Caught between a rock and a breast implant
I am probably in the minority here, and I couldn't care less. I am sick and tired of these solid as a rock tittie implants that women in LA are boldly carrying around on their chests like camels with cement humps.
There are a fair number of people who believe I have some sort of implant fetish because I feel the need to shout "LOOK FAKE BOOBS!" whenever I see them (as if the damn things aren't screaming that on their own). Well, for those of you who have the self-control to actually read the text of this bit rather than just jumping ahead to the photos, here's some background. This whole pseudo- obsession began when I moved back to LA from New York City. I was at a bar and I heard a woman telling all of her potential backwards baseball-capped suitors how much her implants cost ($4000). Of course I immediately snapped her picture and e-mailed it to all of my friends back in New York, with a message along the lines of "can you fucking believe the women here they have no shame and they pay for their boobs and they're proud of it please get me back to NYC ASAP because I really can't handle this place anymore I can't believe I moved this is out of control etc etc."
Well 7 years later I am still in LA, and I am still fascinated by the bold and confident manner in which women wear these udderly ridiculous sacs of saline. And this is my journey.
I have to wonder what the attraction is to this look. Fun bags like this occur naturally in two instances: porn stars and store mannequins. Personally, I would not like to find myself on top of either one, as there is a serious risk of either STD (with the former) or asbestosis (with the latter) which is a bit of a buzz kill. There have been men who have written to me with stories about how they purchased implants for their wives and "both of them" are so much happier. I even (personally) know someone who received breast implants as a wedding gift from her future in-laws. Well good for you. Eight years of blowing one's paycheck at the Spearmint Rhino looking for love and the dream finally came true. I love America.
No, she is not cold. Her mammary tissue is packed to the brim with plastic and synthetic boobage and her nipples have nowhere else to go but out.
Those look comfortable. My guess is she has one of those memory foam mattresses with two large indentations in it just so she can sleep on her stomach.
Is it wrong of me to laugh at bad boob jobs? Maybe. It is all in the name of education, and today's class will be about capsular contracture. Basically the scar tissue created from having your tit sliced open and man-handled starts closing in on its unwelcome new resident, the implant. Next thing you know, the implant starts migrating up the chest wall toward the shoulder (check out photo #3), or outward under the armpits. Pretty soon it's perched up there like a parrot or snuggled under your arm like a lymph node in a kid with mono. Not so sexy (for most).
Women in LA will continue to age, but their breasts will not. Their skin will become leathery and sun-damaged and their boobs will be perky as ever. They will lose their hair and develop hunchbacks and their chests will still stand tall and salute the sun with each new day.
Jogger lady, if you're out there, please contact me. I need to ask you something. You have a kick-ass body. Your abs could melt the hearts of a thousand men. Your arms cause women to drool in envy. What on earth possessed you to pull all of the attention away from the body you worked so hard for and refocus everyone on that set of half-cantaloupes super-glued to your chest? There are few women who can maintain a body fat percentage of 15 and not look like a stick of dry spaghetti. There are millions of women who can get a pair of fake boobies spot-welded to their rib cage with a pre-approved credit card and a little vicodin. Why not be proud of what you've got?
Should we go into the higher suicide rate of women with implants? (But why. The self-esteem link is too obvious and not worth discussing at this point). Should we ponder what to do about this vicious cycle of creating a body to fit Los Angeles' image of perfection which serves only to perpetuate the unrealistic standard? Should we talk about the billions of dollars spent on breast implant surgery last year and all of the humanistic things we could do with that money to create a better future for generations to come? Should we talk about how I'm a jackass for yelling "FAKE TITTIES, AISLE 6" at Dodger games? Should we do some sort of LAist experiment where everyone chips in and buys me implants for a year and I write about my daily experiences as a DD cup?
No seriously. You made it all the way down here? You actually read the text of this post? You must be the one who gets Playboy for the articles. Good to know you actually exist.