Skip to main content

To fake or not to fake? That is the question.

I have a confession to make: I'm totally obsessed with fake boobs. It's not that I have any, you know, erm, tendencies in the female direction - this is not a 'coming out' post (which, incidentally, is not a legal lifestyle choice here in Dubai) - I simply find plastic boobs absolutely fascinating.

When we lived in London I didn't know anybody who'd enhanced their natural bosoms. And even if they had, it's so bloody cold there most of the year that who'd know what you had stuffed up your wooly jumper? But here in Dubai it's a different story - you can't walk down the street without tripping over an enhanced pair.

On the school run, for example. I see one particular woman on a daily basis who proudly sports a smaller version of the famous Posh Spice boobs (pre-re-op). It's quite embarrassing but I find it very difficult to look her in the eye - to the point that she now looks a little nervous when she sees me (better be careful or I could find myself in the starring role of a quite unsavoury rumour).

There's even been tales of a sighting of a young Russian girl, Sugar Daddy in tow, with remodelled mammaries and impressive bottom implants to match - for balance, perhaps? Whatever, plastic boobs are everywhere - on all types of women, in all shapes and sizes and beggaring all levels of belief.

I'm not alone in this strange obsession. Obviously Alpha shares my interest (we often play an entertaining game of 'spot the boobs' when at the beach) - in fact, I suspect that if it wouldn't spoil the line of his suit he'd probably be up for having a pair of his very own fitted. But it's not just a guy thing; I've had many a happy wine-fuelled discussion with my closest girlfriends on this subject in the past and I would estimate that a fair few of them would be quite happy to invest in a set, especially those who've experienced the interesting body changes that are an inevitable result of childbirth and breastfeeding.

Me? I'm just not sure. Tempted, yes, and if I could just wake up one day with a marvelous new pair of boobs then great. But it's the faff of having surgery, the cost, the dangers, the recuperation time, the vague embarrassment of people staring at your chest with a quizzical look in their eyes...

So I guess that, in the meantime, I'll just have to be content to buy up stock in La Senza and continue to cast sidelong glances at women much braver than I probably will ever be.


It is a bit odd when a goddess is lying on the beach and gravity has shifted most parts into a comfortable looking shape and the boobs are pointing skywards like a couple of rocket launchers.
Anonymous said…
The advent of breast implants was a great leap forward for normal chaps worldwide.

From that day forward, every time you were rumbled for ogling a nice set of jugs, you could parry the usual admonishment by quickly saying "Just not sure if they're real, sweetest, what do you reckon?".

I like the cut of Alpha's gib, playing boob spotting games with you on the beach. But like many Alpha's, they like playing games where they can't lose!
Anonymous said…
Oh my! Falsies are falsies and look grotesque on ladies as they age. Men don't like them at all, despite the ogling. Stay natural and safe in the knowledge that you won't wake up one morning and find that one has dislodged - to somewhere around your navel. Natural girls rock!
Plasitic paddy said…
We'll be watching your chest closely come September !
expatmammy said…
OMG I don't even understand why people want to get big bangers, having extremely large natural(may I add) i have this one dream of wee fried eggs on an ironing board for boobies!!
Anonymous said…
I'm with expatmammy - why in the world would anyone want a heaving chest? Clothes look so much better on the wee fried eggs.
Kate S. said…
LOL - you lot are most amusing.

Can we have comment from anyone out there who has actually taken the plunge and now sports an enhanced heaving cleavage? Would love to know what your take on it is.

Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…


Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …