On my way to the 4 train, as I walk down 161st Street, in the shadow of Yankee Stadium, I pass a discount clothing store; outfits for urban warriors, male and female. The male mannequins are the usual blank faced generic male models. They pose and preen but there is nothing noteworthy about them. They are neither handsome or sexy. But the women are molded from the bodies of porn stars. The women have something to say. A simple t-shirt is stretched across mammoth breasts with huge prominent nipples.
A cheap black dress is made extraordinary by the sheer breadth of the boobs. I'm talking 40 DD's. I'm talking gazongas. Cha-chas. Fun bags. Forget Barbie. We're talking 52-18-36. We're talking the biggest of the big breasts. I always stop to stare.
Where in the world did they find these mannequins?
It's beyond insulting. It's cartoonish, almost funny. I've been tempted to stop in the store and ask them, "Hey just out of curiosity, are they supposed to represent real women to you? Is this your wife? Your girlfriend? Your sister? Is it the smartest thing to model your clothes on bodies that don't exist in nature?"
I long to puncture the fake boobs like over inflated tires, hear the hiss of escaping air, and bring them back to normalcy. Women's breasts are not watermelons. We are not Pamela Anderson. We are not centerfolds.
I wonder why the male mannequins don't have gigantic cocks. A horse or zebra cock that would extend down to their knees, right next to the fake woman with 40DD's. Now that would be something to write home about. Wouldn't that make more sense?
Creator and co-author of the award winning The Erotica Project. Author of erotic short stories published on Salon.com. Producer/author for NPR. MA from NYU. Published by Cleis Press, Seal Press, Heinemann Press, New York Press. Reviewed in NYTimes, Village Voice, Art in America, London Sunday Times.