Yes, I’m Looking At Your Breasts … I Can’t Help It, I’m A Man

To the Women of Earth,

I have a confession to make. I’m staring at your breasts. And I can’t stop. Most breasts are rather wonderful. Small, large, or somewhere in between, they all look lovely to me. The best way I can put it is, I have the eyes of a hungry infant, everywhere I look in the world very often I see boobs. My eyes find the joyful curves of a woman’s chest completely unbidden by me. It’s subconscious. It’s biologically driven. It’s always been like this. It’s not you. It’s me. And since it’s me I figured I should be the one to do something about it. Right?

It’s not your fault your breasts are some of those most amazing shapes in the known universe. What are you supposed to do about the fact your breast’s slopes and curves, their shadows and sag, create such an unfairly spectacular example of nature’s good grace? I know I risk sounding like a drunken poet if I go on, so I’ll stop now. And I also recognize that you didn’t ask to carry around, on display, beautiful mounds of fat and flesh, that for nearly half the population, the chance to gaze upon your breasts, for even a moment, is like a tiny perfect joy for them. What are you supposed to do about the fact to some men gazing at your boobs is like taking in a Technicolor summer sunset. It is kinda odd how breasts hold such power to draw the eyes of a man. But they do. You have to remember that some sunsets, and the silhouettes of some breasts, a man remembers for a lifetime.

To speak of breasts this way divorces them from the woman they are attached to. I get that. Your boobs aren’t flowers. The beauty of a spring blossom might catch a man’s eye. It might cause a man to want to stop and stare, to gaze and gawk at the delicate beauty. This happens. But unlike the plant that produces the blossom, the woman who produces the bosom has eyes. She can see you staring at her. (And that shit ain’t cool.)

When a man stares and gawks, and makes obvious his sexualized thoughts, that’s a problem. That’s what makes a woman uncomfortable. She feels reduced to a thing. Her only involvement in the moment is to give the viewer pleasure. Her space is invaded by his eyes as they reduce her to naughty bits and pieces. I totally get that. No one wants to make a woman feel that way. Well, I certainly don’t. And this is my conundrum as a feminist-minded boob-lover.

Would Nature be so cruel as to populate the planet with breasts and then dictate that a gentleman must never stare at a lady’s breasts while she’s out in public? I think any zero tolerance policy seems cruel and unusual. There has to be an allowable limit of boob-time. To say never ignores the nature of the man. I’ll say it plain, and as gentlemanly, as possible.

I can’t stop my eyes from looking at your breasts.

Try as I might, my eyes are faster than any conscious thought. They move at the speed of nature not society. My eyes act at the speed of reaction. Like a hawk hunting field mice, my eyes find your breasts far faster than the demands of propriety can restrain them. It doesn’t happen every time I see breasts, I don’t do it to every woman, most of the time I don’t sexualize my experiences with a woman, I can see and treat her as just another adult, but not always. Sometimes, I see a hint of cleavage peaking through a gap between buttons and my eyes jump there faster than you can say titties! I am not proud of this. But I am being honest.

So, I gotta ask, can I occasionally look … but not stare at your boobs?

I think science has my back on this one. The same as how I might notice that someone is wearing earrings because the metal catches the light and it flashes and my eyes focus on the glint of that shiny metal, it’s the same way I might notice you have breasts. The deep parts of my brain are nearly instantaneously stimulated, before the frontal lobe that controls higher mental processing and socializing behaviors, and then I’m gonna look at your boobs. Now, even though I can’t restrain my eyes, I still don’t want any woman to suffer negative consequences because her milkshake bring my boys to the yard.

Which means, we’re back to square one.

What’s a reasonable amount of time to stare at a woman’s breasts?

What about: one second? Seems fair. Two seconds seems decadent, and three seconds, well, then a dude is officially ogling her Funicellos.

Okay, how about this? Basically, my eyes shouldn’t linger on a woman’s breast any longer than it takes for me to recognize what I’m looking at and then have the thought to look elsewhere. I get a moment of recognition and then I avert my eyes, like any decent gentleman.

For instance, a man sees a woman’s breast. He says to himself, “Whoa, that’s a fine-looking breast. And I should probably look elsewhere.”

I imagine all of that would transpire inside of one second.

This isn’t about me, or guys, or even boobs, in particular; it’s about our public sphere, our animal instincts and how we ask each other to modify nature’s impulses. I’m not excusing any predatory actions by men. No one is defending a dude who stares at breasts with the foul hunger of some half-starved beast. And I sure don’t condone dudes who shout at a woman, “Hey, nice tits!” It’s important we remember this moment of boob-viewing is about the woman and just as much, if not more so, than the man. Probably more so. No woman deserves to be eye-molested by a slack-jawed waste of testicles. A woman’s body isn’t a playground for men’s eyes. But also, let’s face it, it kinda is. So that confusion is why I have to ask.

Let’s drop one level deeper into the morass of masculine and feminine tendencies. My sister is a woman, as most sisters are, and growing up with her I’ve heard a roomful of girls/women talk about boys/men. I know some of you out there do “bulge checks.” I’ve heard how some of you pride yourselves on knowing a man’s potential before he’s even loosened his belt. And I know some of you like a man with a good ass. You want something to grab onto, I get that. And I’ve heard you talk about how much you like the sight of strong arms just the same as how I like to see the curve of a breast. So, let’s not play. We’re all animals in this conversation.

We should also point out, some men have an advantage over others. We call those guys, ass men. The typical butt man is a lucky dude. I have friends who are ass men and they’ll often brag about how they rarely get caught enjoying the curves of a woman’s backside. But breast men, now, there’s a different story. Breast men are forced to play a riskier game of “Don’t Get Caught.” A breast man gazes upon a woman’s boobs, perhaps his imagination takes over his mental theater and then his eyes cloud over like some sorta sex zombie. Bam! That’s right when he feels her eyes on him. He changes his focus and sees he’s been caught. Again. And it sucks. For everyone involved.

Women of Earth, you may be thinking, as you read this, and you’d be right to think it, This isn’t a game! And I totally agree, it’s not a game. But it is part of nature’s grand design. And it’s a real question that takes in to account our human nature not some social-minded ideal.

How long can a man look at a woman’s breasts without making her feel used, or degraded, reduced to subject of his fantasy and source of his satisfaction?

The best I’ve come up with is: One second.

That’s where I seek decency, in the length of a passing moment. As long as I don’t stare, or gawk, ogle, or clearly fantasize, then I can go on appreciating, in brief ecstasy, the female form. For one second I can take notice of the many varieties of curves and shadow that surround me daily. That sounds about fair, doesn’t it? I’m asking as a fan. I’m asking for a friend. I’m asking for all men.

A creative man can live a lifetime inside of one second; if properly inspired. I’d request women allow men one second to work out their indecent nature as decently as possible. No laws, no bullshit, just an agreement between men and women that acknowledges men are rock-bottom creatures at times and in those moments when we can’t control our eyes but we still don’t want to impose upon a woman’s day in any way, one second grant us time to transcend our nature and return our gaze to your eyes. Occasionally, give us one second to be animals, and we’ll agree to spend the rest of the minute as men (or as close as we can get).

Do we have a deal?