Male Fantasy: Why Do Fictional Women Always Have Large Boobs?

By C. Sterling

I have read enough manuscripts over the past 25 years to make the following statement: Male fiction writers need to get real. Okay, fiction isn’t really real, but it still has to sound real. The storyline has to be plausible, the characters believable and the dialogue natural. Every publisher and editor will agree that a writer’s ability to make fiction seem real is what good fiction is all about. Somehow, this message hasn’t gotten to male fiction writers, especially the new ones. Here’s an example of what I mean:

“As Joe waited for the elevator door to open he ran his fingers through his gray hair. It was thinning; there was no doubt about it. It was true, Joe admitted to himself. He was losing his hair. At least he was doing better than his father, who was completely bald by the age of fifty-five. He was ready to let go of his thoughts about hair, age and dad when the door opened and he came face to face with himself in the elevator’s full length mirror. Was that really him? When did he get that belly? And those wrinkles on his face? He entered the elevator and immediately heard a woman calling to hold the door.

Joe held the door open and before him stood the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was tall, mostly legs. Her flowing blond hair lightly touched her bare shoulders. The deep neckline of her nearly see-through white blouse revealed her large, round breasts. Her short black skirt hugged her narrow hips. “Just in time,” he said, smiling.

She returned his smile. Her lips where red, full and inviting. “I’m Monique,” she said with a hit of a French accent. “And you are my savior tonight.” He stared into her deep blue eyes; a place where he was certain he could get lost.

She returned his gaze. Their hands meet as they both reached for the elevator button.”

Blah…blah…blah. Anyway, later that night Joe and Monique bump into each other at the hotel bar. Joe learns she is twenty-four, has a PH.D from Harvard and is in town for a few weeks to work with NASA scientists to solve a problem that might just save the world from certain destruction. Oh, Joe works with NASA, too. He’s the janitor who has stumbled upon a piece of top-secret information that may just help Monique save the world. Anyway, as you probably have guessed by now, Joe and Monique have sex. Excuse me, not just sex; the best sex ever. Crazy, wild, uninhibited sex with a capital “S.” So what if he is married to a fifty-four year old small breasted women who works as a secretary and loves him dearly. The world in grave danger, humans may become extinct and a twenty-four year old blond bombshell with large boobies and a PH.D. wants his fat, aging, bald-headed body. A woman would never write that shit, except of course to illustrate a point.

What point? The male fantasy point. Enough already. No matter how you try to spin it, Monica is never, in a million years, going to have sex with Joe. Just isn’t going to happen. So fellas, downsize the breasts, shorten the legs, make the lips less red and a bit thinner, drop the accent, change Monique to Mary and up the age to forty-two. Oh, and kill the wife. The rest of the story sounds pretty good.

Did I mention that Monique has a friend? Yeah, she’s an old college roommate named Suzanne. NASA, much to Monique’s surprise, asked her to join the team. She’s attracted to Joe, too. And guess what? Suzanne’s breasts are even bigger than Monique’s.

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