For this, my first contribution to the BEA's own BEhavior webzine, I'd like to share with you a taste of what life can be like here in my adopted home, Los Angeles, California. Like most big cities, L.A. combines some wonderful and terrible qualities, and living here can often be wildly elating or horribly depressing, occasionally both at the same time. Perhaps the most American of large American cities, Los Angeles is it's own invention... a megalopolis driven by the media: obsessed with image and appearance above all. This manifests itself in many ways that are often amazing and repulsive to visitors: the ongoing obsessions that Los Angelinos have with their cars, their homes, their celebrities and their bodies are all well-documented examples of this quality: perception is everything.

For a modern male mammal like myself, this environment can make for sights far more entertaining than most of the films and television shows that L.A. is renowned for producing. With everyone so conscious of the value placed on appearance, people often go to extraordinary lengths to look their best. This often includes cosmetic surgery, and to be sure, this city probably has the world's greatest per-capita density of artificially enhanced breasts. Stunningly beautiful women are also amazingly common, many proudly sporting bodies and bosoms that literally stop traffic, regardless of whether their assets are genetic or man-made in origin. Assuming that one actually manages to leave the house, it's just about impossible not to see at least a handful of such women during even the briefest of journeys through most parts of the city. During the course of a normal day around town, it's not uncommon for an attentive fellow to have seen literally dozens of genuine beauties and though the blonde, tanned 36-24-36 centerfold/sitcom star genre predominates, the sheer numbers of very attractive women out and about means that every variety of the feminine form is fairly well represented eventually. This includes that rare and precious sub-species so eagerly sought after by men like us: extremely beautiful women with extraordinarily large breasts.

This is not to say that ladies like Tiffany Towers, Busty Dusty and Chloe Vervier are milling about, scantily clad, on every street corner by the dozens... not quite. However, given the emphasis placed on all things visual, along with the proximity of the film, TV and porn industries, as well as the warm weather and numerous beaches... suffice it to say that a sharp-eyed guy is likely to encounter such spectacular women far more often than is probably the case in most other parts of the world. Which, in a roundabout fashion, brings me to the inspiration for this article: my most recent such sighting here in the land of sun, fun, silicone and saline. Read on, and enjoy...

The recent holiday weekend found yours truly spending an early afternoon with a good lady friend of my acquaintance, dining by the seaside. Despite my reservations about parking, crowds and lines (all of which I abhor and all of which were encountered) I agreed to take my companion to brunch at one of her favorite eateries in Manhattan Beach, which is about 15 or 20 minutes south of Santa Monica. Manhattan Beach is somewhat typical of most costal communities close to Los Angeles: heavily developed, frighteningly clean and crowded with natives and tourists alike. Trendy restaurants and pricey boutiques line both sides of Highland, the main drag, which is congested with attractive couples driving shiny, huge new SUVs, chatting on their cell phones and generally contributing to the air of unreality that pervades everything under the bright California sun. It was a warm day, and following a meal of obscenely huge omelettes filled with a cornucopia of crisp vegetables, fresh muffins and large quantities of iced tea, my companion and I slowly made our way back to her car (yes, also an SUV, but smaller than most and not all that shiny). That's when, while crossing an intersection, I saw her.

Discretion (in the presence of my friend) kept me from leering too obviously behind my sunglasses, so my exposure to her was fairly brief. I spied her as she approached the opposite corner walking toward us with some friends, and was able to keep my gaze fixed upon her until we passed each other crossing the street, all the while attempting to maintain my end of the conversation in progress with my friend. Of course, in my attempt to appear to be a gentleman, I was unable to glance behind us to catch a quick peek at her posterior, though even had I been able to do so, it's likely to have been moot: the image of her front was already indelibly burned into my retinas. Had her derriere been fully bared, well oiled and recently spanked I don't think that I'd have been able to take notice... not after just watching her approach.

She was young, perhaps 19 or 20, with straight light brown hair pulled back away from her face. She had one of those fresh, impossibly flawless faces: lightly tanned with delicate features apparently composed according to some esoteric formula of proportion, placement and scale... the sort of face that fills the screen during every third commercial on MTV hawking products to GenXers, or peering out from the pages of Seventeen magazine. She was of average height, perhaps 5'4" tall and 115 pounds, wearing bright white sneakers, a brief pair (but not trampishly so) of denim cutoffs and a burgundy cotton tank top. Her long arms and legs were slim and fit, gracefully shaped and without even a hint of the flaws brought about by age. What was most impressively appealing about this healthy, wholesome looking young woman however, was her breasts.

They weren't the small, pert pair of happy B-cups that you'd expect to see on such a slim figure... rather they were, to put it simply, the massive, swaying melons of a woman at least 15 years and 40 pounds her senior. The visual paradox was overwhelming: though she was wearing a bra (the black, padded shoulder straps were plainly visible beneath the much thinner straps of her sleeveless top) her breasts hung halfway down her chest, each appearing to be almost as large as her head. They swayed perceptibly as she walked, and the bounces they took as she stepped off of the curb was almost sufficient to give me a serious case of whiplash. Their sheer mass (on such a slender young girl) and propensity to motion seemed to indicate that these wonders were all hers, and not enhanced in any way other than halfheartedly supported by her bra. Frankly, it'd be hard to imagine anyone of her age and build actually choosing to have implants that size, even here in town known for it's worship of the female breast. The contrast was that great. Small bumps indicating her nipples were visible despite what was probably an industrial strength, custom made brassiere... these protrusions stood out slightly south of center, giving her breasts the appearance of looking down at the ground ahead of her. This too, lent weight to my theory (no pun intended) that these were a heavy pair of 100% natural USDA prime breasts. I can only imagine what they would've looked liked naked... probably hung down pendulously to her midriff in a permanent state of engorgement, I suppose. What would such a woman do with her life? Is she regarded as a freak or perhaps worshipped by those who encounter her? Of course, all of us would no doubt opt for the latter, given the opportunity to choose...

All sorts of amazing sights come and go in this city... this is one I'm not likely to soon forget.

Until next time,
Palomine