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The thing that's manly about Jayne Mansfield, aside from the first three letters of her last name, is simply that she commands. You might say that her particular kind of power is a womanly version, which is to say a manner of wielding the body. Think orange tree as opposed to plywood, supple as opposed to stiff. But isn't it possible that anytime a woman, big boobs or not, holds her own money and gets to tell others what to do, that she is in someway acting the man? The cleavage, so plump and available, is like the spoonful of sugar that helps the medicine go down. If you do the pouting dance, you can stay free and in charge. Like gracious smiles and small talk, this is a dance I have never been able to master or even tolerate, despite the fact that I, too, am a woman. Just the other day, Jayne Mansfield and I sat together at an outdoor cafe in either Rome or Hollywood, smoking cigarettes and drinking sweet colorful alcoholic drinks sufficiently watered down so we could have several. With fruit garnishes and all, these drinks looked rather like tropical birds, and could in fact be called womanly or womanish or maybe even girly. When the little old waiter forgot to give us an ashtray, even after I asked twice, I deepened my voice and raised the volume: I told him exactly what I wanted, in no uncertain terms, which was an ashtray, so we did not have to dash the cinders onto the ground. The waiter looked at me like I'd slapped him. Jayne, meanwhile, caught his eye and spread her lips, as if they were in on a joke and I was the butt of it. This is what happens to husbands, too; I've seen it: the wife tempers his supposedly outrageous behavior, which is really just sexless directness, with her tender charm and an implication of softness. But in my case, it was Jayne who demanded I get an ashtray ASAP, and because she always pays for my drinks, and even my transportation to and from the drinks, I do pretty much whatever she wants. “Is that damn dwarf deaf as well as dumb?” she'd said to me, when the waiter kept forgetting. “I'm sure he'll get to it when he can,” I told her. But then, for show, the roles get reversed. I get the thing she wanted done, and she acts like I'm boorish, i.e., male, for doing so. My routine is actually harder than hers, but since she has the money, the boobs, the yes-men, she runs the show.