You know, I’m sad because Ben got promoted. Now he works across town, at headquarters. He’s one of those buddies you develop out of necessity in the workplace. I suppose it’s some whacked-out version of the Stockholm syndrome. You love the one you’re with, right? But I have to admit that I’m a little relieved, too. Once Ben and I got comfortable with each other, we were always meeting at the water cooler. We sat together in the cafeteria almost every day. We were “work spouses.” And Ben made his preferences in women known to me. More specifically, he made known to me his preferences for a certain part of the anatomy of women. You’ve heard the clichés: Some guys are into butts, some are into breasts. Let me tell you that Ben is a breast man, in the same way that, say, Bill Clinton used to be a federal employee.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate a nice bustline. I like breasts too, although I tend to be afflicted by what I’ve come to call “alien plumber” syndrome. Sometimes you have these flashes of objectivity—as if you were an alien just landing on the planet, and you see human anatomy for what it is: bizarre plumbing, to say the least. Anyway, I like boobs fine. I tend to appreciate a nicely endowed feminine chest not so much for size, but for shape. I find most boob jobs highly disturbing because they tend to be unimaginative, balloon-like enhancements. It’s like shopping for tires based on tire pressure, as if the best tires were simply the ones that held the most air. Why don’t more women actually have boob jobs that make them look more shapely, instead of just bigger in all directions? Listen, ladies: Bigger is not better. Better is better, and plenty of men are really turned on by small and natural. My precious has a lovely B-cup, and I think she’s just about perfect. I’m no cosmetic surgeon, but if I were, I’d say ninety percent of all augmentations should actually be reductions, reshapings.
Back to my friend Ben. I need to tell you that Ben cannot stop talking about breasts. Although it’s pretty tough to make me uncomfortable, and I can talk sexy smack with the best of them, I’m afraid Ben is pathologically obsessed. Now Ben is a super-nice guy, with a great marriage. The idea of ever getting caught staring at a woman’s prerogative—well, it would horrify him, of course. Few things shame him more than getting casually busted by a woman who shoots him the evil eye for checking her out. Like most of my buddies, and like me, he’s a big puppy dog who wouldn’t hurt a flea. Perhaps we’re all depraved lechers. Perhaps we’re the only Gen X guys on the planet who act one way, and talk another way. We sneak our peeks, but we’re horrified of getting caught. Sunglasses are key. (If we’re not supposed to look, then why do they dress that way?)
This touches on another subject: Is it fair or right to talk about coworkers in a sexual way, privately and harmlessly? Is it OK to talk with workplace friends about sex? Is it OK for Ben to constantly talk to me about breasts? Well, most workplace manuals now explicitly forbid this kind of thing, in a prudent effort to nip sexual harassment in the bud. (More to the point, to nip litigation in the bud.) But here’s a problem: Everybody does it anyway. They’re just not making “unwelcome advances” or abusing their position for “sexual favors.” My friend Emily tells me the same is true among her girlfriends, although maybe the talk is a little less explicit. But they definitely talk about their male coworkers. (Funny how we seem to separate by gender, even in the office—where we’re supposed to be equals. It’s like we never graduated from third grade.) We men are pretty much relentlessly talking about or thinking about sex, even when we’re in perfect marriages, like me and my precious. So to cut out the sex talk at work, where we spend most of our waking hours, takes an honest, daily effort.
But tongues will wag, no matter what the employee handbook says. Generally, there is a widespread “grass is always greener” syndrome among the married men I know. If their wives have big busts, they develop an eye for itty-bitties. Buddies who have no more than a mouthful tend to wonder what it would be like to have some more flesh to play in. Personally, I don’t want what I haven’t got. Maybe that’s because I’m a butt guy, and my precious has the finest caboose on the tracks.
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