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She rises from the depths like the Venus of the San Fernando Valley-slicked hair glistening, water dripping from her smiling lipps, dark eyes glittering with libidinal mischief. Then-in a scene that will forever grant an otherwise incomprehensible erotic aura to the Cars-the new-wave chestnut "Moving in Stereo" kicks in as Phoebe Cates begins her slo-mo poolside strut. And boy, do they move in stereo, those pert, secondary sexual characteristics of teenage Phoebe Cates, as-in one breathtaking gesture-she frees her frisky buds from their front-fastening red bikini top to quiver in the balletic perfection of Judge Reinhold's furtive spank dream. The boob shot would soon become stock-in-trade of the Porky's epoch, but it would never be used to such weighty narrative effect. Here, hooters star in a compressed version of the male adolescent's tragic arc: from the soaring heights of erotic fantasia to the bleak depths of sexual humiliation, as the sleek naiad of Reinhold's imaginings actually walks in on him log-flogging to her image.
I love to play with them just as much as you do. Nice to know they're still there, hangin' out on my chest. All those cute little lace bralettes are pretty but do literally nothing for me, support-wise.
It's like wearing a couple of paper doilies over my nips. Cute, festive, but not at all practical. I probably check out other women's breasts more than you do. Gotta keep myself in the loop, ya know? There is one bra I wear almost every day and I will let you try and guess when the last time I washed it was.
If you guessed "whenever they washed the materials that went into the making of this undergarment," you're correct!!!!! Nipples have a mind of their own and are out of my control. I honestly don't know if I'm cold, excited to see you, or if my nipples just woke up for the day and wanted to check out the scenery. Sometimes I really am concerned that they're pranking me. There are such things as Good Boob Days, and they are more valuable and special than good hair days. You do not get to guess what size bra I wear.
That's only for me and the very friendly lady I let feel me up at the lingerie store. End of list. Leave the gals alone, they are not here for your garbage opinions.
Aug 27, And boy, do they move in stereo, those pert, secondary sexual characteristics of teenage Phoebe Cates, as-in one breathtaking gesture-she frees her frisky buds from their front-fastening red bikini.
They hurt like a motherfucker when I'm on my period. If you so much as lightly brush against them, I will scream and kick you, and then excuse myself to a quiet corner, so I can cry and consider putting an ice pack on my chest. My nipples aren't my second and third clitoris.
The movie was just setting me up, of course; the alien had stowed itself in the shuttle. As it came out of hiding, I got my first good look at its proboscis.
Which was-gleamingly, drippingly, chitinously, blackly, hugely, undeniably-phallic. I took it as I was meant to take it, as a grotesque mockery of my own arousal. You don't get to have her- it does. Was I manufacturing sexual undertones? For as the beast nonchalantly began to stretch its limbs and slide its goo-slicked jaw in and out, in and out, what did Ripley say over and over? Lucky, lucky, lucky. That's right-the perfect organism was gonna get "lucky" with Ripley. I was 12 years old then.
I'd already learned to pair id with dread; I knew well the horror of others banging on the bathroom door as I Yet I had never had-and never again would have-the third-rail force of my own sexual desire so vividly and soul-scarringly converted into fear.
Now, twenty-six years later, I only wish I'd pissed and run like my brother. I'd be just a little less fucked-up if I had. To me, the oddest instutition in Hollywood is the body double. I can understand if an actress, for various reasons, doesn't want to do nudity. But then why let someone else do it for her?
If everyone thinks those are your tits, then in some sense they are your tits. I guess a body double simply saves an actress the embarrassment of being ogled by the key grip and the best boy all day.
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But what the big deal is about showing tits I don't know, unless they aren't such great tits. Which is, of course, a perfectly valid reason for modesty. There is one brilliant reason not to show them, and that is to increase the value of showing them eventually.
Halle Berry was rumored to have demanded a six-figure deal for baring nipple in Swordfishthough she denies it. But she was well paid for this box-office-stimulating flash. I would also deny being paid a premium for nipple exposure. In fact, I do deny it. Timing is everything, however. Meg Ryan never showed 'em, and then was counting on a surprise appearance of her mammies in In the Cut to uplift her sagging career. Alas, it was too little too late.
One of the best star breast moments in film was the brief but pleasant exposure of Linda Fiorentino's in The Moderns. As someone interested in the art world of the '20s, I just hate pseudo-cool movies like Alan Rudolph's wimpy rendering of the modernist movement, but I loved Linda Fiorentino as the modernist muse and sylphlike sybarite.
The one genuinely modern thing in this film is Fiorentino's body.
Her breasts are revealed when the crass collector, played by John Lone, performs the obeisance of shaving her armpits, then again when she tub-wrestles with the painter, played by Keith Carradine. She's not exactly androgynous, but streamlined.
A woman after Matisse, built for running, not milking. Artemis, not Aphrodite. All in all, a pleasant relief from the glandular excesses of Hollywood and a tribute to the erotic sensibilities of those of us who were happily weaned. Like so much transgression, it begins with cigarettes. Titta, Fellini's younger self-living in a tiny town in fascist-era Italy; adolescent, hormones geysering, his days spent in delinquency, yearning, and self-abuse-goes to the tobacconist to buy himself "una nazionale," just one.
It is closing time, and he slips in under the iron gate. The proprietress, locking up for the night, is moving large sacks across the floor, and he offers to help. She is cartoonishly ample. In her pale blue cardigan, her bust is an unyielding shelf, jutting out in an improbable cantilever worthy of Frank Gehry.
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An undifferentiated wedge such as this could be known only as a bosom. Amarcord is above all a film of recollection the title means "I remember" in Italian dialect. It makes sense that these jugs of memory would be outsize, hypertrophic ideals, although Maria Antonietta Beluzzi, the actress playing the part, is real enough. Titta protests, saying he can lift eighty kilos, can even lift his father.
She takes off her apron, slams down the iron gate, and turns to him, sizing him up. Why not? Everyone in town is looking for something to break up the monotony. The transaction is hugely awkward and private. His arms barely make it around her fantastically broad, brown-tweed-clad ass. He lifts her three times in quick succession. He is almost undone by his efforts while her shrieks of laughter give way to a moaning, closed-eyed rapture. Her head brushes against the hanging lightbulb, and she doesn't care.
Even when she is back on solid ground, her delirious floating fugue continues, still held aloft by the preconscious memory of weightlessness, nothing more than her birthright, being possessed of such a pair of balloons. He is a baby once again, the breast dwarfing his head. Its right twin manifests in a great, shuddering mitosis. He blows on it. She presses his face into the deep cleft between the watermelons. He cannot breathe.
It is over as suddenly as it began. She shoves him away roughly; the cardigan is restuffed. Warm biology becomes angora-clad architecture once more. She is all business now, closing up shop, reminding him of his initial purpose: a Nazionale.
She hands him one for free. Best not to dwell on the size of the tiny baton. He takes it and walks to the iron gate. Spent, he cannot budge it. She lifts it effortlessly and pushes him out into the night. Wish fulfillment can make all men briefly stupid, and still we chase after the chance to make idiots of ourselves.
At that age, instinct would probably desert us, too, and we would also blow when faced with the heaving udders of La Tabaccaia-so confusingly, simultaneously liquid and solid. From rigid cardigan to flesh and back to cardigan once more.
Boobs they move
In science such a thing is known as a non-Newtonian liquid. Cornstarch and water, for example, will dribble freely over an open palm, but clench your fist and it seizes up into a firm handful. Relax again and back it flows. Fellini has another word for something that can switch states so rapidly, providing ever changing and equal measures of give and resistance, opprobrium and succor: Mommy.
There's a rather grand school of thought-peddled, in the main, by former film stars in their sixties and seventies-that "it's far sexier to see less than more!
The film follows an enigmatic assassin Edward Fox trying to kill Charles de Gaulle; there's an indiscreet cabinet official who natters away to his mistress an agent of the assassins about the progress of the Jackal manhunt.
While seeing the film, I was having as good a time as an year-old ever has. Fox was ruthless and sophisticated; he wore cool disguises and strangled unsavory people. He drove an Alfa Romeo and painted it between murders. He hid a rifle in a crutch. So my plate was full. I hadn't counted on a mammary-related Big Moment-but I got one. In the scene, it was night.
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The mistress-mole was slipping furtively out of bed to make a call. This was something I'd seen before, movie characters using telephones. But then the unthinkable happened: The sheet dropped. It was impossible, and it was glorious.
We saw areola, we saw-was this happening? Then we saw it again. What could those guys have been thinking? A train. Look at the train, year-old boy!
Here comes the train. I am fairly certain that women shed their clothes beforethough I can only judge this from easy-to-doctor still photographs. In JackalI was suddenly viewing solid film evidence that females were willing and able to walk around, even slink around, without clothes.
Billions of electrical impulses exploded across the synapses of my brain. From that moment alone, I might easily have been doomed to a life of seedy clubs, hookers, and a grim, spiraling sexual addiction. That breast, that redhead's breast-it was right there, available to the deeply spiritual part of me that could float out of my body, as a pure soul departs the flesh, then screw her.
Actually, there's a decent chance this film did pervert me. I mean, the mistress was working to assassinate a world leader-and she was the light of my life.
Let's face it: We were all rooting for the assassins, especially the naked one. It was like spotting the Olsen twins in the Zapruder film: Nothing good could come of it.
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Still, I'm grateful that my first cinematic breast didn't belong to a murdered girl on a slab or something, because you never know where that's going to lead. All that said, if I could have, I gladly would have leapt into The Day of the Jackal and given my all for the de Gaulle conspiracy. That's how powerful, how atomic, the moment was. Anything to cross that last tactile frontier.
Feb 09, Breasts: They don't do anything to help your running. They just hitch a ride and get in the way-requiring their own special equipment and in some cases, causing discomfort. They move more. Our breasts can be supremely sexually pleasurable, and they can also be a source of anxiety about "measuring up" to cultural expectations. They can be beautiful; they can be a source of illness Author: Kelly Bourdet. May 12, They are transitory and move around, and sometimes I don't know where they went. Exhibit A is when I lie down on my back and they seemingly disappear into my ribcage. Boobs Author: Hannah Smothers.
My chance to murder de Gaulle has passed which is sad, really-unlike others, I learned from Edward Fox's mistakes. And for all I know, the nude redheads of my cinematic youth are now a brood of year-old screeching hags living in Dallas-women I'd beg to keep a fierce grip on the sheets, for all our sakes.
I probably wouldn't chase down their breasts right now. I wouldn't get grabby. These days, I can get a better assassin-tit fix off Milla Jovovich. A moment-not a scene, really, but a scene-stealer-that i'll always remember is in Carnal Knowledge. Jack Nicholson, the lucky bastard, is on a date with Ann-Margret. Nicholson plays a certified public accountant who also happens to be a certified pussy bandit, and Ann-Margret is