My friend Sue wanted to be an exotic dancer. I did my best to talk her out of it, but she had friends who danced and were making great money. Her goal was to work until she saved enough for college. Then she would quit.
Sue was raking in upward to $250 a night, but she wasn't content. Sister dancers, most of whom were named Barbie, made double. Sue was convinced it was because the Barbies were better endowed, and in the business of selling fantasies to men, size definitely matters. Men's tips grow in direct proportion to the size of the chest they're ogling. Whether they're the real deal or surgically enhanced makes no difference.
Sue took her college savings and made an appointment to have her girls enlarged. To assure that she'd pull in big bucks she said, "Heck, I might as well make this surgery worth it. Let's super size these cupcakes, Doc. How about building me a set of 48-E's?" Until then I never knew a woman could hold up that kind of weight without crumbling to her knees.
We made plans to meet for lunch a few weeks later. I was already seated when Sue's new appendages rounded the corner and entered the room a full minute before the rest of her. When I finally saw her face she was beaming.
“Well? What do you think?” she asked, flaunting them in my face. “And if you think they look great now,” she continued, “you should see them when I lie down. They stand right up perky as all get-out, which does make sleeping on my stomach somewhat challenging, but you'll never hear me complain. I'm pulling in close to $500 a night at the club.”
I gained my composure. “There's something unnatural about that, don’t you think?” I asked. “When I lie on my back my girls nestle comfortably in my armpits, and I've always believed that’s what God intended. By the way, when you watch TV in bed, you can't possibly see over those mountains, can you?"
A month later we took a vacation to France. The resort we stayed at had a topless beach. Not one to be mistaken for bashful, Sue ripped off her bikini top and set those babies free. Within seconds half the men on the beach were focused on her 48-E's.
“What the hell are they staring at?” Sue grizzled.
“You didn't expect to unveil those puppies and have them go unnoticed, did you?”
“All I know is when they were smaller men never paid this kind of attention to me. Now, suddenly they're interested.”
“You are kidding, right? Isn't this what you wanted? Could it be they’re staring now, because you didn't look like this before? Maybe it's all innocent and they're taking bets on whether you can walk without tipping over onto your nose.”
“Not funny.”
Times have changed. When I was married the first time, I was barely twenty one years old, with a lovely figure. On our honeymoon I wore a demure, fitted red wool dress with a sweetheart neckline that revealed less than one half inch of cleavage. The first gift my husband ever bought me was from the little shop in the Catskill resort where we stayed. It was a small heart-shaped gold and pearl brooch intended to cover my barely existent cleavage. Apparently he was afraid someone would mistake me for a woman.
I am disgusted with today's lack of modesty and rampant impropriety. Anything goes. Nothing is sacred, and that's just wrong. But, deep, deep within, there is a part of me that envies the freedom women have today. It might have been fun to wear a bikini back when I had a great figure to flaunt. Instead I wore an industrial strength, one piece suit carefully designed to reveal nothing but shoulders and legs.
I sometimes think I was born too soon.