Of Men and Cleavages

My first response as I read Sumiko Tan’s column today was - I would have loved to be a subject in her experiment last Tuesday.

Which, of course, is a nice way of saying I would have loved to see her, ahem, cleavage.

Then I wondered, not for the first time, what’s in a cleavage that so entices a man? Why do we weaken and subject ourselves to a lady who opens her cleavage? Is it really the cleavage – or the hint of breasts – that excite men?

A cleavage is nothing more than a valley formed by flesh, and breasts, pardon the following expression, little more than lumps of meat.

Perhaps cleavages and breasts are signs of fertility. Freud, if I recall rightly, said that men in our subconscious are aroused by such symbols of fertility.

Is it just mischief? Maybe cleavages, breasts and the titillation they bring satisfy no more than the streak of mischief in men, of having seen the forbidden treasure.

One thing to clarify is that men react differently between a fleeting glimpse and constant exposure.

When we catch a fleeting glimpse of a nice cleavage, we go: Wow… slurp… and that's it, we move on. There's honestly not much more to it.

But if we see the same cleavage day-in, day-out, well, that’s a different story, and a host of social, interpersonal and personality factors come into play.

I recall a male neighbour who once complained angrily about a half-naked lady cleaning windows in an apartment facing ours.

I wondered, then, whether his discomfort was a sign of frustration, of being deprived, of having been shown a treasure but not being able to lay his hands on it?

To me, I just thought, well, savour the moment, and move on!

For ladies considering baring their cleavage, I'd suggest there are two components to a nice cleavage.

First the cleavage itself. It should be reasonably deep, cheekily bared, not excessive. A hint is alluring; too much is vulgar. Basketball boobs are a sure turnoff except to the wild and perverse; conversely, if they’re measly, don't bother.

Second, things come as a package. A nice cleavage needs to go with a decent body. There’s no use if it comes with a Marshmallow-man frame. It also needs a pleasant face to it (even though I know many who insist that everything looks the same in the dark).

A related question I have grappled with is why women themselves are so obsessed with their cleavages, too.

Perhaps it’s a vicious cycle. There's probably some truth in men’s insistence that with women taking so much effort to decorate their cleavages, it’s a crime for us not to pay attention to them.

But if women decorate their cleavages just so that men would pay attention to them, well, that to me is needlessly insecure.

For me personally, I have mixed views about cleavages.

It’s ok for other girls to flaunt more cleavage; it’s not so ok for my girlfriend to bare the same.

Yes, that’s double standards, but show me one normal man who enjoys seeing his partner expose her cleavage to strangers.

I appreciate women who take efforts to beautify their cleavages. But at the same time, I detest the fact that the Maximizer bra is meant to lie, and darn, I always fall for it!

Then there’s the issue of real or fake, and whether it matters. Part of me says that implants are no more than another means of beautification. The other part tells me to reject pirated and imitation goods.

But one thing I’m clear. I hate being with my girlfriend when she shops for bras. The different shapes, sizes, colours, designs, purposes and effects totally overwhelm me. I don’t know where to stand, where to look or how to behave. The whole place feels like a jungle, and I'm lost in it.

Maybe my discomfort is no more than my own response at being reminded of forbidden treasures. I have, after all, the same basic instincts and impulses as all other men.

And that tells me, if there’s a nice cleavage to be seen, why not?

I guess I just have to convince myself that there’s really no harm in going wow, slurp, and move on.