June 12, 1997

Let's work it out with a pencil

By CHRISTIE BLATCHFORD
Toronto Sun Recently, I overheard my Toronto Sun colleague, photo assignment editor Fred Thornhill, talking by radio to a photographer. The photographer had just called in, in a fever pitch of excitement, because after days of searching -- which newspaper photogs all over the city have been doing in this, the first summer when baring one's breasts is not illegal -- he finally had a live one.
By this time, alas, we had had a week's worth of bared bosoms, and clearly, if Thornhill was typical, boredom has already set in.
What follows is the gist of Thornhill's conversation:
Photog, sounding keen and proud: "Yeah, Fred, I've got a topless woman on the beach here!"
Thornhill, yawning: "Yeah, well, is she just lying on her stomach or is she up prancing around?"
How soon the worm turns. It seems like just yesterday (well, actually, it was just yesterday) that the boys in the newsroom were holding up the paper to the light to see if the little black strip we place over the nipples in topless-women pictures is transparent (it is). Soon, the boys will be bothered to get up and look only if the nipples in question are on a perfect pair of immense hooters. Next, they won't leave their computer card games at all.
That's a rule of the new toplessness; on the first day, any old breasts are exciting; by the 10th, they better be beauties. There are many other rules, to wit:
It's a given that most of the women who will go topless this summer will not be those whose breasts you most want to see. Sadly, if the men-in-black-Speedos theory holds, and I feel sure it will, the reverse will be true. Those few who reveal a truly spectacular set you will not be able to afford. Handy hint: "Quebec dancer" is code for stripper.
The beach is the only place a reasonably well-adjusted woman would even consider removing her top. Those you spot walking down Yonge St. or at your local mall or at your kid's ball game are either working, advertising, or scary. Engage at own risk.
It is my belief that Canadians will really embrace bare breasts only when women begin showing up topless at hockey rinks; until then, we're just dabbling.
Women considering baring them should first perform the pencil test. Place pencil under breast. If pencil falls to the floor, you may proceed further; if pencil stays there, snugly and securely settled in a moist warm place, perhaps you might consider bottomlessness.
Breasts which remain at attention while their owner is on her back are fakes. It is one of the most curious things about real breasts is that they sort of disappear when you lie down. The really mysterious part is that they don't appear to go anywhere (that is, they don't fall to your sides or pop up in the throat area or anything), and re-appear promptly in their rightful place when you stand up.
I'm making only an informed guess here, but I bet, if you're looking to improve your chances, the proportion of women who go topless who also wear ankle chains and/or have butterfly tattoos is truly astonishing.
It is also my suspicion that there will be more breast-baring lesbians than breast-baring heterosexual women, and again, I've no idea why I'm sure of this but I am. I am also still trying to reconcile myself to a summer filled with the sight of women who are, all at the same time, a) topless, b) hairy legged and c) wearing Earth-type shoes. Can men consider this in any way a victory? Can anyone?
Are tanned breasts sexy? I always thought that the untanned parts of the body contrasting with the tanned parts worked really well. And do nipples tan? And if so, what color do they turn?
As a former lifeguard who spent several summers yelling, in both official languages, the requisite series of Don't commands -- Don't run, Don't spit, Don't swear, Don't push, Don't cannonball, etc., etc. -- I wonder if the repertoire will be expanded to include, "Don't jiggle."
I'm not sure of the proper etiquette upon seeing a topless woman, but I feel confident in saying that one cannot make eye contact with breasts, and ought not to try.
Finally, in the interests of accuracy, I should tell you the end of the Fred Thornhill story.
Some time after the initial conversation, I heard Thornhill and the same photographer talking again.
"Are you sure she's 60," Thornhill was saying, "because if she is, that might make a story."
"Well," said the photog, "she's between 50 and 60, I'd say. They're pretty wrinkled."
They're pretty wrinkled? I was about to leap from my office and shriek, "Wrinkle this!" at the photog when I heard the photographer add that the woman didn't want her picture taken.
"She doesn't want her kids to know," he said.
I wanted to shriek at her, too: You take off your top at Cherry Beach, for all the world to see, but God forbid your children should know you've done it?
Oy. Truth is, men deserve us and we deserve men.