"Nina Kiriki Hoffman - Savage Breasts" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hoffman Nina Kiriki)

SAVAGE BREASTS
Nina Kiriki Hoffman
I really don't believe in feminist fiction, and certainly not in the fields
of fantasy and science-fiction. If a male writer can put us into the mind
of a six-armed Legamoth from Canopus, he can sure as hell show us
what Shirley McNulty from down the block is thinking. James Schmitz,
for one, built a whole SF career on the antics of strong female
protagonists (come to think of it, if you'd ever met Mrs. Schmitz, you'd
understand why). Other male writers have done as well or better at
putting themselves in the minds of members of the opposite sex, and of
course the reverse is true.
On the other chromosome ...
There are some stories that a man simply would not write. Not
because being male renders him incapable of so doing, but just because
he's unlikely to think of certain themes, or at least to approach them in
as, well, personal a fashion.
After you read Nina Hoffman's story, you might want to think twice
about approaching them at all.



I WAS ONLY a lonely leftover on the table of Life. No one seemed
interested in sampling me.
I was alone that day in the company cafeteria when I made the fateful
decision which changed my life. If Gladys, the other secretary in my boss's
office and my usual lunch companion, had been there, it might never have
happened, but she had a dentist appointment. Alone with the day's entree,
Spaghetti-0's, I sought company in a magazine I found on the table.
In the first blazing burst of inspiration I ever experienced, I cut out an
ad on the back of the Wonder Woman comic book. "The Insult that Made
a Woman Out of Wilma," it read. It showed a hipless, flat-chested girl
being buried in the sand and abandoned by her date, who left her alone
with the crabs as he followed a bosomy blonde off the page. Wilma
eventually excavated herself, went home, kicked a chair, and sent away for
Charlotte Atlas's pamphlet, "From Beanpole to Buxom in 20 days or your
money back." Wilma read the pamphlet and developed breasts the size of
breadboxes. She retrieved her boyfriend and rendered him acutely jealous
by picking up a few hundred other men.
I emulated Wilma's example and sent away for the pamphlet and the
equipment that came with it.
When my pamphlet and my powder-pink exerciser arrived, I felt a
vague sense of unease. Some of the ink in the pamphlet was blurry. A few
pages were repeated. Others were missing. Sensing that my
uncharacteristic spurt of enthusiasm would dry up if I took the time to
send for a replacement, I plunged into the exercises in the book (those I
could decipher) and performed them faithfully for the requisite twenty
days. My breasts blossomed. Men on the streets whistled. Guys at the
office looked up when I jiggled past.
I felt like a palm tree hand-pollinated for the first time. I began to have
clusters of dates. I was pawed, pleasured, and played with. I experienced