This is a story about enormous breasts and the havoc they cause.
At one of my primary Starbucks, a collection of movie industry folks (and aspiring movie industry) folks sit at the center table. They have dubbed themselves “the bananas” because they are crazy.
The other day the head banana invited me to a dinner with her friends, one of whom was an vibrant actresses in a very, very, very low cut top that she seemed on the verge of popping out of. She was a slender woman, and she explained she had purchased the enormous breasts as a gift to herself after a high-paying role came her way.
“I’ve always felt I was meant to have large breasts,” she told me. “I have a small frame, but in my heart I always felt I should be large breasted.”
I asked if this was done for professional reasons.
“No,” she said. “It was just for me.”
I asked her if people regarded her differently now.
“When I was flat chested, men would actually look me over more obviously,” she said. “Now that my breasts are so large, they get a little uncomfortable looking below the neck.”
“It’s very hard not to look,” said the man next to me. “Very hard.” I was afraid the drool from his mouth would splatter me.
“I don’t mind if men look,” she said, seeming very happy at the idea. “I only mind if they make it obvious they’re looking.”
I could hear the man next to see experiencing whiplash in-between hearing it was okay to look and then his neck snap back in trying not to make it obvious.
And then she added giddily, “And you know, women look too. Which is fine. Because I’m bisexual.”
The man next to me made some vague gurgling sound, and I was afraid he was about to have a heart attack. If so, it would be death by decolletage.