Stephanie is a model, actress, writer and natural health advocate who spends more time on a bike in New York than can possibly be good for her.

She can be found online at stephaniewhited.com.

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Poking Fun With Gravity

While on the 4 train, I wanted to poke some boobs. I wasn’t even attracted to the lady. A real lady, not proper lady, but woman lady, chillin’ with her friends, speaking in Spanish, probably going home to her kids and stuff. She had on a gold colored necklace that said Bella and a low cut top that teased me less about her tits than the top of her belly. Her boobs were totally bustin’ out, she definitely had on a push up bra that shoved them up really high, and because she was a real woman and all like I said, they looked really bouncy, like she probably breast fed and shit. So naturally, I thought about poking them and subsequently about how they would subsequently jiggle. All hoisted up in the bra cup would be waves of flesh reverberating post-contact. She seemed confident, like she’d been through enough to actually appreciate humor, so I imagined she might even giggle a bit and laugh and sort of open up if I went in for the poke. Such an intimately silly gesture takes either a long term partner or a stranger to get the moment right.

While I was staring at her boobs, fantasizing and philosophizing, one of her friends totally saw me gawking and just gave me this look that telepathically told me things, not words I can repeat, but I just knew she was logging a picture of me to keep for later, and I could just see me being flipped around to the back of her head, her occipital lobe, sending me off to be added to her PEOPLE WHO CHECKED OUT MY FRIEND’S BOOBS list whose location would depend on the age of the list and the frequency of its additions. The lady’s other friend, the skinny one of the triad, was hunched over all quiet, also wearing a tiny top, but one that showed off her skinny arms, probably just thinking about how skinny she was and how secretly her boobs were the best, because if you take off her top, they stay exactly in the same spot. She was the type of skinny that has never gained weight or had some extra poundage to beat those babies around a bit.

Then I was done thinking about boobs for a while, and I transferred to the R train and said it over and over in my head, and then out loud a few times, like R train, R train which I eventually came to understand as Our Train and that was really amusing. So then I thought it over and over like Our Train, but really it was just mine. And then I thought about that. Would it have been fun if I was with someone and said, This is Our Train Har Har but then I thought that was stupid and maybe I even liked that I was alone when I found myself craning my neck to see another girl, some chick skirting around like an overfed poodle, looking up and around like she was being called somewhere she couldn’t quite localize. She was wearing this brightly striped tank top cut to look like the top of a bra; and she had certifiable torpedo boobs ready for launch, either they were fake or she was wearing one of those push up bras without padding, because with the padding, the empty space at the bottom would be filled up and the breast would look more round, but no, it was just jutting straight the fuck out demanding my goddamn attention without my permission. I’m trying to get on my train here, I thought, and you are going to make me ram into someone or something. Like someone’s boobs, I continued. Wow. That’s not so bad. There’s a lot out there, you know. Or is it there ARE a lot out there?

The Spanish lady must have had some kind of effect on me because I started watching Spanish TV when I got home, and I don’t speak Spanish. On the show was a young actress with an undoubtedly constructed pair, awkward on her body like plastic oranges on a dinner plate; they nearly escaped the spatial flatness of the television screen. Hers didn’t hang on for the ride like the real ones, they stood; her chest appeared to be hanging on to them as they led the way, probably even guided her thoughts. They sure guided mine. Like: Maybe they are on a mission, working their way free, seeking me out, and somehow simultaneously pulling me in. No, I’m being too self-centered. They could be resisting being sucked into orbit by something or someone even more enthralled than I.

What extreme body modification, a feat to be marveled at, to have substantially large foreign objects implanted under your skin for reasons other people may never understand. Although, it must be really fun, to always know what they’re doing, what they look like, but they probably aren’t that fun to poke.