In one of those domestic sociological discussions of which we’re so fond in this house, Wendy made the following observation the other day:
“You probably have a different opinion on this than I do, but I’ve noticed a lot of young women in stores and malls seem to be flashing a lot of cleavage these days.”
“Disgusting and slutty,” I replied. “What in the world makes them think that anybody wants to see the ivory-hued curve of their firm youthful breasts?”
“Now you’re just being sarcastic,” she said. She didn’t actually say “Hmph!” and utter something about males being procine in attitude about matters of delicacy, but I know she was thinking it.
“No really,” I said. “And the depravity isn’t just amongst the young women of the world. Even respectable older women, like Hillary, are showing them off.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
So, I led her to my computer and called up the photo that you see accompanying this blog.
“That’s photoshopped,” she said dismissively.
“No, it’s real,” I pathetically attempted to reassure her. “She sent it to Bill to help him carry on with life during the election campaign.”
“I think Bill probably found other ways to carry on during the campaign.”
I disregarded her cynicism, but the discussion did give me pause to think. I believe I mentioned in a blog a while ago about running into a young woman in a mall who used to work in a local grocery store. She was sporting such a cleavage (breast) revealing top that virtually nothing was left to the imagination. And, she was a big girl, to boot. Shortly thereafter, over coffee, I mentioned the encounter to a female friend (who was a former coworker of the endowed lady in question).
“Well,” she said, “I’m completely straight, but even I might have been tempted.”
My mind reeled with imagery at her comment, but I didn’t belabor the point.
Funny thing about breasts. They come and go in terms of vogue, but they never seem to completely lose their intrigue – except when they do. And they do.
For example, a décolleté garment intrigues because of what it ‘doesn’t’ show. What lies beneath the wisp of garment becomes the question?
Well, of course we all know what lies there, but the mystique persists nonetheless. The allure lies in what isn’t shown.
What if it is all shown in a full-tit extravaganza? Back to my comment about how they can lose their intrigue.
Around the time I was in university it was the age of the notorious topless bar. A trend begun in San Francisco (the silicone-enhanced Carol Doda was the most famous exposer there) spread to other cities. In Vancouver the club was known as Isy’s.
I accompanied a male friend there one evening. We’d go for drinks and to see the array of bare-boobed servers. And yes, many of them were striking and their ‘altogetherness’ in the upper neighborhood enchanted from the point-of-view that we were seeing the real thing in its (their?) undraped glory.
Enchanted for about 15 minutes. And then it became commonplace. And we concentrated more on the fact we were stretching our student budgets unspeakably for the sake of watered-down drinks and a chance to ogle naked tits. Scarcely seemed worth the price.
At the end of it all I suggested to Wendy that if the cleavage thing has gotten out-of-hand they could easily quell it by simply letting women sport themselves topless in public.
“Boredom would kill the fashion rapidly.” I suggested.