Well, nursing two kids and going through menopause will do that to a gal. Tits are, after all, delicate things. Many famous and otherwise rich persons have recognized this. Howard Hughes used to instruct his drivers, upon picking up girlfriends like Jane Russell, that they should slow to 3 mph over bumps, lest her breasts be damaged.
Oh, if old H.R.H. had ever realized what a 6-month-old suckling infant does to a tit, he would have had a heart attack for sure.
But I, being thick, tried to talk my friend out of new titties. Her old ones must, at the very least, have sentimental value. Sort of like my son's ancient baby blanket, which though tattered and worn, is still ultimately soft, and so infused with experience I still rustle it up on lazy afternoons to hold it close while napping.
But my friend's mind is firm on the matter. She's divorced and on the market again. And the market, as we all know, is a rough place. Used titties simply won't do. Never mind the agony entailed by any kind of surgery: the trauma, the pain pills, the violent cutting and grueling recovery. Never mind the fact that saline implants leak, and the silicone jobs do gawd knows what. It's about youth, packaging. Just exactly like everything else in this loony-bin world.
Well, almost everything. I was looking at a 50-year-old guy the other day, wearing cotton trousers, legs spread the way guys do, and I noticed something alarming. His balls, instead of nice and tight against his groin the way they're supposed to be, were headed southward like nobody's business. And instead of firm and round, they looked like Arizona lemons left out in the sun too long.
I mean, if that guy had any sensitivity to what it is women really want in a man, he'd have those suckers seen to: lifted and firmed up--perhaps some silicone or better yet, neoprene. Yeah, I know. I don't want to be too superficial; personality is important. Yada yada yada. But at the end of the day, what a gal really wants to hold on to is a firm, tight pair. It's the way we're hardwired. Nothing personal.
All this talk makes me nostalgic for my grandpa. Not that he went around with his pants undone. Far from it. He was a highly dignified man. A dentist, for Christ's sake! But back in those days, men didn't hold with fancy-pants blue jeans and Dockers. They wore pleated trousers, making for serious genital outlines. I remember sitting at his feet, wondering, what the heck is all that pancake droopy stuff between his legs? I mean, the other men I was around--my dad, the neighbor's dad--didn't have that shit going on. What happened?
Another reminiscence takes me to less-happier times. I was taking a yoga class near Kolb and Sabino Canyon roads. It was mostly females, but a couple of times, a guy came in wearing running shorts, and I had the unfortunate position in class behind him. It was all I could do to keep from asking: Where did you get those things? Lost luggage at the airport? How long they been hanging around, anyway? They looked like wet tube socks half full of sand.
Now wait a minute. I can hear it all now. Why should a man go through all this slicing and tucking and stuffing and stapling just to please the whims of a few superficial women? Well, the answer's a very simple one: self-esteem. That's what women who've undergone cosmetic surgery always tell me. "I did it for myself," they say. "So when I look in the mirror, I like what I see." There's even a sub specialty in psychiatry these days: docs making their whole nut telling women whether their reasons for tit jobs, face jobs, butt jobs and the rest are psychologically sound. I don't think that any of these guys would balk at consulting on a few ball jobs. Men, after all, have a right to like what they see in the mirror, too. Even if it is dictated by somebody else.
