Many men and women seem to feel free to comment upon a woman’s breasts without her consent. I didn’t say all men — or even most men — because I know that some men will object. Some men respect women enough not to comment upon a woman’s breasts, and some men just don’t care. It’s the same with women.
I am a woman, and I will admit that I’ve commented on another woman’s breasts. I’ve never introduced the subject publicly at a party or a shopping mall, but that’s another story.
A friend of mine has large breasts. She has smooth creamy skin and light colored nipples. I tell her that her breasts look amazing because they do. She is not offended because I know my audience.
We converse about our bodies all the time — what we like, what we don’t like, and what we’re doing to feel better about ourselves. So talking about each other’s breasts is acceptable — because we both agree it’s acceptable. That constitutes both permission and consent.
One time, I was walking through a shopping mall with my then-husband. We were mere steps from the exit door when a group of men blocked our path. They gawked at my chest.
One of the men pointed at me. “Those are the biggest tits I’ve ever seen,” he said.
I was at a shopping mall — with my husband. Let that sink in. I was minding my own business, doing the walk and talk, when a stranger decided loudly and without an invitation to speak about my breasts — to everyone in the vicinity.
It’s like he was making an announcement. He did not have my consent either express or implied.
It doesn’t matter what I was wearing, but I’ll tell you anyway. I was wearing a pair of tight black spandex leggings that were capri-length, and I was wearing a plain white t-shirt.
I was fully covered and clothed with the exception of my shins and my lower arms — and my head. My white t-shirt wasn’t particularly tight, and it was definitely not sheer — not that any of that matters. I’m just making a point. I could have been wearing a bikini or a burlap sack. They are still my breasts and not a tourist attraction.
Several years later, I was at a party. The party was already winding down when I arrived. I had worked late before going home to change my clothes. Then I got lost on my way to the hostess’s house.
I walked into her tiny apartment wearing my party outfit — jeans, sneakers, and a long-sleeved button-down silk shirt that was buttoned to my collar bone.
The guests were all coworkers — my coworkers — whom I saw on a daily basis. One of them was clearly drunk. He lolled [not LOL’d] on the sofa, looking so relaxed that he appeared to be boneless.
When he spotted me, he raised his unsteady head and pointed. “You,” he said, “have the biggest breasts I have ever seen.” His words were slurred, but they were clear enough — and loud enough — that everyone in attendance heard them.
My breasts may be a bit larger than average in size, but they surely aren’t in need of a full-scale announcement every time I enter a room — or exit a shopping mall. They are breasts, and they are mine. If I want to discuss them, then I will. If I want to share photos of them with willing recipients, then I will.
If I want to smother them in Cool Whip and allow my partner to eat strawberries off them, then guess what I’m going to do.
However, if all I want to do is walk through a shopping mall or go to a party without having the size of my breasts analyzed and announced to the world, then I should be able to do that, too.