Two melons
Fake is a beautifully complicated word. It starts softly, in almost a whisper, then quickly gathers strength on the way to its harsh, nasty terminus. It's employed with equal authority by schoolchildren and accountants, jewelers and philosophers. And it's rife with contradiction.

In sports a fake is a move, a tool, a device. In art it is corruption. A fake either works so perfectly that the fact of the counterfeit goes unnoticed, or it is so poorly executed that it fools no one and does not work at all. Noun. Verb. Adjective. The word has range.

I always laugh when people use the word fake when discussing breast augmentation. They say it as if the breasts themselves were lies, forgeries, as if someone were being hoodwinked. Yet there is very little deception in the matter of implants, since most of the time the whole story is right there for you to look at. In point of fact, you're supposed to look. For men that's the best part. Most men have lived some portion of their lives surreptitiously regarding cleavage, stealing glances from across the 10th-grade-English classroom, from behind a magazine, from the end of the bar. I don't know a single heterosexual guy who doesn't rubberneck when it comes to this part of a woman's body. I've seen preachers, therapists, pharmacists, and university presidents eyeball a woman with great cleavage, often cleavage obviously built on the back of great implants. You don't have to be an evolutionary biologist to know that men are visually stimulated. So the tacit invitation to have a look at a woman's breasts is, in itself, a wonderful thing. And whether what one is looking at is a miracle of technology or the real deal seems less than the point.

The compact is clear: A woman with breast augmentation asks to be regarded. It really isn't about size; it's about attitude. Her attitude. That's a provocation most men welcome.

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