The cleavage caveats
Since writing the cleavage primer, it's come to my attention that no one agrees with my views on admiring cleavage. I might have anticipated this, given the number of blank stares I generally receive when engaging in enlightened conversation with my peers. The problem with writing, of course, is that people can't give you immediate feedback on what you've written; there are no blank stares to inform you that you've just wrapped the conversational car around a telephone pole. Instead, you have only the three other voices in your head to offer you guidance. And, let's be honest, they're more of a hindrance than a help. So, it wasn't until the comments started coming in that it became clear that my understanding of cleavage etiquette does not mesh nicely with other folks' views. Let's call it a learning experience.
In my original post, I arbitrarily selected 0.34 seconds as a reasonable duration of time for a man to inspect a woman's cleavage. Really, I pulled that number out of a hat, and several males in the comments area guffawed at such a piddly little span of time. The problem, I now realize, rests in selecting an absolute time to begin with. For instance, while discussing the activities of a Fourth of July weekend with a friend, he estimated that he had stared down a woman's blouse for about four hours. And, given the way the night progressed for him, I have to admit that four hours was probably the proper amount of time to admire this particular woman's cleavage. Circumstances are what establish proper interaction between a man's eyes and a woman's chest. With that in mind, I give you the Cleavage Caveats.
1. The Clooney Caveat: I alluded to this in a comment in my original post, but I'll repeat it here because I think it's important. The primary determinant of how long a man can look at a woman's cleavage is how attractive the man is. As an extreme example, I postulated that George Clooney is permitted to stare at cleavage as long as he wants. I also postulated that George Clooney is permitted to vomit a bottle of whisky into the cleavage of his choosing. I stand by both of these statements. Clooney is a fine example of the "women want him, men want to be him" phenomenon. And, really, I don't begrudge him this, because he also makes my list of non-dbag male celebrities who would probably be fun to drink with.
I know what you're thinking, "But, HTV, I don't have any 'Facts of Life' acting credits on my resume. And, while I'm curious about how long George gets to ogle boobies, I'm more immediately concerned with how long I can ogle boobies." I hear ya. And, here's where things get slippery. You have to somehow assess how physically attractive you are. You could do this via trial and error using nothing but a stopwatch and your nerves. Simply stare at cleavage until you receive negative reinforcement regarding your activities. Wear a protective cup, though. Alternatively, try asking your female friends (if you have any) if they'd be willing to pin down how attractive you are. If you're lucky, they'll be straightforward and honest with you. More likely, they'll try to compare you to characters in poetry or Jane Austen novels, in which case I highly recommend that you tune them out. You're not going to be able to follow the discussion, and you'd be better served by strapping on your cup, grabbing your stopwatch, and heading down to the nearest Starbucks.
2. The Beach Caveat: The beach is just different. It's a definite see-and-be-seen environment, so if you're a dude, you pretty much have a green light when it comes to admiring the ladies. Sure, you can go too far, but that's why God invented dark or reflective sunglasses. Really, your only problem is if the girl you're admiring has an Olympic weightlifter boyfriend, and if you have good foot speed, you don't have to worry much about that either. (If you're slow-footed, you have to be a little more cautious. And, if you do find yourself trying to outrun some dude who looks like a Greek god thanks to mountains of designer steroids, don't run in a straight line. Stop crying -- an eye full of tears is only going to blur your escape route -- and weave in a zig-zag pattern when you hear the footsteps getting close, much as you would when trying to avoid getting deep-sixed by a charging buffalo). I digress. Oftentimes, the hardest thing about beach cleavage ends up being not how long you're permitted to admire it, but figuring out how long you can point your head straight forward while staring at a chick out of the corner of your sunglasses and not doing any eye damage. Every woman who read that sentence is now shaking her head. I'm okay with this, because every straight guy is nodding his in agreement.
3. The Club Caveat: I don't spend much time in clubs, mainly because I have the Straight White Boy Blues. But, my few club experiences have taught me this much: that chick who's trying to fight off the seizures from the strobe lights and the heart palpitations from the little white pill she just popped because Date Rape Johnny told her that he got it from a guy he "totally trusts" is really much too worried about having her left ear drum ruptured by DJ Skribb's awful techno beat to worry about whether you're checking out her cans.
I don't enjoy clubs. Did that come across?
4. The Bar Caveat: Black and white gives way to gray. How dark is the bar? Who frequents said bar? Is the bar some awful "I'm not sure if I'm a bar or a club" hybrid? I don't think it's worth setting up rules for cleavage viewing in bars, because the variability in bar climates is simply too great. You're on your own here. In fact, it's even worse than that, because in your head you're probably hearing strains of a recent conversation with your female friends in which they're talking about some dude named Fitzwilliam Darcy and all you want to know is if the duration of time that you're allowed to stare at cleavage is in any way proportional to the cup size. I wash my hands of the matter.
5. The Funeral Caveat: What? I'm kidding. (Sort of. Death is funny in its own way, but that's definitely another post.)
6. The Bachelor Party Caveat: Stare early. Stare often. If you've got a bunch of your boys around, then you can fall back on the "strength in numbers" truism and not worry too much about repercussions for your "Hi, my name is Oooga Moogu, the Cro Magnon with 20:20 vision" routine. Besides, this is one of the few evenings in your life when Oooga Moogu gets to call the shots, and if nothing else Oooga Moogu knows how to have a good time. Besides, chances are you're at a strip club, and the rules there are vastly different anyway. Which brings us to...
7. The ViXXXen Corral Caveat: I really, really don't want to get into a discussion about strippers and economic-circumstances-as-a-gun-to-a-19-year-old-girl's-head when I'd much rather be making a Candy Cantaloupes joke. Personally, I think that strip clubs are a lot like Communism: they sound great on paper, but the implementation is a little messy. For instance, I don't know how you're supposed to suspend reality and believe Candy's whispered assertion that you're the object of all of her sexual desires when one of your friends from your middle school days is sitting three feet away from you, chugging an $8 bottle of Miller Lite, and lamenting the fact that the Steelers don't utilize the fullback in their running game anymore.
Annnnnny-ways..... you might as well get your money's worth while you're at The Corral. The talent has likely given up on viewing any male as a worthwhile human being, and you've already dropped about $50 between the cover charge and the three drink minimum. Start buying lap dances for your friends, and tell Oooga Moogu he's in charge for the rest of the evening. Sure, the purchasing power of the almighty American dollar has been falling, but it's still strong enough to buy you staring privileges.
8. The Bachelorette Party Caveat: Sorry, ladies, this isn't a "how long can you stare at a dude's pecs?" item. (Besides, why would you want to stare at his pecs when you could be debating whether he's more Fitzwilliam Darcy or Charles Bingley? That's right, I'm gonna make Pride and Prejudice jokes until the cows come home, and I'd like to see you stop me.) If you're a dude at a bar, and a bachelorette party staggers in, you need to treat them differently than you would the other ladies in attendance. For me, anyway, I need to stay as far away from the bride-to-be as possible. I can't tell you how many times I've wound up wearing the bride's spilled drink about 17 minutes after her maid of honor shouted "Let's do lemon drops!!!" at the bar next door. Anyhow, that's my problem, not yours. More generally, you should know that the bachelorette party desperately, DESPERATELY, wants to make fun of you. If you pay them any attention at all (and that includes lusty glances at their lady orbs), they will start making jokes involving unflattering comparisons between your manhood and those itsty-bitsy pigs-in-a-blanket they ordered as an appetizer at their dinner 6 hours ago. Really, just let it go and start focusing on the Delta Gammas at the end of the bar.
9. The Age Caveat: Alright, it's time to get serious again. If the ratio of your age to her age is 3:2 or higher, you need to carefully consider how long your eyes alight -- like an innocuous little butterfly, I know -- on her lovely bosom. If you fail to heed this advice, you might find yourself being scolded by an enraged woman many years your junior who's asking questions like, "So, tell me, Ephraim, did you lose any of your brothers at the Battle of Shiloh, or were you too busy staring at a field nurse's rack to notice?"
10. The Money Caveat: Once upon a time, being a suitable male mate entailed being able to pound the living shit out of a mountain lion that stalked into your family's cave. As a 6' 1", 153 lb male, let me say that I'm glad those times have gone the way of the woolly mammoth. These days, Bill Gates could probably get into your average woman's pants by saying, "I could buy the entire Caribbean, but I want to eradicate AIDS in Africa instead." It's an ugly little truth, but having seven or eight figures squirreled away in your portfolio is the present day version of, "Look at the heart I just ripped out of that mountain lion, honey. Who's your Oooga Moogu?" If you're a man of means, stare like it's going out of style. HTV says it's okay.
Have I helped? Probably not. At the end of the day, the rules surrounding admiring cleavage are really much too complicated. Yes, there are costs to staring inappropriately. But, there are also costs associated with not looking at all, as some substantial portion of ladies rely on male glances as a sign of attraction and a source of self-esteem. The truth is that you're best served by being a mind reader. But, since I doubt that any of my readers meet that description, I'll offer the following: you'll probably maximize your enjoyment by looking first and asking questions later. But, for Christ's sake, don't pull that shit at work.
