A recent New York Times article mentioned (in passing) a website exclusively devoted to celebrity bra sizes. The service provided is undeniable: If you’re an oppressively thoughtful guy wanting to buy Hilary Swank a bra, no need to even check in with her. We got you covered.
Does that smack of perversity to you? At first blush, it shouldn’t. On the ever-rocketing ladder of internet perversity, researching celebrity bra sizes is riotously wholesome. There are southern congressmen who would roll their eyes at this one.
However, the existence of this site does confirm one pseudo-psycho-socio-quasi-anthropological fact: Among its many stunning qualities, nothing tops the human male’s capacity for coming up with new and inexplicable fetishes.
Sure, American men put in some time making America great, but that’s nothing compared to our pursuit of subversive thrills: The man hours of self-reflection, the discovery and refinement of newly minted ways to appease our bottomless supply of degenerates… How does this not qualify as the full-time job of a civilization?
If you don’t believe that conjuring fetishism isn’t men’s primary creative outlet, just look up, pick out the first object in your sightline and rest assured there are men who fantasize about it and a website who loves them.
Whatever. The information drives him through the rest of his day without any co-workers knowing of his own custom-designed, sub-dermal whack-ness.
Maybe I’m incurably mainstream, but something is wrong when a man has little or no interest in the actual celebrity breast, just its size. It’s like a criminal who hijacks an armored car purely to have transportation. Next up… fetishizing the machines stitching bras.
Look, men don’t have life-giving breasts. For that reason, we’ve been long fixated on them and that should have been enough. Coveting what we see everyday is normal, according to Dr. Lecter. And even when it’s not normal it’s more human than the pursuit celebrity bra sizes. To wit:
Once during Seinfeld, a mash note came to the office addressed to an actress who won’t be named. The guy started his letter with writing that was sweet, flowery and genuinely admiring. He pointed out her various talents, moved on to her physicality then, after praising her beautiful breasts, felt the need to clarify his meaning by adding (“Tits”). From there, the letter devolved into a sexual jailbreak. Around the office, we laughed and shook our heads at male lunacy.
Now that guy is the old model: sane, healthy, well-adjusted. Interested in actual breasts.
Originally published at fiveoclock.harrys.com.