Why They’re Never Perfect and NEVER Made of Silicone.

Is there such a thing as perfection? Can an object be absolutely perfect in form and substance? If so, is the totality of that object, including the observer’s feelings toward it, actually perfect? Is something flawless able to be perfect, or is it the flaws in objects that make them more desirable, and therefore more perfect than the flawless?

I’m trying to write a page or so about tits, and I’ve gone and turned into bloody Bertrand Russell.

Sorry, normal transmission will resume in just a few moments… Okay, deep breath, think about norgs. Now, where was I?

Back to perfection, and why pursuit of it renders it imperfect, in my book.

I shan’t delve into what exactly makes a “perfect” set of breasts. For one thing, because tastes differ, but mainly because the construct is artificial by its nature and comes to us thanks to homosexual fashion designers, women’s magazines dedicated to selling diets through promoting self-loathing, and men’s magazines dedicated to efficient masturbation.

What I’ll try to convince you of, without sounding too much like some 21st century pussy-whipped metrosexual SNAG, is that, while fake boobs look good (by some definitions) on the page or on the screen, it’s the whole woman that gives breasts their beauty.

Now, naturally enough, I was a virgin when I married my lovely co-editor, and there is no woman in the world more stunningly beautiful or desirable, and I’ve never ever seen another woman naked, either in the flesh or in a magazine or on the internets, and even if it turns out that I may have once, it was by accident, and I didn’t inhale. So the following is only based on accounts I have heard from friends. I promise.

As a man, there is nothing more exquisitely exciting or beautiful than undressing a woman and exploring her naked body for the first time. The time you’ve spent getting to know her, looking at her face, watching her light up and her eyes crinkle slightly when she laughs, loving how she makes you laugh, all this makes you want her, in her entirety. There’s a tiny bit of food stuck to her teeth, and it doesn’t turn you off. It reminds you, again, that you are sitting down talking to, and will later be in bed with, a real woman, not a construct.

As the clothes come off, you get to see, and feel, reality. The cleavage that you’ve been sneaking glances at all night disappears when the bra comes off, and the breasts, denied that support, drop a bit, and sit naturally. Then when she’s lying next to you, gravity takes over and they flatten. You notice that they’re not entirely symmetrical, and you notice all the other things that make this a real woman, and not a magazine.

There’re plenty of other things that you notice, but I won’t go into them here, for the sake of all the women reading this who will misinterpret what I’m saying about soft bits and wrinkles and not quite firm tummies and stray hair. For all these things add to her beauty, they don’t detract from it. All these things make her real, and they make her more desirable, because she’s here, with you, sharing her body with you, appreciating yours, despite the love-handles and the grey chest-hairs and the chicken legs.

So, you shag, and you get sweaty, and your tummies smack against each other a few times, and she sneezes when your chest hair goes up her nose, and maybe you come at the same time and maybe you don’t. But it’s wonderful, because you like, or even love each other, and there wasn’t a film crew in the room, and anyway you weren’t doing it so you’d look good (whatever “good” looking is when it comes to the Beast With Two Backs). You were doing it because, for that night at least, you two humans felt enough for each other to shed your pretences and your clothes, and be completely together.

So what’s all this romantic stuff got to do with fake boobs? Go back to the bit where you take her bra off. You’ve spent all night, and the whole woo-pitching timeframe, be that a couple of weeks or six months, getting to know this woman, all about her, good and bad, and you (unless you’re a cad) have been honest with her and revealed all kinds of things about yourself, and it’s the honesty, it’s the reality, it’s the truth about yourselves and each other that has led you to this moment.

Then the bra comes off and they don’t sag, they’re not asymmetrical, and they feel, no matter how good the surgery, like what they are: implants. They’re not real.

But this is the woman that I really liked, the totality of her, and I’d like to know her as she really is. Does she have oddly shaped feet? Does she secretly like Dan Brown books? What are the secret fantasies that she has never told anyone but me? What is she afraid of? What does she love? All the things about her that make her HER. I don’t want her to tell me only what she thinks I want to hear, and I don’t want her body to be only what someone else has told her it was supposed to be. I want to see her body, as it really is, as she is meant to look. No-one else in the world will look exactly like her, and it’s all those things that are particular and special to her that make her special to me.

I want her to trust that I like her just as she is, and that I love looking at her the way she is. I want to know that she is not hiding the things from me that she thinks are not good enough.

That’s why I’m against fake tits. What they say about their owner is that there are parts of herself she doesn’t like enough to accept or show. What they say about the beholder is that he doesn’t care enough about her to not just accept her for who and what she really is, but to love all the things about her that make her what she is.

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