b00bs

My scientific, religious, and intense curiosity on fake boobs.

The Sight of Lust (2015) by Julio Larraz

If there is a quintessential quality I’d use to describe Miami, it’d be fake boobs. Miami is a place where a woman can make all of her cosmetic fantasies come true, a place where curiosity in plastics and injections are encouraged. It is a twilight zone of perfectly curved, olive-skinned bodies. String bikinis that don’t move an ounce when the body is in movement. It is a haven for perfection, a refuge for where someone can go when they want to be unapologetically hot.

Fake boobs are also, since I gave birth over three years ago, something that’s always on my mind. Most recently, it has been on the forefront of my mind again since we visited Miami for winter break. It is always so fun visiting Miami and getting to escape seasonal depression to spend time with family and friends and perfect beach weather. This also explains my brief hiatus from bobbie (this newsletter.) However, by the time we were 4 days into our trip in Miami, I was exhausted by the sight of perfectly perfected, cosmetically altered boobs.

The days of my trip went somewhat the same: my husband, having no concept of bathroom privacy, would typically walk in on me in the bathroom and catch me in front of the mirror frowning at my chest while putting on my swim suit. It was as if, in those brief bathroom moments, I’d be willing for them to be revived. Like, as if I could reverse the effects of childbirth and they’d transform back into the perky and full girls they once were.

My husband is a man that knows how to be married to a woman like me. He knows when he sees me frowning in front of the mirror that he immediately must turn around and heed in the opposite direction. He must not feed the insecure beast with falsities that my girls are still sitting upright and erect. They are not. They are deflated, they’ve been waving their white flag for years now, having given up after the physical strain of childbirth. And the fire in my torch of body positivity that was once raging is now fading away. My acceptance for Mother Nature’s course is regressing. I want my girls to breathe life again. I want them to show me a smile, not a frown. I want to reverse Mother Nature’s hand. I want to show them a good life. I want them filled with plastic. 

In my defense, let this serve more as a “scientific” curiosity. A breast lift is simply elevating the breast tissue to a higher position on the chest wall. It’s interesting how just a few inches can change everything, how just a few inches can separate the ones who are HOT to those that are NOT. In Drake’s song, Jimmy Cooks, he says he loves the way they hang and to fuck the silicone. Personally? As a person who has boobs that have dropped a few inches, I do not love the way they are hanging.

The women in my family would make a great storyline in this essay. But I need to respect their privacy. They like to remain mysterious, imagining themselves as the walking fountain of youth, thanking their “good genes” and “healthy lifestyle.” They are not like me, because the instant I pursue a cosmetic endeavor I will be writing about it obnoxiously, please rest assured. Not because I believe honesty endorses feminism, or that honesty rejects the fact that needing to be desired sexually is how I was taught I should be desired, but because I like to expose myself as much as possible. I am no stranger to temptation, it’s always had a heavy hand on me. And most times, temptation wins.

See, in Miami, we refute Mother Nature all the time. On top of that, there is a huge factor of convenience, seeing that there’s a plastic surgeon's office every 5-10 blocks. You cannot drive for more than two minutes without seeing ads saying things like: “FREE CONSULTATION FOR BBL AND BREAST AUGMENTATION” or “SKIP THE GYM AND COME IN FOR A TUMMY TUCK.” Was I tempted? You can bet your ass I was. Did this type of cheap marketing trick work on me? Unfortunately it did. How so? Because here I am writing about it.

When I was little, I was a firm believer in embracing one’s “natural” body, whole heartedly accepting what God gave you. I believed this not only because I went to Catholic school where God denounced all forms of sexualization and adultery, but because there was an *NSYNC song called “God Must Have Spent a Little More Time on You.” The song explains how this one woman “broke the mold when she came into this world, more precious than a diamond or pearl.” I believed this and took this seriously. I believed some women had the gift of boobs and other women didn’t. It just depended on how God decided to wake up that day. He could’ve woken up to a sunny day, rested a full night, enjoyed a cup of a perfectly steamed cappuccino, and felt compelled to concoct the most perfect boobs on a woman and send her down to Earth for everyone else to be seething with jealousy. The rest of us would’ve caught God on a bad day, and on days like this he’d half-ass his creations and create bottom-tier boobs because he was merely rushed and not in the mood. He’d send us down to earth to live a life of yearning.

But after vacationing in Miami one thing is clear; God is a buzzkill and we are now taking matters into our hands. We will be hot, god damnit, even if it’s the last thing we do. We will be having our mom hold up our phones and we will pose in front of the beach in a skimpy bandeau bikini, our girls giving a strong smile for the camera, sitting upright and even. The likes and validity will come pouring in. God may not have spent too much time on our boobs, but the plastic surgeon sure did, and boy are our girls LIVING.

Listen, I think there is an overlap here. The day I gave birth, my boobs gave up and I have been strictly viewed as a “mother” since then. Being a mother is, without a doubt, the main component in my life, and will likely remain that way for as long as I’m alive. It is so worthwhile but so boring at the same time. It almost feels like I have to constrain the other parts of my womanhood; proceed with denial towards my other layers and characters and personalities. I’m a person who was raised to be desired, and my desired self is poking her head out. Most of the time I feel contained as one thing: a mom. Society has deemed mothers as sexless creatures, and that’s honestly the most boring thing I’ve ever heard. Let this be known that I am a mother but also a woman of depth, a woman of curiosity and value. So, let this be a plea for one thing: to be a mom with bomb ass boobs.