Tit. Boob. Pap. Tot. Simple. Round. Palindromic. I love them. And I love them for their simplicity. Man has fixated on the sweatercow since the birth of humanity for one reason: breasts are simple. Magnificently so (especially considering what else you’ve got). Like most men, I believe that if I had been endowed with breasts, I would never leave the house. I would have had no method of socialization. All I’ve done in my life is somehow linked, however elliptically, to the pursuit of opening the world’s beknockered doors.
If I had chesticles, I’d blog about them. And since Lilit Marcus has admirably done so, I must commend her righteous takedown of those foolish fashion minds who are trying to complicate my…er…your breasts with gadgetry.
Have I, upon gawkishly disrobing a woman, ever been disappointed with the outcome? No.
The stimuli attached to the sight of bare breasts, for most of us, makes Pavlov’s dogs look like bitches (you know, unless the dogs really were bitches of course, in which case, they’d have tits and out of sheer love we’d never slight them), and thusly, a guy is likely more grateful to have your bra finally off than he is obsessed with noting actual breast size versus predicted breast size or considering the dynamics of gravity. As far as I am concerned, anything done to further complicate my simple pleasures is unwelcome.
But in thinking about the intentional deception of men re: boobs viz. magic bras, I contend that we don’t really notice. I’m not sure it makes a considerable difference in whom we choose to approach on subways or at synagogue. To be honest, there really is only one kind of woman we’re pursuing strictly for the white meat. She’s definitely not reading this entry about bras (she may not even be literate), but she’s the one who practically wears her breasts outside of her shirt. She unpacks them on the bar. And in that case, there really are no surprises.
I should note that it certainly is mean of women to mock men for things like toupees, hair plugs, cucumber inserts, and the like when this substrata of feminine augmentation goes seemingly unnoted and unridiculed by men. I’ve been privy to (and abreast of) a lot of dude conversation and I’ve never heard a complaint about seeing a breast.
So ultimately (read: as usual), it’s all about you. I say if wearing your magic bras make you more confident then go for it. While I wish they were mine, they’re not. They’re yours.