I was shopping in an inner city boutique with a mate, looking at the big, arty books while she was working through the clothing racks, when one weighty tome in particular caught my eye – a big, hardcover book published by Taschen. There was no question as to my immediate course of action – I bounded over to where my friend was comparing skirts and tops on coat hangers, and announced, “I’ve just discovered The Big Book of Breasts, so please, take your time”.
“Okay,” she said, laughing, as she continued to work her way along the clothing rack. I was already back at The Big Book of Breasts, admiring the double-layered dust jacket: the outer-most layer was a clear, thick plastic, upon which was printed a sexy black bra. Beneath, on the thick paper jacket, was the naked body, perfectly positioned so you could remove the bra. Nice.
Before we left the shop, my friend decided to check out the book herself. Its initial pages contained the kind of vintage porn that, nowadays, amazes more than – ahem – titillates, not least of all because of the impressive size and shape of some of the examples of mammalian protuberance so depicted. We’re talking big, but real, so not that carbon copy silicon shape deemed ‘perfect’ by standards of modern media. Impressively, I thought, I was able to contain my base urge to declare how much “I’d love her to shine my shoes, topless,” indicating just about any one of the women depicted. Indeed, I even managed to refrain from the standard warning, that “you could have someone’s eye out with that!”
My friend made an interesting observation, though, when she said, “Gosh! Her nipple’s bigger than my whole breast!” That, I suppose, is the kind of statement best made by one of the women to whom the comparison pertains, although you’re in a privileged position if you are the third party who can get away with making the same and still sound like a perfect gentleman.
Later on I decided that I never, ever, under any circumstances whatsoever, be they via the pages of a great big arty book of vintage porn done up as tasteful social anthropology, the result of a life drawing class, or just a bizarre set of circumstances that leads to a spatial contiguity I would never normally arrive at without imbibing controlled substances, do I ever want to be in a position where I can say – in front of anyone – “gee, that guy’s fireman’s helmet is…”
Well, you know what I’m saying.