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]
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