the mind boggles. the media continues to whip the world into frenzy over breasts; who saw whose breasts and where and how and why. that each human being, man, woman and child is born with breasts, albeit more flatter, inverted variations, makes the mind boggle further. if the bosom was only particular to the rarest breed of species, i might better understand a photographers aggressive inquiry and their desire to steal a glance at this, the most elusive of all natures’ creations. but no.
as i type, i’m sat opposite a well-known musician in a shoreditch coffee quarters. a pitcher of elderflower between us, this weedy fellow, i observe, has breasts. skinny and flat chested as he is, i can see the soft tip of his nipples, gently pressing against his white wife beater vest. when he bends to feed his even hipper animal-creature-friend, chorizo, i catch a glimpse of his pink breasts. now is my chance i tell myself! if i just hover over him ever so discreetly, with my phone and simply click..!
i don’t though. because i don’t care. because, i have breasts and you have breasts and really, your breasts are altogether no different from mine mr. bass player with your second album selling sensationally on i-tunes. but mostly i’d get very little for your bosom, as the media haven’t successfully sexualised and objectified you beyond what is evolutionary possible. yet.
when he lifts his head, he catches my gaze, staring blankly at his man chest as i mull over ethics, accessibility and the i-phone.
he closes his denim shirt a little. i turn pink. like a right tit.
[hunter m. wilde]