completely natural. Oh, I’ve done a few exercises that were supposed to augment the bustline, and I pick out bras that promise to enhance one’s cleavage. But, at the risk of being a Show Biz outcast, I’ve made do with what He gave me, which is hard in a town that prefers and rewards Phony.
Actress friends ask me when I’m going to get them done (not “if” but “when”) and why I’ve been holding off. I’ve had many good reasons…
- Cost. The high-tech jobs can run $3000 per boob and even a cheap job can run half of that. That is not something you want to have done at the 99-Cent-Only Store. Then there’s the cost of a new wardrobe, new bras, new everything.
- Pain. Let’s face it: If you’re lucky and the plastic surgeon has done his end of the job carefully and there are no complications, you still have to wake up with that extra weight and lug it around all day. Not only that but there’s the feeling that, somewhere during the night, in the fog of anesthesia, you had invited King Kong to come ove and play paddy-cake with your bazongas.
- Looks. I’m thinking of starting a new game show. We all watch the Playboy Channel and then a prize goes to the first person who spots a pair of real tits. The only problem is that it can take days. (Men watch the Playboy Channel to see the nude ladies. Women watch the Playboy Channel to critique the boob jobs and wonder why, when the Playmate is lying on her back with everything pointing to the ceiling and her scars visible, men find that erotic.)
- Exercise. I run on the treadmill three times a week and, let’s face it – I don’t care what size balloons you have, they both need to be strapped down, especially during that middle-of-the-month girlie thing. So I guess my question is – if I’m strapping them down and wearing my titanium double-breasted, steel-belted, heavy-duty, jogging bra, and it still hurts – what do women who have size 36-double D’s do? Aside from perhaps have one of the male gym employees running for her.
- Dating. I don’t know if this applies to everyone, but when I go out with a man I want him to look me in the eyes and have a real conversation. You know something about the arts of politics. Hell, I’ll even settle for “Hey, how about those Dodgers?” Somehow all that changes when I wear that Wonderbra. Suddenly, I find the man in question loses all interest in my eyes. I give ‘em a quiz later – “What color are my eyes?” – and I have yet to find one male who can answer. They can, however, tell me precisely the color of whatever they were able to see of my brassiere.
- Obsolescence. Surgically-enhanced Casbahs were apparently invented by the same guy who invented the lifetime light bulb. They have to be replaced from time to time. Your standard cleavage warranty is for five years but I know women who have had theirs done four times in three years, usually moving up to larger models each time. I have enough trouble deciding when it’s time to trade in my car.
- Balance. How are some of those women able to stand up straight? And to even ponder that thought further, how do they do it in heels?
But the main reason is that I always felt my 34B should be enough. Back when I was growing up (and out) in the South, the boys all seemed to think I was big enough there. My T-shirts fitted tight, showing that I was indeed a female. Of course, this was the seventies and everyone’s T-shirt fitted tight, but this was also the time when bra’s weren’t fashionable… so the guys always referred to my chest as the perfect ski slopes. I was once even referred to as the ultimate ski lift. Which was a compliment… because back then most women were labeled champagne glasses.
Then I came West. To earn a buck in this mythical land, I resorted to a billboard bathed in neon: “Become a Hollywood Superstar,” it said, with “Ingenues:18-20” in smaller letters. I wasn’t sure exactly what an ingénue was but it turned out I already was one.
It turned out to be a bikini contest sponsored by the Michelob beer company, held in the back of a Holiday Inn. I won. Then I won a bikini contest sponsored by the Heineken beer people, then one sponsored by Miller beer. Generally speaking, the key to success in these competitions was to have the largest breasts in the room. If the rest of you didn’t look like Abe Vigoda, that was enough.
Eventually, all these contacts led to a part in a movie. The film was called “Zapped” and it starred Scott Baio as a young man with the power of telekinesis – the ability to move objects with the power of his mind. Mostly, he used it to cause girls’ shirts to fly off. I was one of the women whose top disappeared, thanks to Scott’s mental powers and a bunch of special effects men with wires.
Okay, so it wasn’t a lead and I didn’t have any lines. But my breasts had gotten me into a movie with a real, live TV star. My career was definitely taking the fast track to fame…
Until “she” walked in. I was in my agent’s office when a reasonably attractive woman (from the neck up) walked in. The entire office went wild – they were looking at her from the neck down. She had enormous breasts. Huge breasts. Gargantuan breasts. Breasts that required their own zip code.
Suddenly my perfect ski slopes had melted a few inches. She was the very first woman I had ever seen who had her gazongas enlarged, not to correct some horrible deformity but simply because she wanted bigger tits. This was 1981. We both entered Miller beer’s country-wide hunt for the perfect bikini body. I had won all the city and regional competitions, and I was quite cocky about winning the Nationals. Wrong. Her body was otherwise unspectacular and her face was just okay… but Little Miss Mammaries took the gold. All of us losers shuffled off stage, acutely aware that we had been outboobed. That was the defining moment in my life, it more then a tiny bikini and flat tummy to win a contest. It all came down to breasts the size of Wyoming.
That was how it went for months. Audition after audition, bikini contest after bikini contest, wet t-shirt contest after wet t-shirt contest, I started losing – to larger and larger breasts. Mine hadn’t changed but suddenly they looked small by comparison. I got hired to take off my top in a few more films but eventually I would to auditions, see large cantaloupes in the waiting room, and know I was wasting my time. At age 22, I had peaked. I came to the horrible realization that I had to work less on my tan and physique and more on my brain.
These days, my body is not wanted, at least by producers and directors in films. Some have told me that I would definitely work for them if I got my honkers enlarged to at least a full C-cup. I’ve mulled it over and even polled my friends. So far, among both male and female voters, it near-unanimous for larger bazoosms. The women all think it would be a good career move and the men… well, you know what the men think.
One yea vote came from a girlfriend who is a petite and extremely attractive woman with what these days is considered a very small bust line (a full B-cup). Her perfect body somehow defies exercise and gravity, so I was surprised when she recently informed me that she her breasts were purchased from a nice man in Beverly Hills. I never would have known but she proved it to me with an utterly scientific comparison test. We took off our shirts and felt each others’ melons.
I was amazed at how wonderful hers looked and felt. For the first time, I had an inkling as to why men enjoyed that. Breast augmentation is becoming a refined art. Her hubba-hubbas could pass for Kosher with ease, unless she was on her back or I was squeezing real hard. Mine, on the other hand, flopped around. She thought they were quite nice but not photogenic. The droop in real breasts makes them more difficult to light or to capture in silhouette. Shaping, she said, is more important than size – though, of course, there will always be work for those who deal in volume, volume, volume.
I thought about it and I thought about it and I finally decided against it. The problems listed above were the main reasons, but what ultimately convinced me was Charles Darwin.
I first learned about Darwin by reading National Geographic back in my junior high school. The boys at my school were always checking it out to see black breasts. I learned about natural selection and evolution.
Darwin wrote that if a species does not use some physical attribute, it will eventually disappear over succeeding generations – like a breed of bird that stops using its beaks will eventually lose them.
These days, there are actresses with enormous, bogus bongos, and there are even strippers who get themselves inflated to 88DDD. The latter go by handles like Wendy Whoppers and Niki Knockers, apparently on the philosophy that it’s not enough to have ridiculously-large breasts. You ust also have a name that says you have ridiculously-large breasts. These women are exalted and revered as goddesses… held up as some standard to which the rest of us must aspire. A whole generation of horny, adolescent boys are growing up, sneaking peeks at Juggs Magazine at the newsstand, coming to believe that what’s in there is normal and that a woman whose head is larger than either of her boobs is somehow deficient.
This will all change. These women are not using them for anything more than getting men to stare and tip. They certainly aren’t using them for their intended function of nursing. One wrong move and the kid could suffocate.
Eventually, if Darwin is correct (which he is; we all know he was a tit-man), women will all undergo evolutionary breast-reduction. It may take several hundred years but eventually females will all be as flat as the root beer at Denny’s and humans will look back on photos of Dolly Parton’s bustline with the same amazement we now accord to the sloping brow of Cro-Magnon Man.
My breasts may not make me famous today. But when they dig up my remains in the year 2397, they’ll think I’m stacked!