Burning Man, Boobs and Hot-Pink Bras
A couple of weeks ago, I asked our friend Dennis, who just got back from his 16th Burning Man, how he dealt with over 50,000 folks this year. He said, “About the same way I dealt with 30,000 people.”
There is a huge part of me that resists doing what thousands of other people call “cool.” How could it be so non-mainstream if so many people do it? Okay, and there is a huge part of me that doesn’t want to have playa dust caked in my nose and hair for days.
My girlfriend Monica participated in a theme camp one year and their “trade” was applying body paint. This has stuck in my mind and I told my husband that if I ever went, I wanted to be topless and have my nipples painted about 3” higher than they are currently situated (and a bit more symmetrical would be nice too). He said that I was missing the point: with body paint, you AREN’T SUPPOSED to SEE the nipples. And I said HE was missing the point, I WANTED people to see my nipples, just 3” higher.
“Man that broad has perky breasts,” they’d say!
Yeah, I know, all this discussion of the “ridiculi” by someone who has never gone.
Living in Reno, we get to see the parade of caravans headed up to Black Rock. Our local Safeway and Wal-Marts shelves look pretty barren after all the RVs and strange-looking rigs pass through and stock up on water and other supplies. On their return trip, you barely recognize the white-crusted bicycles, on the white-crusted vehicles, driven by white-crusted people.
And you just never know who’s got “funky” brewing inside of them. People’s MOTHERS go. And my boss’ kid goes. I just found out that a business associate goes every year with his wife. That put some reality in my topless idea. “Hello Michael,” I’d say, “How’s that quote for my direct mail project coming along and are you looking at my breasts, you cheeky monkey?”
It reminds me of when Monica (the same mentioned above) and I went to Europe as soon as we graduated from high school. One of the items on our world-tour bucket list was going topless on the first beach we hit, in Nice, France. For two bucks (we were on the Frommers $25 Dollars a Day guide), you could rent a really comfy and padded lounge chair and have cocktail service. We were in heaven. First, we were 18, having cocktails, topless, on a FRIGGIN beach, IN FRANCE!
So, we got settled, slowly removed our tops, giggling. Immediately the cocktail waiter came over, and we forgot how to form words, we were so embarrassed talking to someone with our tops off. He obviously was not affected by the bumbling teenagers and probably rolled his eyes when we ordered our “adult beverages” (although I wouldn’t know, as I couldn’t look at him). I remember that trip I ordered a lot of “Tom Collins” and “Bloody Marys” as it was the only mixed drink I knew of back then. Men, at least over in Europe, told us they found us sexier, with our clothes on, leaving what was underneath more of a fantasy to uncover.
Which is probably why I don’t feel like I’m misrepresenting myself wearing my most favorite, makes me feel sexy, hot-pink, push-up, Victoria Secret bra. Men, you want fantasy, I’ve got about two extra cup sizes of fantasy going on.
I think my husband even forgets the secret power of the bra until it comes off. And then looks down. Lower. Lower. Ah, there they are!
Here’s to the topless ladies of Burning Man, to the leathered breasts of Nice, to push up bras and body paint, to all the beautiful, unique bosoms out there … to fantasy.