I ran across the following article over at linkfilter:
As an experiment, a Brit named Clover Stroud had a makeup and special effects expert create “a pair of perfect 36DD silicone breasts” for her to wear around Oxford, to see what effect it had on men. Her observations are kind of entertaining, not just as she relates how the men around her pay her more attention, but also how her new bust changes how she feels about herself, and changes how other women treat her.
However, Ms. Stroud seems to go out of her way to make the men she meets come off like drooling idiots.
I wandered off, dismissing him as some saddo with an overt breast fixation and probably a complex Freudian relationship with his mother. But what I didn’t realise was that my experiences with my new chest were about to prove that he was, in fact, just a very normal man.
He stuttered when I asked him to show me how to use the new IT system. He flushed beetroot as I sat down. As he pointed to the screen, I noticed that his hand shook. He seemed incapable of a simple sentence. Eventually, muttering something about going to find his assistant, he fled completely, and sent a (female) colleague back in his place.
But then, after pointing out what buffoons these men were, she explains that they were also somewhat menacing:
Friendly smiles at the supermarket checkout might be fun, and quite flattering, and it might get you home sooner with your groceries, but this was something else. It verged on menacing. And it was completely out of my control.
I realised that a whole lifetime of being checked out, and commented on, like some prize heifer, would drive me quite mad. I stomped home, angry and confused. I found myself longing to rip off the silicone.
Apparently we men are alternately stupidly leering, or overtly threatening. And then some of her “male friends” dump a load of absolute horse hockey on her:
One told me: “I know it’s not right, but when a girl has large breasts, I naturally assume that she must be more interested in sex than someone with a flat chest.”
Oh, for God’s sake.
That’s just stupid beyond belief, and implies a level of conscious thought and calculation that is utterly absent in most breast-staring situations.
Faced with a choice of lumping myself with either drooling idiots, menacing predators, or lecherous oglers, I’m at a bit of a loss. Way back, when it was fashionable to be an ’80s-era sensitive male, I used to ponder such questions — “What is it about breasts that I like so much?” Now, not so much. I quit worrying about it for the same reasons that I don’t spend time trying to explain why I like the flavor of chocolate, or the sight of a beautiful sunset.
I just do.
When I think about it at all, I think that it seems reasonable that sexual attraction would be a matter of basic biology, tied into drives that are wired deeper than anything short of the instinct for personal survival. An animal can’t pick and choose what parts of their genetic birthright they accept or reject, and despite our huge brains and opposable thumbs that’s what we are — animals.
And knowing the male animal the way I do, I think that rather than agonizing over the effect massive mammaries have on us, you should just be grateful that we males have stopped flinging poo when we get upset.
Believe me, some days it can be pretty tempting.