That Empty Concave SpaceSaturday, May 11, 2019
I will not deny that since I was 14 or 15 in Mexico City I would buy whatever magazines featured Brigitte Bardot and in particular those quite lame publications that showed only cleavage. When my mother started working for the school for the children of the engineers of American Smelting and Refining in Nueva Rosita, Coahuila we lived in the American Hotel. The hotel had a reading room with American publications.
One of the engineers, Juan Jaime, was subscribed to Esquire, True and Argosy and he would leave his magazines there when he was finished reading them. In those years Esquire was quite racy so I savoured a bit more than just cleavage.
In my years of admiring cleavage and breasts (nobody would wag the finger at you negatively for that preference in the past 20th century) I have never understood in particular our masculine obsession for a concavity that is really just empty space between two small, medium or large masses.
Strangly Spanish has no exact equivalent word for cleavage. Escote (the word in question) defines how a woman wears her dress be it low cut or high. A dress that is escotado is a low-cut dress.
But being Argentine has not diminished my fascination with women wearing a low escote. In my 20s I compared notes with my fellow sailors in the Argentine Navy and we discovered that men were more often gentlemen (giving their seats to women in buses) in the summer as they could then look down on them once they had gracefully ceded their seats.
I am 77 and when possible I keep my fascination in transit using such excuses as convincing women I know to pose while holding a rose or other plant from my garden on their chest.
But some women are either uncomfortable with the fact that their breasts may be too small (my snobbish preference) or two big.
I know of one particular modern dancer plagued with large breasts. She hired a most capable dressmaker to design dance costumes that kept everything in check.
From an early age I remember my mother telling me that when she had me, she was plagued with an oversupply of milk and at the hospital where I was born they used some sort of pump so she could share her milk with other babies whose mothers were not so lucky in the lactic sector.
Not too long ago I convinced a friend to pose for me holding one of my garden roses up close. She had told me that she was not comfortable with her chest since sometime in her middle 20s they grew and grew.
I am happy to report here that I was able to both please her and myself with the collaborative effort.