Me and My B's

LOS ANGELES—I have a very intense relationship with my boobs. I'm not only very fond of my mammary glands, but I think I appreciate them more than the average girl does. Probably because I thought I'd never have them. Beginning in junior high, when girls started getting curvy and stowing Tampax in their purses, I was a five-foot-tall skinny rail and the butt of every flat-chested joke you could imagine. Teased mercilessly by both girls and boys well into high school—you're a carpenter's dream, flat as a board!—I had resigned myself to being tittieless forever. When I was 17, it finally happened: I hit puberty. I was what they call a late bloomer—just in time to graduate from high school, I had grown five inches, my hips widened, and yes, I finally had a reason to wear a bra. My development continued in college as my body grew into the shape it wanted to settle into, and I became the proud owner of perky B-cup breasts.

My belated transformation was never clearer than when I met a high school classmate I hadn't seen for nearly 10 years. We had dinner along with some of my friends from college, and after catching up on a decade, she said, "I just have to ask: Did you get a boob job?" Everyone else at the table was shocked; they had no idea what she was talking about. "They're just much bigger than I ever remember, and they're quite nice." I took it as a compliment—she knew me when I couldn't fill a training bra, so she could see how the "girls" blossomed better than anyone else at the table. When people compliment me on my tits, I have to remind myself that I actually have them, because sometimes I still think of myself as that pre-pubescent girl. I look in the mirror and marvel at their pointed presence in my life.

I recently brought my B's with me to Los Angeles, where it seems like everyone has an impressive rack. I used to think that porn stars had the market cornered on breast implants, but the more I look around, the more I realize that plenty of women who will never be featured on the box cover of Titty Titty Bang Bang have bought their bosoms. To be fair, it's not just the cantaloupes that are ripe: L.A. is the land of beautiful people with impossibly gorgeous bodies. Go anywhere, from Armani Exchange on Rodeo Drive to Mexican fast-food joint Baja Fresh on Sunset Boulevard, and it's like a casting call for the next generation of Baywatch. Perfect physiques abound here, and while some are the product of good genes and gym workouts, lots of them have had help from modern medicine. Plastic surgery is not just a choice, it's a way of life.

I got the chance to see plenty of tasty tatas (only a few of them faux) at a performance of The Pussycat Dolls, the naughty neo-burlesque show which features Carmen Electra and other celebs putting the tease back into striptease (sadly, they only strip down to bras and undies). In honor of the X-Games, special surprise guest Pink sang, danced, and strutted her stuff with her usual feisty, irreverent style. I love Pink because she's tomboy-tough and sexy in a fuck-you sort of way; she looks like she could kick any guy's ass and would if he messed with her. What's so refreshing about her personal style is that she expands the gender options for all women. A dykey, punky straight girl, Pink gives butch hetero women everywhere a role model for having a non-girly gender: with a guy-digging sexual orientation. Pink personifies one of the things I appreciated about the Pussycat Dolls show: Not everyone onstage was that typical blonde, busty archetype of beauty.

As if to accentuate my analysis before I even came up with it, as the Dolls sashayed down from the balcony to the main stage, Pamela Anderson trotted onstage for a fleeting cameo. She said something into a microphone that wasn't working, then flitted off. At first, I thought she was an apparition: She came and went so fast, I could have imagined her, plus the way she looked left me dumbfounded. I've always thought that Kid Rock's number one groupie looks kind of bizarre in photos and on-screen, like a Barbie doll on steroids. I assumed that seeing her in the three-dimensional flesh would belie her cartoonish appearance. It was the opposite: She looked utterly cyborg-like in a thin, shiny stripper dress that might as well have been Saran Wrap. The centerpiece of her body is, of course, her gigantic bazooms, perfectly round like mass-produced dishes, standing at attention without the aid of elastic or underwire, with nipples like oversize stereo knobs; she's so stacked, she looks like she might topple over at any moment. I remember in 1999, when Ms. Anderson held a press conference to reveal she'd had her implants removed (taking her down to her "natural" 36C) in the wake of reports that silicone implants were unsafe. But something's happened between now and then, and Pam's globes seem to be back with a vengeance, bigger and bolder than ever before. I saw them with my own eyes, kids, and they are inflated beyond recognition. My question is: Do people think that's sexy?

I feel like I can't always get guys to be straight with me on this topic. To my face, they play all politically correct and insist that they don't like giant fake hooters. But someone out there is dropping a lot of cash to worship busty porn stars, tip the strippers with the biggest tits the most, and keep Jugs magazine in business. Some men will admit that they like big boobs, no matter where they come from, while others like the look of artificial cleavage, but not necessarily how the fake ones feel. I prefer when the contents of the cups are all natural, but I've also been that girl with itty-bitty titties, so I can understand the desire to have more than a mouthful. But when they're bigger than your head, I think it's time to stop the madness.

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