THE NAKED WOMAN

Best text from the internet, that being an example of male authors writing about female characters.

This:
"Cassandra woke up to the rays of the sun streaming through the slats on her blinds, cascading over her naked chest. She stretched, her breasts lifting with her arms as she greeted the sun. She rolled out of bed and put on a shirt, her nipples prominently showing through the thin fabric. She breasted boobily to the stairs, and titted downwards."


Who is this woman who has such a see-through shirt, where does she live, and why on earth does she favour dysfunctional garments? Here in San Francisco -- the apex and acme of the civilized world compared to which all other places except conceivably Altdorf in Switzerland near where we spent some delightful summer vacations when I was young -- for most of the year the mornings are NOT sun-drenched.
Certainly not now.
Fog.

Entirely aside from which, a nearly naked woman boobily breasting around our apartment building early in the A.M. would cause the other tenants to call the cops pretty damned fast. Especially titting down.

Maybe she is on the verge of hysteria?

Or nearly toppling over.

Junoesque.




The rest of the conversation in which the bit about Cassandra was cited, was, mostly, about brassieres. The male voices faded into the background as women vociferated about bad engineering and materials. Except for the occasional squawky and inconsequential bosom-focused remark.

Persuant which miss D. W-B. stated "Here's a thought: our breasts are not for you to be enamored of; they are literally parts of our bodies."

Okay. They are parts of your bodies.

We knew that.




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