I saw a great commercial a few years back. It was a public service announcement by the government of Singapore, picturing a young, nubile Singaporean woman walking the streets, being visually assaulted by man after man. As she walks by, you see a guy in a business suit pause in the middle of a phone conversation and stare wistfully. She passes a construction site, and the banging and clanging ceases momentarily as each guy in those nifty navy-blue overalls stops to trace her curves with his eyes. The escapade proceeds for the better part of a minute featuring crossing guards, street-booth chefs and cab drivers all gaping at her pleasing shape. The commercial ends with the phrase, “If women paid as much attention to their breasts as men do, we would have beaten breast cancer by now.”

There have been many scholars (mostly men, oddly) that have attempted to put a reason behind the male’s obsession with those jiggly fun-bags that the fairer sex has attached to their rib cage. Freud thought it was Oedipal, in that the breast-mindedness is supposed to be a throwback to our early stages of development when we received passive comfort as we were nursed by our mothers. Masters and Johnson take another perspective with their simple contention that breasts are the most easily identifiable zones of arousal, in that erect nipples and full, swollen breasts betray the same level of sexual excitement as a “full-on robot chubby.”

Funnily enough, and very much off the point, there are many cultures where breasts are viewed as being about as erogenous as an elbow. Carolyn Latteier, in Breasts: the Women's Perspective on an American Obsession, says that when anthropologist Katherine Dettwyler "told women in Mali that Americans think breasts are sexually arousing, they were horrified," and amused: "'You mean men act like babies,' they shrieked, collapsing in laughter."

In any case, we like boobies. I know this thesis is not going to get me that doctorate in behavioral science from MIT, but this my own friggin’ blog and I’m allowed to state the obvious.

I was in the Portland airport last week, meeting some friends flying in from New York to show them all that the city of roses, rain and Tonya Harding had to offer the wayward traveler. As a force of habit, I always arrive at airports far earlier than I intend to, even when I’m not flying out, I always arrive a full hour earlier than necessary. I think it has something to do with the fact that I really like airports. I like the bustling crowds, I like finding a quiet corner and reading a book, I just like the way they feel. The feeling is rooted in an association I have with airports in that I’m generally there when I’m going on a trip, and I only go on fun trips.

So I’m wandering around PDX, people-watching as I love to do, waiting for the status of their flight from Detroit to display on the screen (I told you I was early) and out of the corner of my eye, I see something that makes me stop in my tracks. It was a young woman, perhaps 25 years old, very much enjoying the massage chair outside the entrance to Brookstone. The pulsing rhythms of the chair were massaging the arch of her back in such a way that her shoulders were being pushed forward right, then left, then right, then left, etc. So, for all the world to see (or at least all those boarding for the flight to Albuquerque) this woman was shaking her major-league yabbos with gusto, eyes closed with a look of ultimate pleasure on her face. I was transfixed, not only by the sight beholden, but by the fact that there were about ten other guys within my field of vision that were having trouble not stepping on their own tongues.

Back and forth, back and forth. I almost expected her to start doing that awful porn soundtrack, “oooh, baby, yeah, that’s sooooooo good!” It didn’t take long before the gaggle of guys with the x-rays eyes started their motors again and went on their merry ways, certainly counting the singles in their wallets on their way to one of the many exotic dancing clubs offered in this great town.

Once again, off topic, I’ve heard tell that Portland has more strip-clubs per capita than any other place in the United States. To those that believe that, I suggest a trip to Providence, Rhode Island. I’ve also heard rumors of a place here in town called “Xotic Tan” where a lonely, (and admittedly pasty) guy can rent a room with a pretty girl, where she performs an erotic strip-tease while the gentlemen receives a treatment from one of their top prefessional quality tanning beds. Strange, but true.

Every morning when I put on my pants, one of my cats will inevitably make a grab for the dangling belt. It’s irresistible to them; much like boobs are to men. We can’t help it, and you have no right to think less of us for merely caving to our own nature. You’ve got plenty of other reasons to think less of us, individually, without having to pile that on as well. I think Steve Martin put it best in the film L.A. Story, “I could never make it as a woman. I would just stay at home all day and play with my breasts.”