“A Respectful Breast-Man” – essay

I’m going to be honest with you here so let me start with a simple premise: I realize that I am a pervert.  This is who I am.  I am comfortable with it.  People love me for who I am.  Meanwhile, I only take anything I say as half serious.  So should you.  The point of being a Sophist is in the arguing, not necessarily the soundness of the argument.  Now, let’s discuss…

Long as I can remember, I’ve stared at women’s breasts.  I’m talking, here, about the specific glance that all guys are keenly aware of, to ‘gaze fixedly’ as it were.  This is the committed glance.  The one you can’t quite back out of with any grace were you to be caught.  Maybe you just meet a girl, and you’re glancing for the first time, maybe you’ve known her for a long time.  Maybe she’s wearing something that really shows them off and you think to yourself, ‘huh, wonder what the rest of those look like.’  The point is, you’ve got to look, and it’s just a matter of how you’re going to get away with it.

I was reminded recently how much of a problem this was for me during puberty, figuring this out.  The real problem is that I’m pretty sure I wasn’t very good at doing it gracefully, more the none-too-subtle type that’s a glance akin to a dog trained on an impending throw.  I was wondering what women thought about this.  What’s it like for them growing up with this, and do they have an appreciation for the male perspective (so to speak)?

First off, let’s get this issue of “why we do it” just right out of the way.  We have to.  Simple as that.  And maybe it’s not all of us.  Maybe it’s just some guys who are really concerned with the qualities of your every curve but, for those guys, it’s not a question of why, it’s just a matter of how.  I’m of the ilk who believes strongly in evolutionary biology, so I’ll cite that as my reason (of course, I’m not conscious of it during the gaze, but it makes for a fair rationalization after the fact).

Men and women both look for signs of a health in all potential mates.  Saying someone is attractive means, “If I had sex with them, my babies would do well.”  It’s only natural.  This, being necessary for our survival as a species, is right up there with clean water and fresh air.  Women, it’s often proposed, tend to look for strength in their partners, in reliability and in self-confidence.  They want a straight jaw and muscular build.  Breasts, I submit, are the cues for we breast-men.  Though certainly not the only factor in reviewing a potential female mate (and aren’t they all potential, in our minds), breasts are as varied as the people they are attached to, and it takes a long time to feel we really have a grasp on them (I’ve been reviewing my girlfriend’s breasts for nearly two years now, and I still find them a fascinating source of study).  So, just as a woman might fawn over a jaw or confidence, so too men are drawn to women’s breasts.

We love them.  We want to know more about them.  And it’s not just a size thing.  Sure, size is intriguing (for example, I don’t know a woman alive who hasn’t stopped to examine another woman’s large purse, groping and grappling with the thing, fascinated by what she could do with all of that extra volume) but really it’s quality we’re after.

We’re gathering information.  We want to know shape and texture, coloring, positioning.  We love to guess, but we don’t really care if we’re right.  Of course, the trouble is the verifying.  Actually, the trouble is even gathering enough information to make a sound guess.

The damn things are hidden.

We’re trying to survive here, and you’re wearing the UCLA sweater.

So when I was a young man, I had this problem.  I liked breasts, liked them a lot, and all of a sudden, girls I knew, girls who sat just three or four desks over in 2^nd period English LIt, they started getting them.  But the catch is that the damn things are on their chests, and it’s damn near impossible (though my cousin claimed his friend, Chris, could do it) to both look a girl in the eyes and the breasts, simultaneously.  Any other situation and such a setup would be great.  Imagine if I loved braces, or acne.  Boom, right there on the face, no problem.  With breasts, I knew I risked getting caught but, hell, I had to, right?  So I looked.  Let’s be frank, I leered.  I was young.  It was a whole new situation to negotiate.  I probably owe at least twenty-three, variously built girls thoughtful letters explaining the matter delicately; it was that bad.  And what I’m saying here is that, though I have no direct proof, I retain a strong faith that, were girls the type of creature to really carve notes into the bathroom, there would be a list of especially curious little boys with my name right on top.

At twenty-seven, I haven’t stopped.  The difference now, however, is two-fold.  Firstly, given as much practice as I have had, I have refined my stealing glances to be subtler, more respectful, and much shorter in duration.  Stare at enough of anything and you’re bound to get quicker at the judgments.  The second difference is that I don’t really care anymore about the “risk” of being caught.  A girl, any person for that matter, is not to be leered at.  That’s just bad manners.  I wouldn’t presume to indulge myself at your expense… But fuck’s sake… They are right there, and I’d like a moment to take them in.

Indeed, this perspective of not caring about the risk has, in some occasions, entirely reversed.  Instead of feeling averse to the risk, I feel justly deserving of the glance.  Again, showing all respect, these moments would be brief and polite:

Looking into her eyes, “So Sophia, let me see if I understand you?” Lean back, exposing bit of skin above my pant line.  “You were saying that you think there is an over-indulgence in the populist movement on the part of the new media?”  Gently lower eyes, take in breasts, resume eye contact.

She, in response, tilts head to think, and accentuate neck, “Yes, Thomas, but I’m wondering about the media itself.  What is its real role in the populist movement, and is it just a manifestation of the movement itself?”   Brushes hair aside discreetly, in case my first glance was obscured. “What do you think?”  Glances at my waist to check for notorious “arrow” just above hip bone which indicates male virility.

There, wasn’t that nice?  In this example, we have two adults enjoying a stimulating discussion on social politics.  Both parties are engaged in what the other is saying, and both parties subtly acknowledge that one is a male and one is a female and that each has certain needs to fully appreciate the other.  The key here is that they are both very adult about the situation.  The woman trusts the man to enjoy a respectful glance while continuing his investment in her intellect.  The man, having taken the glance, moves on to more intimate feature of character and values.

I know.  It won’t work.  At least not as any standard that will be accepted as the norm, but it is an ideal.  Actually my true ideal is a little more straightforward:  Just let me see them.  Shy?  Fine, send me a photo.  I’m not talking everyone I meet here, just the few girls I’m having regular conversations with and with whom I’m developing real relationships.  I’m speaking to the co-workers, the friends and, in some ways, even their friends who are always joining us on our nights out.

Why keep men guessing?  Just let us be done with it already.  Half the reason we’re staring at the damn things is because of the mystery.  You don’t see this problem in the western provinces of Kenya.  I know women love being mysterious and all, but it’s exhausting for us and, frankly, not very sincere on the girl’s part.  Now, I would never suggest that all women walk around topless, all the time.  Of course not; let’s not be ridiculous.  Everyone deserves their privacy.

What I’m suggesting here is a little gift that comes in the relationship: A new custom.  After a few months of knowing you, of working closely or hanging out, let’s see them.  In some form or another, let’s take a look.  (And so help me if you girls do that thing where you’re “flashing” me but it’s just you pulling your shirts up, only to reveal a perfectly in-tact bra that wholly covers my hopes and dreams.  That’s not “flashing,” that’s just mean-spirited bullshit.)  Imagine the freedom everyone would have.  I could get back to the point in the conversation where you said something and I paid attention.  I don’t want to have to go here but, “Camon, baby! I’d respect you more, not less.”  Of course I’d never go that far.  Such pleading wouldn’t befit the character I’m purporting deserves such a gift.

I get that there are assholes out there who don’t deserve this.  But there are a lot of us who do.  There are a lot of decent, hardworking, considerate guys, who just want to move on from their need to stare at your chest and really get to know the inner-you.

Let’s think about this reasonably.  If you had a friend over for lunch, and he was all distracted because he hadn’t eaten, blood sugar has tanked and endocrine system all out of whack, wouldn’t you offer to make him a sandwich?  Of course you would.  So, please, consider that the next time we chat, if I haven’t seen your breasts, I’m probably wondering about them.  I’m probably curious.  It’s probably a bit distracting, and maybe we should just get them out of the way.

And though most of that last line of thought was meant in satire, consider Christmas:  Is there any greater gift?  For me, probably not.  This says you really understand me.

Which brings me back to my original question: What do women think of all of this?  Obviously, you’re aware of most of it.  Maybe you agree with me, can’t wait to take your top off, and are just feeling too burdened by social constraints that tell you it’s not the proper way for a young lady to behave. Do I think anything will come of this in the form of (my god, the perfect, life-giving, ever-pleasing) breasts?  No, not really, but, as I said, I’d like to hear what you feel. I think your feelings are really important, and we should discuss them over lunch.