At first being ogled is mortifying, though partly that’s the stage fright that comes with being newly on display. Once my initial terror fades, I have to admit it gets intriguing. It’s fun to be the center of attention, even under false pretenses.
I’d say my experience matches the anecdotal evidence compiled by Shahla Chehrazi, the proprietor of Avisha Lingerie in Redondo Beach. Half of Chehrazi’s customers are men, and when they come into her high-end shop, she asks them what they’re into. “Some of the guys, the first thing they look at is the breast,” she says. “Then I have guys that say, ‘If I wanted to play with a ball, I’d go to Toys ‘R’ Us.’”
If you’re a breast man, though, chances are good you’re also an ogler. There’s the businessman at the outdoor cafe in Sunset Plaza who swivels in his chair, slowly and unabashedly, as Sophia and Jayne saunter by in a turtleneck sweater. There’s the bartender at Musso & Frank who gawks at them in a low-cut blouse as if they, not their owner, are ordering the martinis. There’s the lawyer whom I see at the gym. I’ve actually met him once before, but when a friend reintroduces us, he shows no sign of recognition. Maybe that’s because his eyes have yet to get anywhere near my rice.
If I were trying to date any of these men, I’d be offended. If I were hoping to make a connection, I would have to worry, at some point, whether they have any interest in the rest of me. But I’m not, so I don’t. Instead I marvel at their brazenness.
A friend of mine, Alice, has naturally large breasts. I ask her about ogling. She says it is most obvious in public places where men gather in groups. She suggests that Sophia, Jayne, and I traverse a plaza where men gather to eat lunch. But I can’t go alone, she cautions. Ill need a companion to note the expressions on their faces. “You can’t look at them yourself,” Alice shudders. “It’s really icky.”
I make the mistake of forgetting Alice’s advice.
I’m at the 3rd Street Promenade when the two men swoop in and make a beeline for my boobs. At the moment that one professes his “love” for Sophia and Jayne, I foolishly look him straight in the eye. What I see is neither fond nor flattering. It is taunting, as if my figure–its very existence–gives him the right to diminish me. Whatever he feels for the girls, he doesn’t think much of the woman bearing them–if he even notices I am here.
TWENTY-THREE OUNCES DOESN’T SOUND Heavy. It’s far less than a liter of Coke. A couple of Cornish game hens weigh twice what Sophia and Jayne do.
Nevertheless, my back hurts. After a long day of masquerading, my shoulders are marked by two wide red stripes where the bra straps dig in. Under my arms, the sides of my body also bear the bra’s imprint. And my real breasts? They feel like they’ve been buried alive.
Every morning I struggle to strap the girls on. The procedure is made more complicated by my decision to keep them hidden from my four-year-old son. Standard psychology holds that the fascination with breasts begins in infancy, when the maternal breast plays both a nurturing and a nutritional role. If breasts represent mothering, I figure, it’s probably best not to mess around with my son’s understanding of mine. But this makes for some loopy logistics. After I drop off my son at preschool, I pull Sophia and Jayne from a plastic grocery bag and duck into the bathroom to change.
Sophia and Jayne soldier on. I take them out for dinner at Spago. A book party for Quincy Jones is under way, and the place is packed. I run into a former studio executive whom I have known for years. This, I think, should be interesting. His eyes dart to my bosom, and he appears to register its growth, but he is unfazed. Many women he knows, including the former model at the next table who is his third and current wife, have undergone similar transformations. If he’s thinking about me at all, he’s probably wondering, What took her so long?
