Is cleavage on the rise, or is it just me? In Connecticut, where I’m from, a girl would
never dream of wearing white after Labor Day, or displaying her bosom before five o’clock. So
when I bump into a plunging neckline, say, at the lunch counter at Bloomingdale’s, I’m
thrown, and, I’ll admit, slightly embarrassed since I’m more the turtleneck type regardless of
what time it is.
Then we have women ten years older than me looking twenty years younger due to a
monthly maintenance of Botox and fat injections. I even know a gal who had two ribs
removed so she could wear a Carolina Herrera evening gown she won in a silent auction at her
daughter’s school. With the money she spent at the surgeon’s, she could have just gone to
the store and bought one in her own size.
How do men feel about all this? Do they view women the same way they view cars? Is a dent here and there really out of the question?
How big does a front seat truly have to be?
My curiosity moved me to conduct a little survey. You have to agree we women go to an
awful lot of trouble (and expense) just to be noticed. Does it matter all that much if we’re a
“Absolutely,” said Dominick, the butcher, whom I met outside of Pastis in Manhattan’s
meatpacking district. “The bigger, the better,” he added while stacking boxes of beef.
“Do you care if they’re fake or not. You know, silicone as opposed to the real McCoy?”
“This isn’t some reality show, is it?” he asked, looking around for a camera crew. “My
mother could be watching.”
“No, I work alone,” I assured him.
“Well, then, sure I’d care, but like the Stones said, you can’t always get what ya want
so you learn to appreciate what ya got. (Did Mick really say that?) Now take this rack-a
“What about texture?” I asked, hoping I sounded like Diane Sawyer.
“My shanks will melt in your mouth.”
“No, I mean how they feel – boobs, Dom, a rack-a boobs.”
“Trust me, lady, after a few drinks, it don’t matter if they’re made-a Tupperware.” This made me think of breasts in assorted pastel colors.
“I have one more question. Were you ever on The Sopranos?”
As I tooled around town, I couldn’t get over some of the things I heard. With the exception of one guy, who thought I came to serve him papers, men were more than willing
to talk to me. By the end of the day, I had three dates, a room key from the Four Seasons and an invitation to spend the weekend in Montauk with a Brazilian real estate developer.
Who needs on‐line dating at this rate?
When I asked Stephen, the broker, in front of the Stock Exchange, his take on Botox,
he said, “Oh yeah, botulism – that’s really what gets my dick hard.” I felt there was no point in
segueing into rear‐end enhancement. Turned out, Steve was from Greenwich and in love with
Barb who, I bet, had a Golden Retriever and a collection of Ann Taylor twin sets.
After all, being from Connecticut it takes one to know one.
I then sat on the steps of Federal Hall stalking the men coming in and out of the New
York Sports Club next door. While envisioning George Washington in a spin class, I was approached by John, the trainer, who sprinted over to give me his business card.
“What a woman needs is to meet her body head on,” he said, while skillfully
“How’s that, John?” I asked, trying, unsuccessfully, not to stare at his crotch.
“All women are naturally beautiful and can achieve prime results, without surgery, in
the gym with the right trainer.”
Suddenly I was in an infomercial. He assured me that even I could increase my bust
with his help in practically no time. I immediately made an appointment. In desperate need of a pick-me-up, I headed over to Starbucks, where I spoke to a dashingly dressed 80 year old man.
“Looks like you might be girl‐watching,” I said, hoping to break the ice.
“At my age, that’s about all that’s going to happen,” said Mr. Seigel, with a chuckle.
“What do you think about this staying young forever business?” I asked him. “You
know – facelifts, tummy tucks, lip injections.”
“Is this a project for school, young lady?” he asked offering me some of his coffee cake.
“Sort of,” I said, crossing my fingers.
“Who does a broad think she’s kidding with a face that looks like a dinner plate?” I automatically thought of service for twelve.
“Well, you can’t blame a woman for trying to look her best now, can you?”
“When she scares the hell out of me I can.”
My next stop was a midtown comedy club because, frankly, at this point, I needed a
laugh. After two shows and a four drink minimum, I managed to corner the owner who
looked like Clive Owen – especially after four mojitos.
Although he preferred a girl to have a kick-ass body, au natural, as he put it, for him, it’s really about who she is inside. “Can you trust her? Will she be there when you need her? Would she call the IRS on you when you had a fight?”
“But would you care if some of her parts were store‐bought as opposed to home‐
“How many drinks have you had?”
Last stop, Scores, topless sports bar, which may have put me back into therapy. Is this heaven? No, it’s Scores.
Meet Bob, the grip from Paramus, who proudly told me he reads Jugs Magazine cover
to cover. And I thought there were only pictures.
“Why does a guy like you come to a place like this, Bob?” I asked, not quite sure what a
“To meet babes. Why do you think?” he said, looking at me like I had three heads. “As a matter a fact, I met my future ex-wife here.”
“But you’re so young to be divorced.”
“I’m thirty,” he said, like he was eligible for Medicare.
“What happened between you if you don’t mind me asking?”
“She left me for a boxer.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“That’s okay. I’m over it, and raring to get back to the buffet.”
”“Buffet?” I quickly looked around for a salad bar.
“That’s right, baby doll. Look at ‘em all, like pastries in a box. See what I’m saying?” This guy was making me hungry.
“Sure I do, and I bet you approve of plastic surgery – breast implants, for instance.”
“Hell yeah!” he said, not taking his eyes off a huge blonde happily humping a pole. “Just get-a-load-a those peaks.” I actually never saw so many boobs in my life, and not one of them moved. It was as if they were staring at me from a line-up.
“Don’t you know all guys are mountain climbers deep down?” said Bob.
“So, in other words, you’d rather go bigger. Believe it or not, some men feel that anything over a handful is a waste.”
As Bob leaned over to pop a bill into a gyrating g‐string, he whispered, “Bigger? I’m
talkin Mount Everest, baby, and don’t believe everything you hear.”
Cleavage is in, no matter what it’s made of. Plutonium would be acceptable.
Botox, on the other hand, is out, since it, apparently, compromises oral companionship as a female with a frozen forehead can’t really give it her all.
And most men agree that an ass lift just seems like it would hurt way too much for far too little.
And I thought men were insensitive.