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Late Innings


Yanks down in Tampa playing out the string…unless…nah, playing out the string.

Never mind the pitching changes: Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Picture by Bags

My Life in a 36DD Bra, Or, The All-American Obsession


Here is another sure shot from the enchanting Eve Babitz. Originally published in the April 1976 issue of Ms. Magazine, it appears here with the author’s permission. (For more on Babitz, ready Lili Anorak’s 2014 Vanity Fair profile, and pick up Babitz’s two wonderful volumes—Eve’s Hollywood and Slow Days, Fast Company.)

“My Life in a 36DD Bra, Or, The All-American Obsession”

By Eve Babitz

When I was 15 years old, I bought and filled my first 36 DD bra. Since then, no man has ever made a serious pass at me without assuring me in the first hour that he was a leg man. Tits! Why, he hadn’t even noticed!

The tacit understanding was that if I did indeed have those giant knockers one hears so much about in locker rooms and sees flopping across magazine covers, why he simply hadn’t seen what all the fuss was about! Instead he had been quietly pursuing his birdwatching of ankles, knees, and nicely turned calves.

For years I believed these men, which goes to show how dumb one can be when on puts one’s mind to it. And for years I felt sorry for the men who, by some sad twist of fate had gotten stuck with me when they’d have preferred legs. On the other hand, I always knew that if I ever really wanted anything, all I’d have to do was lean forward slightly. Suddenly the world was waiting to hear what it was I wanted, how fast I wanted it, and whether they could get a better one for me wholesale.

Now my legs aren’t that great. They’re okay—with feet on the end of them and toenails at the ends of the feet. They’re not the long legs that you see in Vogue magazine, those grasshopper stems glistening out in Vaseline bronze for “this summer it’s white linen, briefly” copy. (And, as for my ass, well it’s so nondescript that one one’s ever presumed to tell me that was what they were after.)

In fact, I inherited my legs from my mother, and her apple-dumplingly adorable (but short) legs used to cause my father to laugh for what my mother described as “no reason.” Then my mother would blush all the way down to her amazingly taut, and gorgeous breasts. Perhaps that was the real reason my father laughed at her legs.

I inherited my breasts from the women in our family, judging from the old photographs taken in Russia in 1905 and old photographs taken in Louisiana in 1907. Only I was what is euphemistically described as a “Late Bloomer,” but which might better be called The-Heartbreak-Hotel-Death-Row-No-Love-Low-Down-End-of-the-World-Blues. There I was 14 years old in Hollywood with all these incredible girls around me bulging out of these powder-blue sweaters, these salmon-colored sweaters, these pink and charcoal-gray sweaters, these full-fashioned cashmere navy-blue sweaters. And I’m in huge white blouses coming out of my skirts because I’d rather have people think of me a pig or a slob than flat-chested. My best friend, who’d spent hours with me in the seventh grade laughing and talking (she was really a smart funny girl and we had splendid times), suddenly turned up after one summer in Lake Arrowhead with beautiful 35C tits, in pink sweaters—and she never spoke to a girl again. (Yes, she did—to the only girl in school with tits bigger than hers. But that girl wasn’t beautiful the way she was, or smart.)

Then, it happened to me.

It was in the summertime, I was 14. I started my period and then I started “blossoming” in the most phenomenal display of glorious last-minute cavalry rescue. It was, as the English say, gratifying. Now, at least I didn’t have that to worry about any more.

Later I noticed that men would view my tits and become aflame with desire for them, and they would fantasize about having a pair of their own: “God, if I had tits like those I could fuck my way into a million bucks…” I also started getting plenty of, “Shit, she must really be horny.” (They get horny so I’m supposed to.)

Recently, in Ralph’s, my local supermarket where anything often goes, there I am trying to decide on some lettuce—lost in thought, idylls of watercress—when I feel a man behind me and quickly, before I can turn around, he says in a low, authorative purposeful salute: “Big tits.” And he’s gone.

That’s like seeing a movie star. You run up—with all kinds of fantasies beaming through your regular thought process—you run up to Cary Grant and say “Cary Grant!”

What’s he supposed to do? You’ve just said his name to him—a tradition, a heritage, a massive plethora of dreams and meanings. It’s the same with men and my tits. They cannot imagine my doing anything that isn’t somehow connected with how big my tits are. And my tits aren’t even that big. I mean…they’re not Cary Grant. They’re more…John Garfield or Dean Martin. You know, there’s that shock of recognition but no the fainting spell Cary Grant would inspire.

The other night I went out on the Last-Blind-Date-I-Shall-Ever-Go-Out-On-Ever-Again. The other night this friend, who keeps saying how smart and funny and wonderful she thinks I am, calls me and says she’s going to fix me up with this smart, funny wonderful ex-lover of hers. I’ll just love him, she says. So I get dressed in these clothes that I wear when I don’t know what I’m about to encounter—clothes vaguely reminiscent of those awful white blouses I wore in junior high to hide whatever was there. This tall, unfunny, unwonderful, stupid man picks me up (I could tell at once he was stupid because he was stupid), and on our way into this restaurant he brushes against my breasts and says, “Why, shit, Jeannie was right! You do have gigantic tits!” Home, James.

He’d have done much better if he insisted he was a leg man and you can see why, all these years, those other guys did.

When a man who I don’t love and am not sexually engrossed in talks about my tits, there’s something that makes me want to pour cold water into his lap and leave a loose cartoon of ice cream on his car seat overnight. Legs are much less tiresome to listen to under those circumstances. However, if I’m beginning to be madly whipped into a frenzy of lust, a polite mention that I have beautiful breasts is a nice touch. And of course, after I’ve known the guy awhile and he’s proved himself funny, smart, an ace lover, and a man of distinction, then he can say any fucking thing he pleases. And only then have I found out what men were really thinking the first time when they poured me a glass of cool white wine and nonchalantly admitted their preference for legs.

“I remember one time,” my gorgeous friend David old me after I told him I was going to write this piece, “I met this girl, Lucy Sander” [I knew her—we’d shared a dressing room in Hollywood High together once and even then I thought it was hilarious because I was a 36DD and she was a 36DD and we’d get our bras mixed up—a truly uncommon coincidence] “and I was like 19 and was 16 and there they just were, you know!…” and his voice softened in memories of things lust, “and I ran home, I mean ran, I pushed people off the sidewalk so I could get home in time to jerk off thinking about her tits…” He started laughing, “And then I asked her out and I was going to kiss her for the first time and she said something about being careful because she was swollen because of her period and I said, ‘Swollen? Where?’ And then I went into a whole thing about how now that she mentioned it I did notice she was perhaps larger than other girls but since I was a leg man myself…”

I love revelations.

So for all those years when I was having to make do with men who were a trifle triste because they were leg men and they had to accustom themselves to all this extra baggage…And then how they pounced when the coast became clear, and those revelations afterward that from the moment I’d come into some party they couldn’t they their eyes off my…But of course they had to.  Because if they hadn’t, I would have thought they were pigs and brutes and you know how women are about pigs and brutes. We like them to clean up their routine in polite society at least. We like to at least know they could maintain an air of respectability if they had to.

There are other little tricky situations that arise from big tits. Sometimes other women, a lot of the time when they’re drunk, can’t keep their eyes off them. They think you’re doing it on purpose. It’s like big guys in bars getting picked on for fights. But that’s okay, I don’t really mind about women. Deep down they know I know they can’t help it and eventually they turn their venom on their escorts fro liking women with big tits and leave me out of it.

There’s also all this having to bundle up. Whenever I go into the street, I have to cover myself with clothes that flow and drape. I cannot wear a tight anything on the street if I hope to have a moment’s peace. Suppose, for example, you wanted to go for a nice walk and look at the sunset and breathe in the air at eventide, nice idea, right? No, no, no. Not if you’ve got big tits and you’re not bundled up (Cary Grant can’t do it either).

Putting on disguises is one of my daily tasks. “Now what shall I wear today that’ll billow around?” I say to myself, squinting into my closet. If I’m going to see friends and I have to on the street first, I usually have to wear a coat (“Eve, a coat? It’s eighty degrees out there!”) and then take it off (sweating) upon arrival. If they’re really true friends who won’t make remarks about my tits when they get drunk enough, and if I can really be sure they aren’t going to turn on me for being Cary Grant, then I sometimes really get luscious and I try to dress like Claudia Cardinale in Caratouche or try in some other way to otherwise become a visual social asset to the proceedings.


If I’m with a man I want to entice, then I have a special bunch of immoral things I wear for in-house functions, but only if the guy is six foot seven, do I presume to wear them at large.

There is one other problem—not a problem but a little matter of concern—about having big tits, and that is that a lot of sensitive, smart men are terrified because they’re consumed by lust and they haven’t learned the old “leg man” line. Also they have this nervous feeling that anyone with tits like that must be vulgar. Or insensitive. There I sit, reading my Proust and minding my p’s and q’s and keeping up with current oddities—no slouch more or less—and I see them shrink from my gaze as they I were a tramp.

Having spent the day defending myself from the slings and arrows of outrageous truck drivers and busboys I am sometimes ill-equipped to suddenly assume an air of sensitive melancholy—and a couple of years ago I gave it up for a bad show. I mean, to be given the feeling that one is inelegant after one has just found the strategy for getting form point A to point B without having to walk past a little group of 14-year-old boys…It’s too hard and life is too short, and I want to be happy and laugh…

Occasionally, I sit in a restaurant and I watch as a lithe, long-limbed creature with daises embroidered on a sheer organdy blouse (beneath which she does not now, nor has she ever had to wear a bra) enters. I see the face of the man who awaits her; it has a particularly familiar look and until lately, I couldn’t place it. He kisses her, she sits down, and he reaches over to pour her some cool white wine. And then, I’ll be you anything, he says, “You know, even though we just met, I think I must tell you right off…I’m a tit man.”

Thank You, Sir, May I Have Another?


The 4-game thumping ended in predictable fashion—with Hanley Ramirez sending the Yankees home unhappy. Sox slid passed the Yanks on Saturday afternoon, 6-5, and against last night, they rallied from down 4-0 to win 5-4.

That’s a wrap, young upstarts.

Aie, Papi


It’s pretty funny that the Yanks are giving Ortiz a little send off next time the Sox are in town. They should give him an all-expenses paid trip to the North Pole so he doesn’t change his mind—which he will—next year and come back to drive in more runs against the Bombers.

Sox buried the Yanks 7-4 last night and it’s getting late, fast, for the upstarts.

More this afternoon.

Oh, well, never mind reality:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Picture by Bags

Back to the Grill Again


Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Yanks took a tough loss last night—crushing, devastating, back-breaking, the worst!—but they’ll be back at it again tonight.

Never mind the hang-over:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Picture by Bags

Hurt Feelings


The Yanks had a 5-2 lead going into the 9th inning but Dellin Betances had less than zero and that, coupled with the fact that the Bombers stranded about 37 men on base over the course of the game, did them in. The Sox rallied, capped by a game-winning home run by Hanley Ramirez. Joy at the Fens, sorrow for the upstarts.

Final score: Sox 7, Yanks 5. 

Quelle Dommage.


Friendly Fire


The Yanks are in Boston for a big four game serious. Sox are in first place, a game ahead of the O’s , 2 ahead of the Jays, while the Yanks sit a couple of games out of the second wildcard spot with 2 teams ahead of them. That’s a whole lot of 2’s…and a lot still left to settle.

Be nice if the Yanks can cause the Sox some trouble, perhaps even some grief over the weekend. Or maybe the Sox will cause us misery instead. Usually either goes one way or the other, don’t it?

Never mind the standings:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Picture by Bags

Don’t Leave Me Hanging


Dodgers 2, Yanks 0. Delayed by rain then the Yanks were undone by their own mistakes.


Picture by Bags

Morning Art


Painting by Alex Russell Flint (via This Isn’t Happiness).

In a Pinch


C.C. Sabathia pitched into the 7th last night, didn’t allow a run, and the Yanks hit three solo home runs late (two by pinch-hitters—Ellsbury, Didi—and the other one, of course, by Sanchez), good for a tidy, 3-0 win against the Dodgers.

Later this afternoon—4:oo p.m. start—they’ll face Clayton Kershaw as they look to take the series.

Never mind the chill:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Picture by Bags

Okay—Take Two


C’mon Fellas, how about givin’ ‘em a hard time tonight, whadda ya say, hah?

Never mind the gorgeous autumnal chill:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Picture by Bags

Cooling Off?


Aaron Judge hit a long home run for the Yanks last night into the left field bleachers, a true bomb, and that was about the only thing worth savoring for the home team. The Dodgers—with plenty of their partisans cheering in the stands—rolled over the Yanks, 8-2 (how you like that short porch in right field, fellas?). Nothing to see here, carry on.

Picture by Bags

Hello, Old Chums


The L.A. Dodgers are in town for three games against the upstart Yanks.

This should be fun. And if the Yanks lose, our pal Jon Weisman will be happy and I can never argue with that.

Never mind the yearbooks:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Picture by Bags

Encore Une Fois?


Yanks win again. Hell, no use steering now.

Never mind the breeze:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Picture by Bags

Let it Rain


A little wet in the Bronx has pushed the start back some.

They’ll get this one in—after another big win last night (despite the 3 rain delays).

Never mind that nasty kid, Archer:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Picture by Bags

Hot Hand


Yanks are surging as the bonus fun continues.

Never mind the heat (oy, is it hot):

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Picture by Bags

Towel Off

MLB: Tampa Bay Rays at New York Yankees

The Yanks and Rays hit a lot of solo home runs last night in a soporific affair at the Stadium. In the 8th inning, Michael Kay complained about the deadly pace of the game. I listened to the 9th on the radio where John and Suzyn had similar complaints—and they weren’t wrong.

This one ended on a positive note, when Tyler Austin’s solo shot in the bottom of the 9th won it for the Yanks. Final Score: 5-4.

Another win. More fun. Boring or not, we will take it.

[Photo Credit: Brad Penner-USA TODAY Sports]

Now What?


Dare we ask for more? (Dare, dare). You know how the Rays give the Yanks problems.

Never mind the Indian Summer:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Picture by Bags

Serve You Up like Stove Top Stuffin’


So last night was the game the Yanks should have lost, right? Because they don’t sweep series when they matter in 2016, right? Uh, maybe not. They beat the Jays 2-0 last night thanks to marvelous work by Bryan Mitchell and Luis Severino, and the Bombers sit just a couple of games outside of the second playoff spot.

Stranger things have happened.

Indeed they have.

Fun in the Sun


Hilarious win for the Yanks last night. Kick-in-the-nuts loss for the Jays. Oh, man, was it ever sweet, with Brett Gardner’s lucky-ass, snow-cone catch as the topper.

Dare we ask for more? (Dare, dare.)

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

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"This ain't football. We do this every day."
--Earl Weaver