Read Online Breasts by Florence Williams - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Florence Williams
Ads: Link
removals. The history of how we got from A to B, or DD, as it were, is a sordid and fascinating tale of marketing, mass hysteria, and environmental disease. To see where we’ve ended up, as well as where it all began, I went to boob job ground zero: houston.
At the swank office suite of Dr. Michael Ciaravino, over eight hundred pairs of breasts a year get the full Texas treatment: silicone, mostly, and a smattering of saline. Ciaravino is a true scion of a storied boob-job lineage, having trained with the doctor who trained with the inventor of implants. An energetic forty-five-yearold, he performs more augmentations by far than any doctor in Texas. His office is where Trump Plaza meets Jiffy Lube. I walked into the white marble sanctum on a crisp winter day. Reflecting the notion that boob jobs are as much about consumerism as medicine, tasteful displays of cosmetics, Ciaravino T-shirts, and a giant poster advertising MemoryGel by Mentor for “superlative enhancement” met me just inside the glass doors. Add to this soft lighting, spotless white and taupe furniture, and arresting megaphotos of women in expensive lingerie.
Dr. C, as he’s known affectionately by staff and patients, had agreed to walk me through the experience as if I were a regular patient. It was all so real, so slick and seductive, so full of metaphorical lotuses that I almost left with a new titanic rack. First, I was greeted by Katye, who genuinely fits the description of blonde bombshell. Like many of the curvy and silken-haired assistants here, she’s been either a swimsuit model or a professional cheerleader. We practically sashayed to a corner office overlooking leafy west Houston, not far from the Galleria mall. Several curvy vasesaccented the room’s modernist décor, suggesting shapelier times ahead.
“Welcome to the practice!” Katye began. She told me that Dr. C has been practicing for fourteen years and “has been able to perfect the technique.” She showed me a book of before and after photos, in which (mostly) perfectly nice breasts end up looking like water balloons on a skinny rib cage. These headless torsos did, I have to admit, look much more sexed up in the after shots, since by now we’ve all been conditioned to associate big fake breasts with sex. More on that later.
Katye walked me next door to the 3-D imaging room, where, in the name of journalism, I disrobed. After I comfortably settled into my white waffle-weave robe, she showed me implant samples. They were about the size of a large Krispy Kreme. Both the silicone and saline ones were cased in a round, clear, silicone bag. The silicone implant felt nice and soft in a detached way, like bread dough through Saran Wrap. The saline one felt like a bag of water, which is what it is. Women who wear these sometimes make sloshing noises, and ripples can show through the skin. They are less expensive, though, and may be safer if the implant ruptures. In that case, the breast deflates like a flat tire. When a silicone implant ruptures, it is supposed to stay in place since it has the viscous properties of a gummy bear. This is a vast improvement over the more syrup-like silicones of old.
Dr. Ciaravino came in and introduced himself. He has a broad, tanned face and shoulder-length brown hair. He wore a white lab coat and a thick neck chain. I could easily see him relishing his pastimes, which, according to the office literature, include driving a Porsche and playing electric guitar. I channeled my inner Houston housewife. I told him I’d borne two children, had breast-fed foryears, and after going through life as a size B, was now curious as to what life might be like as a C. He nodded sympathetically. “Let’s have a look,” he said.
The robe came off, and Ciaravino pulled out a small tape measure. He measured me from collarbone to nipple, from nipple to under-breast fold, and from nipple to nipple, calling out numbers to Katye. He took a step back and mashed my breasts
At the swank office suite of Dr. Michael Ciaravino, over eight hundred pairs of breasts a year get the full Texas treatment: silicone, mostly, and a smattering of saline. Ciaravino is a true scion of a storied boob-job lineage, having trained with the doctor who trained with the inventor of implants. An energetic forty-five-yearold, he performs more augmentations by far than any doctor in Texas. His office is where Trump Plaza meets Jiffy Lube. I walked into the white marble sanctum on a crisp winter day. Reflecting the notion that boob jobs are as much about consumerism as medicine, tasteful displays of cosmetics, Ciaravino T-shirts, and a giant poster advertising MemoryGel by Mentor for “superlative enhancement” met me just inside the glass doors. Add to this soft lighting, spotless white and taupe furniture, and arresting megaphotos of women in expensive lingerie.
Dr. C, as he’s known affectionately by staff and patients, had agreed to walk me through the experience as if I were a regular patient. It was all so real, so slick and seductive, so full of metaphorical lotuses that I almost left with a new titanic rack. First, I was greeted by Katye, who genuinely fits the description of blonde bombshell. Like many of the curvy and silken-haired assistants here, she’s been either a swimsuit model or a professional cheerleader. We practically sashayed to a corner office overlooking leafy west Houston, not far from the Galleria mall. Several curvy vasesaccented the room’s modernist décor, suggesting shapelier times ahead.
“Welcome to the practice!” Katye began. She told me that Dr. C has been practicing for fourteen years and “has been able to perfect the technique.” She showed me a book of before and after photos, in which (mostly) perfectly nice breasts end up looking like water balloons on a skinny rib cage. These headless torsos did, I have to admit, look much more sexed up in the after shots, since by now we’ve all been conditioned to associate big fake breasts with sex. More on that later.
Katye walked me next door to the 3-D imaging room, where, in the name of journalism, I disrobed. After I comfortably settled into my white waffle-weave robe, she showed me implant samples. They were about the size of a large Krispy Kreme. Both the silicone and saline ones were cased in a round, clear, silicone bag. The silicone implant felt nice and soft in a detached way, like bread dough through Saran Wrap. The saline one felt like a bag of water, which is what it is. Women who wear these sometimes make sloshing noises, and ripples can show through the skin. They are less expensive, though, and may be safer if the implant ruptures. In that case, the breast deflates like a flat tire. When a silicone implant ruptures, it is supposed to stay in place since it has the viscous properties of a gummy bear. This is a vast improvement over the more syrup-like silicones of old.
Dr. Ciaravino came in and introduced himself. He has a broad, tanned face and shoulder-length brown hair. He wore a white lab coat and a thick neck chain. I could easily see him relishing his pastimes, which, according to the office literature, include driving a Porsche and playing electric guitar. I channeled my inner Houston housewife. I told him I’d borne two children, had breast-fed foryears, and after going through life as a size B, was now curious as to what life might be like as a C. He nodded sympathetically. “Let’s have a look,” he said.
The robe came off, and Ciaravino pulled out a small tape measure. He measured me from collarbone to nipple, from nipple to under-breast fold, and from nipple to nipple, calling out numbers to Katye. He took a step back and mashed my breasts
Similar Books
