employed with equal authority

The compact is clear: A woman with breast augmentation asks to be regarded. It really isn’t about size; it’s about attitude. Her attitude. That’s a provocation most men welcome.

Good implants look more than real; they look miraculous and animated—firm, elevated, shaped. They seem unimported, wholly of the woman. The word you want to use is incredible. Cheap implants, on the other hand, look painful and cartoonlike. They make the breast look flipped up, appended. The skin is stretched too tight, giving every inch of the grape the tactile feedback of a grapefruit. The word here? Unbearable. I know men who claim they don’t care, either way—they just love them big. Size queens. There’s no arguing subtlety with guys like that.

Encountering an augmented breast for the first time is a bit like sitting in a very expensive car before a test-drive. It’s unfamiliar and more than a little exciting. It’s different from your normal ride. Things have been tricked up. It may be bigger than you’re used to, and certain places are firmer, appear newer, seem to offer a different kind of function. You can’t help responding to the features—the DVD player in the console, the fancy steering wheel, the huge speakers. You shake your head; it is, after all, just a car. Still, you feel lured.

But when you get intimate with the augmented breast, two things are certain: You can always feel the implant, and feeling it will always lead you to the conscious realization that someone pimped this breast. Any guy who has ever had so much as a lap dance will tell you that implants are an undeniably different tactile experience. The truth is in the touch.

I once dated an airline gate agent who’d moved to a C cup after years as an A. I had seen pictures of her—”before” pictures—and I have to admit that as I sat there, with the after picture in the flesh, it seemed to me she had made a reasonable choice. She was wildly proud of her new breasts and took her shirt off the first night we dated just to show me, long before we even kissed. “More is more,” she told me as we sat thigh-to-thigh on her couch. We were 30 minutes from our first meal together, and there she was with her shirt off, her shoulders square, her back firm and upright. She asked me if I liked her posture. “My doctor said good posture is just as important as the implants.” He had a point.

She admitted even then that the implants came at some cost. She spoke like a sage. “I didn’t go to church for four weeks after I had the surgery,” she said. “But people always forget who you were. They only remember what you are.” She was, she told me, completely used to the change within a few months of the surgery. However, in the coming weeks, she introduced me to a series of breast-related routines that indicated otherwise. She didn’t like any weight on her chest, not even my arm around her shoulder at the movies, because she could feel the implants. She couldn’t sleep on her left side easily, though she asked me to favor her left breast during sex. She held a hand to one breast when she rolled over.

Look, I’m like any guy. I’ve always thought a woman’s breasts were a tremendous pleasure, both publicly and privately. A real gift. But while I loved the way this woman looked, within weeks the presence of her implants dominated everything intimate between us, so much so that I started to feel they were like a really annoying pet. Like a really needy toy poodle, an indulgence that was running the household. Late in the game, in the days before we cut it off, she told me I could skip the nipples during foreplay. She tried to reassure me. The implants, she told me, had changed the sensation. “It’s not bad exactly,” she said. “It just feels a little grinding.” I had to agree.

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