I want cleavage. I want the yawning hollow worthy of a romance novel's heroine. An abyss where proclamations of love echo through time. A chasm. A canyon. A gorgeous gorge. "People in hell want ice water," my dad has always declared, and I'm afraid the old adage applies here: You've got to have big breasts to get big cleavage and at forty-two (years, not bra size), I've given up hope at last.

A woman like me shouldn't want big breasts. Educated, sensitive, well-liked, well-loved, and hip to our culture's enthrallment with breasts, I shouldn't care. It should be fine that no man's eyes have ever lighted on my chest more than a nano-second before darting back up again. In fact, according to my buxom friends, I should be delighted. Big boobs get in the way of just about everything, they say. Their backs ache from the weight of their "girls." And with age has come the inevitable gravitational sag.

But just as women with ringlets want stick-straight hair and women with sticks covet curls, I believe that women with small breasts would like big breasts, if only for a day. Truth be told, I don't want Pam Anderson's rack but a nice C cup, enough to make my top blouse buttons struggle to close. I'd like to need to wear a bra and maybe even enjoy shopping for one. And for once, when my dad quips in defense of small breasts that "more than a handful is wasted," I'd like to laugh the way one does when enjoying a joke without really understanding it.

I first became aware of my breasts only when others did. Frequently mistaken for a boy, I played one in a community theater production when I was twelve--my true gender successfully undetected. At the closing night party, I walked in wearing my on- and off-stage sweatshirt, jeans, and Keds to find my mother kibitzing with the play's director. "A few more months," the director said in a stage whisper, "she couldn't have played the part." They both looked at my chest and grinned. I was mortified.

I bloomed late, not starting my period until I was fifteen (although I'd faked cramps for years to get out of gym). I felt strange and mildly retarded because of the delay. My mother would tell me how hers arrived one afternoon when she was ten. She had been climbing a tree to hide from some neighbor boys, and when she saw the blood, she thought she was dying. She ran home in tears to a mother who would refuse to buy her or her sister pads. "We used rags," she still likes to tell me. "We had to throw the dirty ones in the furnace. Me, bleeding like a stuck pig. Imagine that!"

It terrified me. But so did standing out among my friends. They began developing waists and hips and breasts. They started carrying purses—awkwardly—on certain days of the month. My best friend, in fact, possessed the body of a grown woman before her junior year. The boys sniffed after Kathy. She liked the attention, but wasn't exactly comfortable with it. Her womanly yet virginal figure attracted grown men as well. Her voice teacher and a church deacon, both married, confessed their love to her. She was flabbergasted.

I felt butch next to Kathy, though I'd grown out my chopped hair and occasionally wore a dress. The women in my family were voluptuous to boot. In grainy prom pictures of Mom and her sisters, their hour-glass figures spilled out of strapless crinoline numbers. Where had my boyish figure come from? "Your great-aunt Bessie was flat," Mom would inform me. "You got her clod-hoppers, too."

The difference between my body and Kathy's became painfully obvious when we toured with our high school concert choir. As new members of this elite group, we feared the notorious "initiation." Two hours out of the school parking lot, we were wearing plastic snouts and ordering our McDonald's breakfasts in pig latin. By the end of Day Two, we'd been shoved into a group shower, in our pajamas, and transformed into human sundaes. A senior soprano's mother owned the local Dairy Queen and supplied the chocolate sauce, candy sprinkles and syrup for the older girls to pour over us.

Surely that had been the climax, we thought. But the next morning, we were told to enter the bus one by one. Hair spiked with marshmallow cream, we heard outrageous laughter coming from the windows. Kathy and I feared the worse. I soon saw for myself why the hysterics: Our bras, apparently stolen by the older girls and given to the boys, now hung from the luggage racks. I was to claim my bra, unhooking it from where it dangled above the head of a senior boy. That's when I saw that somebody had deposited pieces of fruit in all of them. Oranges filled the cups of Kathy's. In mine, they had dropped two grapes.

What's private becomes public during adolescence. Covert hairs, pimples, bumps, scents and secretions appear as if, since our births, they'd been readying to strike when we're most vulnerable. It's when I first realized that my body operated in its own way with or without my consent, and it made me feel angry, embarrassed, and helpless. The most humiliating part of the fruit-in-the-bra episode was not, I later realized, the two measly grapes that stood for my breasts. It was that somehow a consensus had been reached: I was flat. It had been noticed. It had been noted. What my tormentors didn't realize—I hadn't even told Kathy—was that I'd had my mother buy me a bra just for the tour knowing I'd probably have to undress in front of the other girls (see: skipping gym). Who knows what my peers might have done with that information? It also struck me later that my orange-breasted best friend suffered as much as I did though we fell at opposite ends of the size spectrum. (The new choir-boys got their own torture: I remember one freshman the older boys mysteriously and loudly called the "Bald Eagle" though he had a full head of hair.)

Everybody's got a tale of adolescent cruelty. If they don't, I'd be happy to lend one of mine. But what happened with me—and with other women I know—is that it stuck. It burrowed deep. The pain lodged in those hidden bunkers the hairs and pimples desert when they surface to become our sudden enemies. Was I a too sensitive girl? Yes. Should I have told my tormentors to choke on my training bra? Yes. Have I outgrown the feeling of physical inadequacy I learned early on? In my head, yes, but not in my heart, though it beats strongly beneath my flimsy, nearly-A cup.

In hindsight, not being sexy forced me to cultivate a sense of myself outside of any boy's opinion and regardless of my looks, like it or not. Many times, I witnessed my friends' schizo-shifts when they fell for a new boy. If the boy liked the Steelers, they'd suddenly plaster her bedroom in black and gold. If the boy liked racecars, they'd now while away their Saturdays at the Sharon, Pennsylvania, Speedway. The worst offense: if the boy liked thin girls (and they all did), they went on lettuce and spoonful-of-peanut-butter diets.

Once I got to college, this sense of self turned into a confident bravado that masked my fear of rejection. If guys didn't like me the way I was, it was their loss. I wasn't comfortable in my body, but I wasn't going to let them know it. Secretly, I wanted to be one of those women who flaunted her shape in spite of its conventional flaws. I still admire them—the ones with generous bellies or butts or arms who wear form-fitting clothing without apology, the ones who wear plunging v-necks without so much as a shadow cast between their breasts.

I camouflaged my body instead, wearing layers of loose-fitting, boyish clothing, particularly on top. And I refused to pretend to have more up top than I did. I kept in mind that scene in "Animal House" where Pinto, at last alone with the mayor's sexy daughter, stuffs his hands up her bra. She passes out drunk and, befuddled, Pinto extracts his hands and finds them filled with wads of Kleenex the girl has stuffed inside the cups. Nope, no padded bras for me. No push-ups, either. I would be found out, no doubt. And if I loved a boy enough to let him see me topless, you can bet I'd already figured he'd be the kind who wouldn't care about that.

Those few who have seen me sans blouse have made comments that stung, however well intended. In the middle of a make-out session, my breasts at last exposed, one fellow took an anthropological approach: "Breast size, you know, is just cultural," he offered, unsolicited. Another claimed, "I never liked big boobs anyway," sounding just like Charlie in "Willy Wonka" who, upon discovering his one Wonkabar does not contain the last remaining golden ticket, says that it probably makes the chocolate taste bad anyway.

The significance of these comments, like the grape incident, has less to do with what the boys said than with what I heard. I thought of my sexuality as particularly tied to what I was lacking: an ample bust. I never saw myself as whole. I was guilty of the offensive and dangerous parceling of parts that fashion magazines do so well and, I admit, so attractively. Thumb through any issue and you'll find articles isolating parts of the body rather than talking about the whole package: Five Steps to Flat Abs! Wave Bye-Bye to Big Butts! Often they feature the "What Men Really Find Sexy" exposé where men—who knows where they've found them—confess what body parts really get them hot. There are ass-men, neck-men, and breast-men, just as there are guys who prefer drumsticks and dark meat.

One effect of this glossy dismemberment is that girls and women can find their own bodies so foreign, they don't want to talk about, let alone touch, them. In ninth-grade health class, I remember being herded into the auditorium with the other girls where a nurse from St. Elizabeth's informed us about breast health. Breast health? She passed around an artificial bust that smelled like a swim cap. In one breast, a tumor lay concealed. The other breast was normal. "Pass it around," instructed the perky nurse. "See if you can feel which one is which." We tittered with embarrassment at what seemed a vaguely lesbian exercise. The nurse passed out pamphlets that featured arrows on an illustrated breast like on the face of a clock. We were to examine our breasts at the same time each month. I turned red at the very thought. I also remember wishing I had breasts like that dummy's.

During my first mammogram twenty-five years later, I was no less embarrassed to reveal my body to the radiologist (after I lied to her about my "regular" self-exams). I felt as apologetic as I had with lovers and guessed my small breasts would make her job harder. The lack of significant breast tissue, in fact, made it a painful experience that actually left my chest bruised from the machine's vise grip, and I'm reluctant to make my next (overdue) appointment, even though I've had two aunts succumb to breast cancer. When I think of putting it off any longer, however, I remember my Aunt Marilyn when the cancer had spread to her brain. Wheeling through the hallway, she hiked up her shirt and, giggling proudly, showed a stranger the hollow place where the breast had been.

"What size bra do you wear?" my mother asked over the phone the other day as she drove toward the expanse of outlet stores where cows had once grazed. A touchy subject, this—my bra size, not the cows. I felt myself steel against her as I asked why she wanted to know. "They're having a Buy One Get One Free at the Hanes store," she said. "They've got the kind you like."

What kind was that? The only bras I wear are sports bras, the ones you slip over your head and that give women with large chests a "uniboob". I get them at Wal-Mart for six bucks a four-pack and they last for months. Sexy lingerie it isn't, but I've gone that route. I once purchased a deep purple corset complete with underwire and a plunging neckline, with hooks in the front and laces in the back, but I ripped it off before revealing myself to my lover. I looked like a man from Benny Hill dressed in drag for shits and giggles.

Shopping for bras is more painful than a mammogram. The lingerie departments mystify me. Demis and semis and femis. Water, gel, air, vegetable and mineral inserts. Strapless bras and ones with straps clear as scotch tape. Cups that adhere directly to your skin. Bra sizing baffles me and is nothing short of Trig. I even had the bad idea of going into Victoria's Secret once, assured by a good friend that they'd have the perfect bra for me. I scared quickly. The sexy, black-clad sales clerk suggested a "bralette" and asked if I wanted help with the fitting. I'd read plenty of articles about the proper way to fit into a bra by bending over and filling up the cup (for those whose cups runneth over). I knew too-tight straps could actually cause nerve damage, and I knew to get the back strap on the tightest hook because the bra would stretch after wear. The idea of someone helping me fit into a bra, of measuring me, almost made me vomit. I quickly fled and bought another four-pack. If I'd been wearing a bra instead of training pants in the sixties, I would have added mine to the liberating pyre.

At this point, I've got two options: Accept my body or get plastic surgery. I confess I'm strongly drawn to the makeover shows you can find on any channel at just about any time. The blood and guts don't bother me, it's the actual lifting of the face off the bone structure a la Silence of the Lambs for the face lift. The plastic tubes sucking out fat that looks like the congealed goop my grandma kept in an old coffee jar by the stove. The breast augmentations seem particularly gruesome, the lifting of the pectoral muscle to insert the saline or silicone. Or slicing the nipples. Or poking a hole under the arm pit for the insert. Just last night I watched a petite hair stylist go from an enviable 36B to a 36 DD. Three months later, she was showing off her new boobs under shirts no more substantial than a hair net.

The internet is jammed with plastic surgeons courting customers. These sites show impressive before and after shots, while customers testify to great new sex lives and soaring self-confidence. "Natural" breast enhancement is also available. These "herbal" concoctions come in liquid or pill form and purport to target the mammary glands. They are sold under such names as "Bust Booster" and "Bra-Va!" and come complete with testimonials to sway the underdeveloped.

You can find just as many horror stories. One website called "Silicone Holocaust" features photos of caved-in chests and physicians holding up torn implants that have leaked into women's lungs and bloodstream. Another site calling itself "pro-breast" shows a gallery of "non-sexualized breasts," the evil (natural) twins of the surgically enhanced ones. There I saw asymmetrical breasts and tubular breasts, breasts with nipples like pinheads or uncharted brown islands, breasts of obese women and flat women, breasts with nipple hairs, and even male breasts. The unretouched boobs were about as sexy as the corn silos that spot the Ohio farmland. I found myself wincing at the shape of some of them, guilty of the same cultural aesthetic I criticize.

The final site I visited was an online atlas of anatomical drawings. There were women with "redundant mammae," "supernumerary mammary glands" (as in ten on either side) and a photo of two women, one missing a breast, captioned "the unilateral absence of a mammary gland in sisters." These unglamorous images certainly sobered me. They also made thankful I wasn't born with tits enough for a litter.

Breast implants are definitely not for me, but nearly 200,000 women in this country alone say it's for them, despite the potential complications and side effects—the nipples lose sensation, implants do rupture, more than half of women undergoing breast augmentation require three to five more operations after the initial surgery. Although no direct link between augmented breasts and breast cancer has been found, studies show that there is a higher risk of brain and lung cancer associated with women who undergo breast implants. Another oddity to ponder: these same women run a double chance of committing suicide or dying in an automobile accident.

So what is the solution for a flat-chested modern woman like me? The Boob Suit. The Boob Suit will be engineered by the same folks who added 200 pounds to Gwyeth Paltrow's delicate frame in "Shallow Hal." Easier to wear than the Fat Suit, the Boob Suit would be just like a bra but with breasts supplied. This high-end rack would be made of the highest quality boob-like material the labs can muster, the fair-to-cocoa colored flesh perfectly lifelike, pliable and pretty, the nipples perpetually erect and pointing right through your blouse. I'd like to spend a day in the Boob Suit and see what it's like. I'd like to enjoy or despise the looks I'd get. I'd like to run with the suit on. I'd like to lean over my husband's newspaper and pretend to poke out his eyes with my faux-nipples. I'd like to compete with my own body for somebody's eye contact. I'd like to have to fish my favorite pendant out of my cleavage.

But only for a day. In fact, there should be a timer built in, so us flat girls don't let the attention go to our heads. Should the alarm fail, though, I suspect my internal timer would tick. I see myself traipsing around Victoria's Secret, high on the possibilities of bedecking my breasts, turning the sexy clerks into stone with my mud-flap silhouette, when I glimpse myself in the dressing-room mirror. I look confident and hot, but something doesn't seem quite right. What would I look like with a smaller chest, I wonder. Wouldn't it be nice if guys looked me straight in the eye without stopping first at my cleavage? And so I take off the boob suit, leaving its perfect, starlet self in a fleshy heap on the floor. Let some other woman try it on, I think, as I depart the shop, deflated but mostly content.