Enjoy my friends........
Essay on breasts
by Pedro Mairal
Now that the heat arrives and all over the city the breasts emerge with their promising vanguard of soft time, perhaps it's worth surrendering to that primary curiosity that breasts generate in men's lives. First there are the paradigmatic breasts, formative ones. The alarmist breasts of cinema or TV. Depending on age. For one generation they were Loren's breasts in Bocaccio 70, or Anita Ekberg's in La Dolce Vita. For others it will have been Cucinotta's breasts in Il postino, or Monica Bellucci's more stylized and harmonious breasts in Malena. Italian cinema has always been a provider of great Mediterranean breasts.
American breasts, on the other hand, always remained in the background, behind explosions and car crashes. The United States was never a good provider of breasts, except for Lynda Carter's in Wonder Woman, which were quite notable, athletic, high-spirited, heroic, incredibly controlled by that star-studded corset. Wonder Woman provoked many men's first anxieties, the first unease, that terrible feeling of lack that left us trembling before the TV and Nestquik, without understanding why. But generally, American breasts tend to be more silicone-based, like Pamela Anderson's in Baywatch. Or if they're natural - as with brunette icon Tyra Banks - they have no charm or are sexy. Tyra is so unsexy that on her show she invited a famous plastic surgeon to test, live, whether her breasts were natural. The surgeon palpated them and did a mammogram on stage in front of the invited audience. Tyra, excited, had her voice break explaining that she was doing this because she was tired of people saying her breasts weren't hers.
At the national level, Coca Sarli has not yet been dethroned from her position as exclusive diva of mammary fetishism, with an entire filmography dedicated to hers panoramic breasts, their breasts like those sponsored by the national tourism office, because they were popping up in all the lakes, mountains, and waterfalls of the country, giving them a geographical category to those exhibited breasts alongside the exuberance of the landscape. Their long floats on Argentine hydrography may not have had or will never have a parallel.
After virtual and media tits, real tits appear in one's life, perhaps still not palpable but visible. Those tits that one saw for the first time naked, in person, are never forgotten again. When I was in second year of high school, I took March Spanish and literature to class and had to take private lessons in syntactic analysis with a professor who came to my house. Her name was Teresa. I was 15 and she didn't pass 25. It was December and it was hot. Teresa would come to my house wearing loose-fitting tops without a bra. One day, sitting together, leaning forward to analyze sentences, I saw her breasts through the neckline, the tips of her breasts, the pink nipples. I felt a violent alteration, as if all my blood had stopped and started flowing in the opposite direction. She noticed and adjusted her top without worrying too much, letting it happen several times. I took more classes, studied hard, and gave a very good exam. I never forgot Teresa's syntactic structures. The clandestine lightning of her 20-year-old breasts gave an eroticism to the material that no high school teacher could ever infuse.
The gaze of men doubles. When a woman with beautiful breasts passes by, the gaze of men curves, seeks, inserts itself through folds, through necklines or unbuttoned buttons, and guesses, weighs, judges. Women model their breasts as they like. Clothing can lift breasts, hide them, adjust them, make them transparent, suggest them, enlarge them. It's good to know all those... tricks, not so much to avoid being deceived, but rather to participate and surrender to the game. The breasts of the 1950s, for example, were conical, part of a solid torso and threatened; then, in the 1960s, the breasts disappeared a bit from the scene in hippie pacifist anti-bra; in the 1980s, the silicone fever began; and now the breasts are like compressed balls pushed upwards by the famous Wonderbra. You have to keep in mind that the Wonderbra gives shape but also rigidity. And it's a shame because there's nothing like that hypnotic tremor that goes at a different rhythm from the woman's steps, like a counter-rhythm, a syncopation characteristic of natural breasts in action.
Breasts have their own life; they're not like the ass, for example, which moves directed by its owner. Breasts seem difficult to control. On occasion of gallops, stairs, and trots to reach the collective, they can even be funny, clumsy, and little serious. Some women however have the ability to direct them. Our dazzling Carla Conte, for example, knows how to make a minimum enthusiastic tap dance, a bounce of affirmation, full sympathy, here I am, which causes an upward tremor that ends in a kind of trampoline vibration at the height of her plenipotentiary breasts of a neighborhood girl. A movement that won her television viewers and stops the zapping.
Inside evolutionary changes, going from Homo sapiens to Homo mediaticus, the most important function of breasts today is no longer reproduction but the ability to increase the rating.
But returning to real breasts on this side of the screen, how do you access them, how do you reach and reveal them? Women with large breasts have developed a skill over years to stop men's hands. The man-pulpo is the one who can't keep up, the one who already has both hands grabbing each butt cheek and goes for more, because he wants to palpate simultaneously the abundance of tits and it's like they're born with two additional arms to reach that end. But women with big tits have a lot of skill, know how to interpose their elbow and block any attempt at advance. You have to learn that if a woman stops one hand you shouldn't insist, but try again later on the other side, slowly, without rushing. Never should you try to touch her tits before giving her a kiss, because it would be a failure (there are exceptions, there are very intense approaches from behind that come with double squeezing of tits and kissing on the neck, but they're not very frequent among strangers). In general, tits are explored during the kiss, in the most passionate part of the kiss. Once you're installed in that whirlwind, you can slide your hand up her back to explore under the elastic of the bra's cup, but without unfastening anything yet, in a caress that reaches the nape of the neck, which hides it a bit but at the same time says I'm already here underneath this tight lycra and I won't stop. If the woman gives tacit consent (because you never should ask or request permission) then yes, you can try to unfasten, dismantle the delicate engineering of the bra, disable that lovely tension, the elastic, the tightness of the tits held between designs of ribbons and flowers. And then comes the truth, without intimate textile tricks, pure and palpable double reality. Then they appear, come out in stereo, unfold the tits in all their variants as examples of biodiversity. Hard tits, new tits, spilled tits, heavy tits, soft tits, ungraspable tits, tits that don't sag or crease like high cupolas with pink nipples, barely protruding but finally found by the hands, huge and full tits, asymmetrical tits, brief but pointed tits with hard nipples, smooth tits with enormous aureoles just sketched out, white tits, brown tits, with bikini marks, small happy tits, timid tits elusive, or defiant, proud, warrior-like. All beautiful, ready for the kiss, tongue, minimum bite, and provoking an intense thirst the more prominent, a ridiculous attitude from the man who suddenly acts like a blind, hungry, and unbridled puppy.
And yet that thirst is not fully quenched. There's something mysterious about the attraction to breasts. Because, what are people looking for in breasts? The attractions below the waist have a clear and complementary objective, which ultimately consumes itself without too much ambiguity. But in breasts, what do adults seek? That everything be a simulation of lactation doesn't quite close the deal. Too edgy and cliché that of seeking to repeat that nutritional link with the mother. And besides, what do women offer when they offer their breasts? They say that the existence of breasts has a sexual attraction purpose (in addition to its alimentary end). They say that since human females have had to develop a kind of duplication of the anus in front of their body to attract males. That's the goal those two spheres would fulfill at the height of the upper ribs: being a lure similar to a striking anus. The explanation seems quite ridiculous and perhaps because the human body is quite ridiculous - it may be true.
Breasts are irresistible. Magnets for the eyes. Breasts invite you to dive in and spend a summer between those two hemispheres. They're stronger than one. There's a hormonal and animal force that surpasses all attempts at repression and civilization not to look, not to end up like a primate with a desire. Looking straight into the eyes of a woman with a good cleavage is a difficult exercise in self-control, almost impossible for our eyes not to slide towards those curves, not to fall and surrender to the gravity of the earth's roundness. Because there are breasts that are unsustainable, and they provoke incredulity. One looks once and returns looking thinking Did I see well? And yes, one saw well, and that vision generates unease, total dissatisfaction with life, one wants to enter that soft and smooth world, one feels far from those breasts, abandoned like a soldier in the trench.
The anorexic taste of the era proposes an ideal of thin woman but with large breasts, something rare that only occurs in exceptional cases. That's why there is an abundance of false breasts in the media, breasts that are strabismic, disoriented, and sometimes orthopedic. Women are expected to be emaciated and end up getting silicone implants because without prosthetics they would present barely protruding breasts, like a ballet dancer; a subtle and suggested beauty that television seems unable to accept.
A strange but frequent rule makes the breast women have flat buttocks, and the buttock women have flat tops. As if in the distribution there had to be an option for one or the other. The Latin American woman usually has more prominent glutes than globes. The average Brazilian woman, with her Afro-Tupi mix, usually has powerful brown dimples and is quite flat-chested. In contrast, European women, Northerners, tend to present - as I heard once on a cable channel - an important mammary volume. Germans, Swedes, Scandinavian Valkyries are women with all their life ahead of them. They advance heroically with large round golden breasts that diverge. In France, there is more of a cult to the breasts than to the buttocks, and yet French women - except for Normandy exceptions like Laetitia Casta - usually tend to be thin, scarce, and fine.
Maybe breasts are not indispensable, but they bring joy. Luckily, Argentinians, thanks to the encounter of native bloods and Mediterranean immigration, usually have harmonious measurements, which means they're good from all sides. And if we were to fall in love with a woman without breasts, we'd have to put up with it, want her, and say '... Sometimes just a few slipped away, hiding it. You have to be careful. A friend had a lapse that hastened his separation. His girlfriend, who was very fat and jealous, got tired of catching him looking at cleavages on the street and prophesied: You'll leave me one day for a big bust. And he, wanting to fix her, replied: Without you I'd be lost, love, you're my salvation table. By Pedro Mairal
Essay on breasts
by Pedro Mairal
Now that the heat arrives and all over the city the breasts emerge with their promising vanguard of soft time, perhaps it's worth surrendering to that primary curiosity that breasts generate in men's lives. First there are the paradigmatic breasts, formative ones. The alarmist breasts of cinema or TV. Depending on age. For one generation they were Loren's breasts in Bocaccio 70, or Anita Ekberg's in La Dolce Vita. For others it will have been Cucinotta's breasts in Il postino, or Monica Bellucci's more stylized and harmonious breasts in Malena. Italian cinema has always been a provider of great Mediterranean breasts.
American breasts, on the other hand, always remained in the background, behind explosions and car crashes. The United States was never a good provider of breasts, except for Lynda Carter's in Wonder Woman, which were quite notable, athletic, high-spirited, heroic, incredibly controlled by that star-studded corset. Wonder Woman provoked many men's first anxieties, the first unease, that terrible feeling of lack that left us trembling before the TV and Nestquik, without understanding why. But generally, American breasts tend to be more silicone-based, like Pamela Anderson's in Baywatch. Or if they're natural - as with brunette icon Tyra Banks - they have no charm or are sexy. Tyra is so unsexy that on her show she invited a famous plastic surgeon to test, live, whether her breasts were natural. The surgeon palpated them and did a mammogram on stage in front of the invited audience. Tyra, excited, had her voice break explaining that she was doing this because she was tired of people saying her breasts weren't hers.
At the national level, Coca Sarli has not yet been dethroned from her position as exclusive diva of mammary fetishism, with an entire filmography dedicated to hers panoramic breasts, their breasts like those sponsored by the national tourism office, because they were popping up in all the lakes, mountains, and waterfalls of the country, giving them a geographical category to those exhibited breasts alongside the exuberance of the landscape. Their long floats on Argentine hydrography may not have had or will never have a parallel.
After virtual and media tits, real tits appear in one's life, perhaps still not palpable but visible. Those tits that one saw for the first time naked, in person, are never forgotten again. When I was in second year of high school, I took March Spanish and literature to class and had to take private lessons in syntactic analysis with a professor who came to my house. Her name was Teresa. I was 15 and she didn't pass 25. It was December and it was hot. Teresa would come to my house wearing loose-fitting tops without a bra. One day, sitting together, leaning forward to analyze sentences, I saw her breasts through the neckline, the tips of her breasts, the pink nipples. I felt a violent alteration, as if all my blood had stopped and started flowing in the opposite direction. She noticed and adjusted her top without worrying too much, letting it happen several times. I took more classes, studied hard, and gave a very good exam. I never forgot Teresa's syntactic structures. The clandestine lightning of her 20-year-old breasts gave an eroticism to the material that no high school teacher could ever infuse.
The gaze of men doubles. When a woman with beautiful breasts passes by, the gaze of men curves, seeks, inserts itself through folds, through necklines or unbuttoned buttons, and guesses, weighs, judges. Women model their breasts as they like. Clothing can lift breasts, hide them, adjust them, make them transparent, suggest them, enlarge them. It's good to know all those... tricks, not so much to avoid being deceived, but rather to participate and surrender to the game. The breasts of the 1950s, for example, were conical, part of a solid torso and threatened; then, in the 1960s, the breasts disappeared a bit from the scene in hippie pacifist anti-bra; in the 1980s, the silicone fever began; and now the breasts are like compressed balls pushed upwards by the famous Wonderbra. You have to keep in mind that the Wonderbra gives shape but also rigidity. And it's a shame because there's nothing like that hypnotic tremor that goes at a different rhythm from the woman's steps, like a counter-rhythm, a syncopation characteristic of natural breasts in action.
Breasts have their own life; they're not like the ass, for example, which moves directed by its owner. Breasts seem difficult to control. On occasion of gallops, stairs, and trots to reach the collective, they can even be funny, clumsy, and little serious. Some women however have the ability to direct them. Our dazzling Carla Conte, for example, knows how to make a minimum enthusiastic tap dance, a bounce of affirmation, full sympathy, here I am, which causes an upward tremor that ends in a kind of trampoline vibration at the height of her plenipotentiary breasts of a neighborhood girl. A movement that won her television viewers and stops the zapping.
Inside evolutionary changes, going from Homo sapiens to Homo mediaticus, the most important function of breasts today is no longer reproduction but the ability to increase the rating.
But returning to real breasts on this side of the screen, how do you access them, how do you reach and reveal them? Women with large breasts have developed a skill over years to stop men's hands. The man-pulpo is the one who can't keep up, the one who already has both hands grabbing each butt cheek and goes for more, because he wants to palpate simultaneously the abundance of tits and it's like they're born with two additional arms to reach that end. But women with big tits have a lot of skill, know how to interpose their elbow and block any attempt at advance. You have to learn that if a woman stops one hand you shouldn't insist, but try again later on the other side, slowly, without rushing. Never should you try to touch her tits before giving her a kiss, because it would be a failure (there are exceptions, there are very intense approaches from behind that come with double squeezing of tits and kissing on the neck, but they're not very frequent among strangers). In general, tits are explored during the kiss, in the most passionate part of the kiss. Once you're installed in that whirlwind, you can slide your hand up her back to explore under the elastic of the bra's cup, but without unfastening anything yet, in a caress that reaches the nape of the neck, which hides it a bit but at the same time says I'm already here underneath this tight lycra and I won't stop. If the woman gives tacit consent (because you never should ask or request permission) then yes, you can try to unfasten, dismantle the delicate engineering of the bra, disable that lovely tension, the elastic, the tightness of the tits held between designs of ribbons and flowers. And then comes the truth, without intimate textile tricks, pure and palpable double reality. Then they appear, come out in stereo, unfold the tits in all their variants as examples of biodiversity. Hard tits, new tits, spilled tits, heavy tits, soft tits, ungraspable tits, tits that don't sag or crease like high cupolas with pink nipples, barely protruding but finally found by the hands, huge and full tits, asymmetrical tits, brief but pointed tits with hard nipples, smooth tits with enormous aureoles just sketched out, white tits, brown tits, with bikini marks, small happy tits, timid tits elusive, or defiant, proud, warrior-like. All beautiful, ready for the kiss, tongue, minimum bite, and provoking an intense thirst the more prominent, a ridiculous attitude from the man who suddenly acts like a blind, hungry, and unbridled puppy.
And yet that thirst is not fully quenched. There's something mysterious about the attraction to breasts. Because, what are people looking for in breasts? The attractions below the waist have a clear and complementary objective, which ultimately consumes itself without too much ambiguity. But in breasts, what do adults seek? That everything be a simulation of lactation doesn't quite close the deal. Too edgy and cliché that of seeking to repeat that nutritional link with the mother. And besides, what do women offer when they offer their breasts? They say that the existence of breasts has a sexual attraction purpose (in addition to its alimentary end). They say that since human females have had to develop a kind of duplication of the anus in front of their body to attract males. That's the goal those two spheres would fulfill at the height of the upper ribs: being a lure similar to a striking anus. The explanation seems quite ridiculous and perhaps because the human body is quite ridiculous - it may be true.
Breasts are irresistible. Magnets for the eyes. Breasts invite you to dive in and spend a summer between those two hemispheres. They're stronger than one. There's a hormonal and animal force that surpasses all attempts at repression and civilization not to look, not to end up like a primate with a desire. Looking straight into the eyes of a woman with a good cleavage is a difficult exercise in self-control, almost impossible for our eyes not to slide towards those curves, not to fall and surrender to the gravity of the earth's roundness. Because there are breasts that are unsustainable, and they provoke incredulity. One looks once and returns looking thinking Did I see well? And yes, one saw well, and that vision generates unease, total dissatisfaction with life, one wants to enter that soft and smooth world, one feels far from those breasts, abandoned like a soldier in the trench.
The anorexic taste of the era proposes an ideal of thin woman but with large breasts, something rare that only occurs in exceptional cases. That's why there is an abundance of false breasts in the media, breasts that are strabismic, disoriented, and sometimes orthopedic. Women are expected to be emaciated and end up getting silicone implants because without prosthetics they would present barely protruding breasts, like a ballet dancer; a subtle and suggested beauty that television seems unable to accept.
A strange but frequent rule makes the breast women have flat buttocks, and the buttock women have flat tops. As if in the distribution there had to be an option for one or the other. The Latin American woman usually has more prominent glutes than globes. The average Brazilian woman, with her Afro-Tupi mix, usually has powerful brown dimples and is quite flat-chested. In contrast, European women, Northerners, tend to present - as I heard once on a cable channel - an important mammary volume. Germans, Swedes, Scandinavian Valkyries are women with all their life ahead of them. They advance heroically with large round golden breasts that diverge. In France, there is more of a cult to the breasts than to the buttocks, and yet French women - except for Normandy exceptions like Laetitia Casta - usually tend to be thin, scarce, and fine.
Maybe breasts are not indispensable, but they bring joy. Luckily, Argentinians, thanks to the encounter of native bloods and Mediterranean immigration, usually have harmonious measurements, which means they're good from all sides. And if we were to fall in love with a woman without breasts, we'd have to put up with it, want her, and say '... Sometimes just a few slipped away, hiding it. You have to be careful. A friend had a lapse that hastened his separation. His girlfriend, who was very fat and jealous, got tired of catching him looking at cleavages on the street and prophesied: You'll leave me one day for a big bust. And he, wanting to fix her, replied: Without you I'd be lost, love, you're my salvation table. By Pedro Mairal
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