At 7 Reasons, we’re not experts on everything we write about. Today, however, is an exception. Who better to write about cleavage than a man? After all, we think about breasts a lot. This can only go well.
1. Temperature. Women are often at the wrong temperature. They’re usually either too hot or too cold. Chivalry isn’t dead, however, and if a man sees a woman that looks chilly, he’ll say something like, “You look cold. Would you like to wear my jumper?” If you’re displaying too much cleavage though, a man might realise that you’re cold when your overexposed décolletage comes out in goose-pimples. This is bad. When you deny being cold (you always do), what is he to do? Point out the evidence? I’m not an expert on tact, but I can’t help thinking that, “You are cold, there are goose-pimples on your breasts” would be an unwise statement to make, and may well cause drink-throwage.
2. Distraction. Often women that display too much cleavage do so because they feel that it will distract attention from other features that they are less proud of. This does not work. Men, though easily distracted by breasts, will not fail to notice if you have a big bottom. Not that you do, obviously. It’s probably twice as big in your mind as it is in actuality. This does not mean that I think you have a big head, by the way.
3. The Human Race May Die Out. Too much cleavage can ruin your love life. To illustrate this, we’re going to go on a date. Well, two dates. Both first dates. We’re going out for dinner. I haven’t been on a date since years began with the number one, but I’m pretty sure I remember how. If you’re not a woman, you will need to imagine that you are one for this. Try to imagine that you’re one without hairy arms.
Date 1
You arrive at the restaurant. I’m already there, seated at a table (at least I can be punctual in my own head). You remove your coat. You are wearing a top which displays a moderate amount of cleavage. Having removed your coat, you glance upward and see me at the table, we make eye contact, I smile and give you a subtle wave of greeting. You walk over to the table, I stand up, you had forgotten how tall I am – no matter – we embrace and I kiss you on the cheek. Seated now, we make light and pleasurable conversation. You’re having a good time in my company. You think I’m very funny and the conversation flows freely. You laugh a lot. You love my expressive eyes. You like that I smile so easily. You can tell that I’m really listening to what you’re saying. I’m thinking about your breasts (I can multi-task too).
We order the food. For starters we order tiramisu, followed by a main course of tiramisu and a dessert of tiramisu (it’s an imaginary date, I like tiramisu. Don’t worry, it won’t go straight to your imaginary thighs). We hand our menus back to the waiter. You’re certain that you’re falling in love with me. You believe that I’m a hopeless romantic. You wonder if I style my hair with clay or wax.
The evening ends well. Taking your hand in mine, I walk you back to the gate of your lighthouse (I like girls with lighthouses). We enjoy a long, languorous kiss and say goodnight (this is a first date, remember). You turn away. You are besotted. I stare at your bottom as you walk up the garden path.
Date 2
You arrive at the restaurant. I’m already there, seated at a table (that’s twice I’ve been on time for something now. Hurrah!). You remove your coat. You are wearing a top which displays an immoderate amount of cleavage. Having removed your coat, you glance upward and see me at the table. I stare at your chest. I forget to smile and fail to give you a subtle wave of greeting. You walk over to the table, I stand up, you had forgotten how tall I am – oops – we embrace and I gaze down your top. Seated now, I realise that I’m staring at your breasts. I become flustered. I resolve not to look directly at them, to maintain eye-contact with you at all costs, but they’re there, staring back at me. They are the elephants in the room; lustrous, shapely, lovely elephants. I can’t stop thinking about them. I don’t want to, but it’s hard not to look at them. I redden. I develop a stammer you never noticed before. I begin to sweat profusely. I’m certain that you must know I’m thinking about them. We make terse and fragmented conversation. You’re not having a good time in my company. You wonder if I’m having a funny-turn. My perspiration flows freely. You don’t laugh at my jokes. You hate my bulgy, anxious eyes. You hate that I smile so sleazily. You can tell that I’m not really listening to what you’re saying. I’m trying to think about something – anything – other than your breasts (it turns out I can’t multi-task).
We order the food. For starters we order tiramisu, followed by a main course of tiramisu and a dessert of tiramisu (it’s a nightmare date, he’s clearly insane, what’s with all the tiramisu? Just look at his mad, staring eyes!). You hand your menu back to the waiter. I keep mine to shield my eyes from your chest. You’re certain that you’re a bit afraid of me. You believe that I’m a hopeless neurotic. You wonder if I murder with a knife or an axe.
The evening ends badly. You go to the toilet and call a friend. You arrange for her to ring you back five minutes later. You answer the phone back at the table. You tell me there’s an emergency at your lighthouse, you have to rush away. We endure a brief, clammy handshake and say goodbye. You turn away. You are relieved. I stare at your bottom as you walk out of my life forever.
4. Engineering. When Howard Hughes developed the under-wired bra for Jane Russell to best display her assets in The Outlaw he did something wonderful. But take note, the bit at the bottom is called under-wire. It shouldn’t be visible. If a man can see any part of the structural element of the bra, his thoughts will turn to engineering and you may find yourself involved in a conversation about the load-bearing capacity of flying buttresses or the hyperbolic cosine of the catenary or some-such nonsense.
5. Indecent Exposure. I realised that I needed to illustrate just how much cleavage is too much, but I had a problem. I’m a man. I have no breasts. I was alone in the house except for the cat (a brief examination revealed that he too, has no breasts). I required a woman for the purpose of demonstration. I couldn’t draw one, I’m hopeless at that, but I had an idea. I decided to do what no man left alone in the house has ever done before; I searched Google Images for breasts. After some time (approximately nine hours) I still hadn’t found the image that I was looking for – in fact, I’d totally forgotten why I was looking – and had to abandon the search. The cat was hungry, and I went down to the kitchen to feed him. It was there that I realised that I could illustrate my point using props. My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, without further ado, 7 Reasons.org are proud to present:
The 7 Reasons Pictorial Guide To The Correct Amount Of Cleavage (Using Two Bottles Of Sparkling Water And A Tea Towel).
There, I hope that’s clear. If you bear this guide in mind when dressing, you won’t go too far wrong in most countries. In summary: If people can see any part of your bottle tops – or the plastic ring beneath – you’re showing too much cleavage and it could cause offence. This does not apply to anyone engaged in the act of breast-feeding; those women are giving food to children for fucks sake – Daily Mail readers take note.
6. Men. If you are a man, you shouldn’t even have cleavage, let alone display it. Go to the gym!
7. Because of a lack of preparation. Men are generally taller than women. The average height of a man in the UK is 5’10”, while the average height of a woman is 5’4”. Also, eyes are higher up than breasts. This means, while dressing, a woman needs to be aware that half of the population’s view of her cleavage will be from at least eighteen inches above it. It’s not enough just to look in the mirror to check whether you’re displaying too much. You need to look in the mirror while standing on a chair.
