July 25, 2001
The Bar Is Open
The woman from the PR company had biggest breasts that have ever existed.
Not porn breasts. Cast that from your mind: we are not in the realms of
celluloid, nor printer's ink and staples, where ginormous garbonzas are
two-a-penny and just as round. I'm talking about real life. RL. You remember.
Where it is hot and there are breezes and gravel and eyes to look into
and drinks in Y-shaped glasses and loose sheets of newspaper blowing down
the road. Reality. And in reality, people do not have breasts like this.
She wore a simple black spaghetti-strap vest top, and had thin blonde
hair which touched her shoulders, and a deep russet tan. This isn't just
a bleak description: that's all I can remember, because I could not keep
my eyes from these breasts which rose from her front like a tidal wave
threatening a small village.
It's not about cleavage. Cast cleavage from your mind. It's about unlikely
mounds: hills; the prow of a ship; the swell of a pregnant belly; puffball
mushrooms on a cloudy day. It's ooooh. It's brrrrr. It's bllllimey, guvnor.
I tried to peep to see if they were implants. They had to be implants.
Breasts that size do not exist that high in nature; no, not with the best
will and the best Rigby and Peller corsetry in the world. I sought the
line you always see in porno breasts: the curve of the implant visible
beneath the stretched skin. I could see no line. There was just flesh:
impassive, unyeilding, tempting, addictive flesh. My eyes could not resist.
They were larger than the sun, these breasts. They filled the room. They
went from door to bar to restaurant to gallery; from floor to ceiling
and back again. They were.... impressive, the way a large penis or a large
dog is impressive. They were breasts to prostrate oneself before. They
were breasts to salute. They were breasts to offer libations to. They
were breasts deserving of congratulation.
They were breasts which rendered the most casual of onlookers helpless.
The most staunchly feminist of observers (i.e. me) found herself possessed
by the mentality of a hapless, sexist man, justifying her relentless looking
with the mantra 'she wouldn't be displaying them if she didn't want me
to look at them'. Phew. And that was just getting through the door, you
understand. That was just the first two minutes. If that was the appetiser,
what the hell was for dessert? Quite frankly, I was scared.
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