Still, you feel lured.īut when you get intimate with the augmented breast, two things are certain: You can always feel the implant, and feeling it will always lead you to the conscious realization that someone pimped this breast. You shake your head it is, after all, just a car. You can't help responding to the features-the DVD player in the console, the fancy steering wheel, the huge speakers. It may be bigger than you're used to, and certain places are firmer, appear newer, seem to offer a different kind of function. It's unfamiliar and more than a little exciting. There's no arguing subtlety with guys like that.Įncountering an augmented breast for the first time is a bit like sitting in a very expensive car before a test-drive. I know men who claim they don't care, either way-they just love them big. The skin is stretched too tight, giving every inch of the grape the tactile feedback of a grapefruit. They make the breast look flipped up, appended. Cheap implants, on the other hand, look painful and cartoonlike. They seem unimported, wholly of the woman. Good implants look more than real they look miraculous and animated-firm, elevated, shaped. It really isn't about size it's about attitude. The compact is clear: A woman with breast augmentation asks to be regarded. And whether what one is looking at is a miracle of technology or the real deal seems less than the point. So the tacit invitation to have a look at a woman's breasts is, in itself, a wonderful thing. You don't have to be an evolutionary biologist to know that men are visually stimulated. I've seen preachers, therapists, pharmacists, and university presidents eyeball a woman with great cleavage, often cleavage obviously built on the back of great implants. I don't know a single heterosexual guy who doesn't rubberneck when it comes to this part of a woman's body. Most men have lived some portion of their lives surreptitiously regarding cleavage, stealing glances from across the 10th-grade-English classroom, from behind a magazine, from the end of the bar. In point of fact, you're supposed to look. Yet there is very little deception in the matter of implants, since most of the time the whole story is right there for you to look at. They say it as if the breasts themselves were lies, forgeries, as if someone were being hoodwinked. I always laugh when people use the word fake when discussing breast augmentation. A fake either works so perfectly that the fact of the counterfeit goes unnoticed, or it is so poorly executed that it fools no one and does not work at all. In sports a fake is a move, a tool, a device. It's employed with equal authority by schoolchildren and accountants, jewelers and philosophers. It starts softly, in almost a whisper, then quickly gathers strength on the way to its harsh, nasty terminus.
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