The trouble with breasts
Not the demure and altogether functional crease that might have satisfied a Robert Young or a Mickey Rooney, but a deep, warm cleft of infinite promise, girdled by fecund mounds pulled upward and forward to the point where the observer expects, at any moment, to taste milk. The kind of cleavage, in other words, that inspires poets, destroys marriages and launches wars.
All of this, of course, presents a problem for the modern male, particularly the modern male medico — a problem summed up succinctly by Jerry Seinfeld when he said: “Looking at cleavage is like looking at the sun. You can’t stare at it long — it’s too risky. You get a sense of it, then you look away.”
His advice is well-taken. To stare at cleavage is to lose the will to live. In the face of this darkest of clefts, strong men are rendered helpless, content simply to disappear into its bountiful embrace. Once there, they lose all ambition and self-respect. Even