I was able to get only two signatures from my first ten subjects. One signed because "I don't even like bananas, so whatever," and the other because he seemed to have some sympathy for neurotic New Yorkers. I wanted to hide beneath the shattered remains of my dignity and call it a night, figuring that as stupid, nonsensical, and unbelievable as the Banana Project was, even a naked Gisele probably couldn't convince people to sign.

Wrong! I'm no Gisele, but trying again, with the cleavage in full effect, I received seven signatures in ten attempts. It's not like my boobs were spilling out of my shirt during round two, but they were definitely there, and I made sure to use them to their full advantage. The moment I heard a subject decline (gently, I might add), I would "accidentally" drop my pen ("oops!") and bend over just long enough to give him a peep of my delectable breasts. Upon straightening up, I'd inch closer and, with a subtle chest-thrust, continue, "Are you sure you don't want to sign for this cause?"

My targets, most of them smiling at this point, seemed helpless.

"Well, okay... I mean, if you want me to sign it..."

I could barely believe it was that easy. I also didn't feel like such an idiot during round two, because at least those who turned me down didn't argue with me or treat me like I was off my rocker. The few who didn't agree to sign assured me that they "respected" my mission and promised me they would definitely check out my "website" at SaveTheFruit.org, proceeding to text the address into their phones.

A good scientist knows one experiment is never enough, so I took the twins to the Flatiron Lounge, a pricey bar off of Manhattan's Fifth Avenue. I couldn't remember the last time I'd gone to a bar flaunting my cleavage, and I wanted to know if it would change the way men treated me. "Power" would be measured by how many free drinks I could get without asking, simply letting my chest do the work. For a control, I brought a friend of mine whose boobs, next to mine, looked like corn kernels.

Walking into the crowded bar, I was suddenly struck by my usual stage fright over mingling with strangers, especially of the opposite sex. Panicked, I pulled my friend back outside. "What am I supposed to do here? Just stand on display? I'm mortified," I moaned. She shrugged and lit a cigarette. I wanted to run away. Even the boob power within me didn't feel strong enough to overcome my shyness.

"Excuse me — can I buy a cigarette off of you?" A voice snapped me out of my nervous thoughts. My cigarette-puffing friend looked at me quizzically, and I told the cute red-headed guy that I — obviously — didn't have a cigarette. (Did he not see the ten other smokestacks around him?)

"That's okay," the guy said, giving me a head-to-toe eye-fuck. At this point my friend tossed her cigarette, rolled her eyes and ducked back into the bar. "If you don't mind me saying," the guy continued without shifting his gaze, "you are one sexy girl."

"Thanks," I said, finding myself genuinely flattered by his directness. Feeling more confident I continued, "I was going to go back inside actually, I could use a drink."

"Let's go, my treat," he said.

Yes please, I'll have that $14 white-cranberry Cosmopolitan...

One drink led to another and... my liver is paying the price, but at least I don't have a dent in my pocket for a change. Calculating the drinks bought for me throughout the entire night, I estimate a total bill of sixty dollars. I don't think I've spent that much at a bar since my twenty-first birthday.  

I can't give all the credit for my successful mooching spree to my rack. The redhead's compliment reminded me of how sexy I'd felt in the Townshop fitting room. The memory of that moment instantly snapped me out of my shyness and self-doubt.  

As to my A-cup friend?

"I got pretty drunk," she said. "But that was my own fault. Only one guy bought me a drink... and it turns out he was gay."

Observation/results: Whether a man claims to prefer big butts, tight vaginas or manicured feet, one thing is undeniably true — a woman's breasts will always remain an asset. For me, it was an empowering epiphany, and removed any lingering thoughts I had of getting breast-reduction surgery. I'm still bothered by the way staring men make me feel vulnerable, but now I feel more understanding than angry and disgusted. I mean, these days I can't help checking out my own cleavage!

Embracing my breasts (not literally) and putting them out there (more literally) was a cathartic experience, ending a long phase of broken self-esteem and opening my eyes to genuine self-appreciation. And, honestly, I believe it was not just my cleavage but this newly burnished self-image, that so well-served my banana cause and desire to get drunk for free.

Read more I Did It For Science here.