In the interests of research, I once squeezed a woman’s breasts. Yep, a full-on fondle – with both hands – up under her pink bra. Well, that got your attention, didn’t it? Hi, fellas!
I’d been sent to a lap-dancing club by an editor keen to stroke, sorry, stoke the usual media outrage that occurs whenever a sexual establishment sets up in suburbia.
But far more interesting than the girls getting their kit off for a bunch of bankers (honestly, they were happily coining it) was their bodies. Or, more specifically, their breasts. Because, while I’d been cruising through the ’90s thinking shoulder pads were the most offensive blight on my generation, a score of women had been secretly upholstering their boobs so they were as plumped and shiny as the vinyl seats on a Ford Escort.
Anyway, Debbie let me have a good squish. Well, as much as you can squish a rock in a sock. She said her new breasts made her feel “empowered”. Certainly, the stash of notes in her garter was proof of a worthy investment.
Fifteen years on, I’m seeing Debbie’s boobs everywhere. They’ve spilled out of strip clubs and into our supermarkets and family beaches. I surf with a mother-of-three who works a Lara Croft look in her wetsuit.
I’m not in the business of telling other women what to do with their bodies. Not usually. Tatts, piercings, extensions – go for it, sister. But hacking into your boobs is different. As author Caitlin Moran writes, “Are the men doing it?” Men aren’t bolstering their penises with banana-shaped implants, so why are we butchering our beautiful breasts and stuffing them full of sofa-grade silicone? How did the skyward-nippled, cantilevered coconut look get so popular? And who likes these taut, angry, veiny, unyielding bazookas anyway? Aren’t there enough ball sports?