The first time I saw a pair of surgically enhanced breasts with my own eyes was around eight or nine years ago, in the changing rooms of the gym at a private members’ club where a friend had taken me for a workout. I remember it distinctly. I was getting undressed, nervously, as I don’t like disrobing in front of strangers; and there was another woman, a few feet away, topless, with oddly firm, projectile breasts pointing skywards.
My first reaction was shock. Two very weird, alien body parts, brazenly displayed right in front of me. They didn’t look real or natural in the slightest. They looked like what they were: breasts that had been bought and paid for. Not soft and slightly saggy, like a thirtysomething embonpoint should be; but plastic, hard-looking and aggressively perfect. I felt like I’d been slapped in the face.
They announced aspiration. They said: ‘I’m considerably richer than you’, and ‘I’m considerably more attractive than you’, and even ‘Money well spent’. There was an unmistakable air of conspicuous consumption in this woman’s light golden tan and bizarrely pert orbs. I felt instantly sickened, and turned away.
