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Experiment: "God was very generous with you," a Parisian friend once told me. Sadly, he wasn't referring to my IQ or ability to find a parking space. No, he was talking about my breasts, big and especially disproportionate to my five-foot frame. Since the day I fully bloomed, I've struggled to accept them, often resorting to guerrilla minimizing tactics: doubling up sports bras, duct-taping, and strapping on heavy chest armor.
When I started developing breasts, I never embraced them or felt excited by them like many other women do. I didn't find anything amusing about men blatantly staring at my chest and mumbling crudely, and the feeling of vulnerability crushed me.
But for science, I was willing to rethink the matter. I decided to find out how much power breasts really have. Am I neglecting an asset I could use to get everything I want in life? Let the tests begin.
Hypothesis: (Cup Size > AA) Breast x 2 + Cleavage = Power
Materials:
A properly fitted bra
•A sports bra/minimizer
• A v-neck top or dress
• A loose t-shirt
• Twenty males (preferably strangers)
• An expensive bar
• A flat-chested girlfriend
Preparation: I desperately needed to update my lingerie collection, which consisted of hideously un-sexy minimizers and old bras from ninth grade (a sign of wishful thinking that one day I'd wake up to a magically deflated chest). So I headed up to Townshop, a quaint lingerie store on Manhattan's Upper West Side specializing in the "art of fitting." The last time I checked my size I was a 36DD, but according to my bra fitter, Chauntelle, I was a 30F. Although Chauntelle swore that I wasn't "big" ("we carry size K"), I was appalled.
If you've never been professionally bra-fitted before, let me warn you: it may be an art, but it feels like an intense military operation, involving awkward physical positions and rough handling of intimate body parts.
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Am I neglecting an asset I could use to get everything I want in life?
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"Bend over!" Chauntelle ordered.
Hesitating, I obeyed. She slipped on my bra over my hands and made sure my dangling boobs were within the perimeters of the cup before I stood straight again. Once I was straightened and harnessed, she continued her orders, but this time I felt like I was learning the Lindy Hop. "Now shimmy to the left, and shimmy to the right, then do the finger slide," she instructed, jiggling her chest from side to side and sliding her index finger inside my bra from the cleavage point out. "Now give your sisters a little tap... and that's how to properly put on a bra."
All the maneuvering was worth it. Hot damn! I thought, admiring my protruding cleavage. For the first time, my breasts weren't squished into pancake shapes, looking instead like balls of plump, peach-colored cushion. There was something incredibly appealing about the supple curves of my chest, the soft bounce of them when I moved and the subtle crease in the middle.
"Can I show you off?" beamed Chauntelle, beckoning her co-workers in for a private peep show. They crowded in the stall, admiring my bust, and began oohing and aahing; I felt like a proud mother showing off her newborn twins.
Out on the street, however, I felt more like a platter of steaming doughnuts at a Weight Watchers meeting. Seriously, dudes, didn't your mamas teach you not to stare? Under normal circumstances (when I'm not undercover in my lab coat), I rely on substantial qualities to seduce men, such as my impressive knowledge of nuclear-warfare theories or my ability to mimic Russian and Indian accents. But now attracting men — at least in one regard — seemed effortless.
Method: Now that I was properly outfitted, it was time to put my chest to the test. For my first experiment, I would ask unsuspecting male subjects to sign a fictitious and utterly ridiculous petition. The variable would be the amount of cleavage exposed during the signature collection.
Thanks to my friends and their drunken brainstorming, I found myself in busy Union Square promoting "The Banana Project," a made-up campaign to ban all human consumption of bananas simply because I "strongly believed" they belonged in mouths of monkeys. For round one, I layered myself in a minimizer and sports bra and then put on a loose workout t-shirt. Having thoroughly disguised my bust, I was ready to campaign.
Please note: if you've never petitioned for anything before, it takes a lot of balls. People don't want to listen to you, and if you're petitioning for something as ridiculous as "The Banana Project," they will laugh in your face. My armpits were shvitzing from Hooksexups and public humiliation, as I became a target for all the sarcasm in Union Square:
"Countries that produce the fruit will suffer!"
"What am I supposed to eat?"
"Why bananas and not apples?"
"I don't buy that. You're really weird."
"How am I going to get my potassium?"
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