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All the Real Girls
by D. Brian Nelson, Steve Diet Goedde and Siege
My friend Omri swears he can spot
breast implants under a shirt, from across the room. (Interestingly enough,
he's gay.) Every time I've tested his claim, he's been right. "They
stretch differently," he explains. "The skin's pulled so tight. They're
so busy being perky, they actually look tired." I think he's full
of shit. But looking at these shots of large, unenhanced breasts, I can
almost — almost — imagine that he isn't, that there's some way
to instantly discern flesh from silicone, to distinguish live cells from
less interesting
solutions.
The words typically assigned to these curves are art-history
dull — pendulant,
fertile — nothing like the smart, lively descriptors I need for
these
smart, lively photos.
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