Tit for Tat - Me & My Sensitive Nipples
Thursday, March 20, 2014
The NY Times headline caught my eye and I
decided to look up the origin of the expression “tit for tat” which I believe
was much in use when I was a young boy and a young man. I had not heard of that
expression in the last few years until I saw this NY Times use.
I also believed that the expression must
have a sexual connotation. It does not. This is what I found. And this was pretty cute, too!
For most of my early years I was oblivious
to the human breast and in particular the female one. I was much more
interested in the horsepower of the original Chrysler 300. In 1955 when I was
13 years old I would read with lots of interest Tom McCahill’s car reviews in
Mechanix Illustrated of automobiles that were not yet called muscle cars.
I must admit that in 1955 I had not seen
one single female breast in a pristine undraped manner. The closest were
Mexican magazines that showed daring cleavage courtesy of the then very hot
girl, Brigitte Bardot.
In 1955 I was in a small mining town in Northern Mexico, Nueva Rosita in the state of Coahuila.
My mother taught the children of the American engineers of American Smelting
& Refining Company. It was a mining town with a two room school. One room
was from the first to the fifth and the second room from the sixth to the eighth.
My mother was the teacher in the latter and I was in the 8th grade. We
were six boys in the eighth grade.
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| Alex W-H crossing the equator Dec 11, 1966 |
It was at the beginning of that term that I
became worried. I was developing and alarming sensitivity in my nipples and I
was growing tiny breasts. I knew very little about sex but I was still confused
enough to suspect that my body was telling me that I might have to soon wear
skirts.
I waited for the problem to resolve itself
but it did not. Meanwhile I felt very good that I was attracted to the
extremely lovely Ana María Ramos
who had huge eyes and dramatic black eyebrows. I rarely ever got enough nerve
to talk to her but when I did my whole body tingled.
Finally I had to go to
the only person I had any confidence with, my mother. She was not able to
illuminate any of my suspicions about my body but did arrange to have me see a
doctor.
I have no memory of
the doctor but I do remember that he told me stuff I have never forgotten. He
told me that what was happening to me was quite normal and that the little
breasts would soon disappear as my body was being surged by all kinds of stuff
as it prepared to convert me into a man.
It was the second fact
that makes me wonder how many men (and women) are aware of this.
My suspicion is that
most idiot men (I am an exception thanks to that Nueva Rosita doctor) think
that only women have sensitive breasts. In fact I found out that sensitivity in
the breast area and in the nipple varies in both women and men. There are women
who will never ever be sensitive as there are men who will never lose their
extreme sensitivity. I am one of those who have suffered from tight T-shirt
burn on my nipples. Ha!
In 1966 I was handcuffed to the yardarm of the ELMA cargo ship Río Aguapey and painted with Prussian blue. It took me a while to remove the paint from my nipples. Luckily I was able to convince the sailors not to use adhesive tape on them.
In 1966 I was handcuffed to the yardarm of the ELMA cargo ship Río Aguapey and painted with Prussian blue. It took me a while to remove the paint from my nipples. Luckily I was able to convince the sailors not to use adhesive tape on them.
I cannot speak for
other men but I can write here that my personal sensitivity has made me a great
admirer of female breasts and in particular that empty concavity between
breasts that is so commonly called cleavage. I have a particular preference for
the concavity between smallish breasts.
I was able to study
this variation in concavity at the American Hotel in Nueva Rosita where my
mother and I shared a small apartment. Beside the dining room there was a reading
room with a magazine rack. There was a handsome bachelor engineer called Juan
Jaime who was subscribed to the men’s magazines of the day, True, Argosy and
Esquire. None of these featured nude women, just vast expanse of cleavage. Once
or twice Jaime did leave (was it a mistake?) a Playboy and was able to see all
of what I had only an imaginary inkling.
At age 71 I have to
note that my interest in that empty concavity has not diminished. Unlike the
average 71 year-old, I have thousands of files featuring that empty and hallow
(hollow, too) concavity and more, too.
As a portrait
photographer more often than not, those concavities have faces. The former mean
nothing without the latter. Sometimes a pair or even one hand can compensate
for the lack of a face.
In 1997 when Vancouver Sun's Saturday Review editor Max Wyman was about to retire he called me up to tell me that he thought that I should review a book for him. He was going to send it to me by courier. I remember that he said something like, "It is appropriate that you review Marilyn Yalom's A History of the Breast for us."
Some 10 or more years ago I was often invited by three architects and two journalists to accompany them for beer at the Number 5 Orange or the Marble Arch. They would always order a couple of pitchers of beer. The men behind the bars all knew me so I was indulged in bottomless soda water which was my beverage of preference. As the exotic dancers’ talent for dancing began to diminish in inverse proportion to breast augmentation my interest waned. I had given up my pipe smoking years before and the architects smoked lots. But I must clarify that these men were not drunks. As soon as their two pitchers were consumed they got up to legally (I am almost sure) drive, unimpaired home.
In 1997 when Vancouver Sun's Saturday Review editor Max Wyman was about to retire he called me up to tell me that he thought that I should review a book for him. He was going to send it to me by courier. I remember that he said something like, "It is appropriate that you review Marilyn Yalom's A History of the Breast for us."
Some 10 or more years ago I was often invited by three architects and two journalists to accompany them for beer at the Number 5 Orange or the Marble Arch. They would always order a couple of pitchers of beer. The men behind the bars all knew me so I was indulged in bottomless soda water which was my beverage of preference. As the exotic dancers’ talent for dancing began to diminish in inverse proportion to breast augmentation my interest waned. I had given up my pipe smoking years before and the architects smoked lots. But I must clarify that these men were not drunks. As soon as their two pitchers were consumed they got up to legally (I am almost sure) drive, unimpaired home.
There was one day that
I will never forget as it was the last day I ever went to a strip bar. I have
been back, of course for unmitigated circumstances. Just as we were about to
leave, one of the architects said, “Let’s wait to see her tits. Then we can go.”
I have never liked the
word tit or its plural tits. I felt shocked and offended. I was ashamed that
somehow by the use of that word, the female human being up on stage was
cheapened and demoted to a moving object.
That happened at the
Marble Arch and the paradox is that my interest in taking erotic photographs
has increased as I attempt to do this photography with justice, respect, love
and lastly with lots of zing!
In this age of
pornography, where subtle is not in the vocabulary, I feast on subtlety. And
somehow a word that must accompany subtlety is elegance.
