I have an on-and-off-again friend who has made alternating charm and obnoxiousness their signature trait in all their dealings with their fellow humans. One never knows which face will come up when the coin of their personality lands: it's always a toss-up. That's how they catch everyone else off-guard, get control of the situation, and do and behave as they please, whenever, whatever.
One of their cuter ploys used to be playing the part of the male slob who's totally besotted with any female breast that comes by, especially those of the girlfriend or wife. (Since I was closeted and living male at the time I am actually speaking of, the early 90s, I never got in on any of that fun, having nothing like the breasts I have now. I don't think the first girlfriend, or the second, who eventually became this friend's wife, would have said I missed much.)
Our buddy, who had especially bushy red hair and beard, and eyebrows modeled after a Muppet (I'm thinking Animal), would get this demented beetlebrowed grin as he started to close in on a pair of targets of opportunity, growling out “Bre-a-a-asts!” much like Karloff as the monster, gutturally enthusing over bre-a-a-ad. And the wife would start giggling nervously, and start to fold her arms so as to protect her womanly charms from assault by human Muppet.
Yes, it was all quite harmless and silly, just a married couple goofing around and providing their housemates with a bit of entertainment. In point of fact, they could sometimes be hilarious. (Or, at other times, tiresome.) One of the ironies I have cherished most in my life is that this same friend is now a trans woman more or less like myself. (I'm inclined to say less, for all kinds of reasons, vanity among them.)
The character she (back then he) played has always slightly intrigued me. I could never quite decide how much of the slobbish, Frankensteinish male act was put-on, and how much of it was a mirroring of his own traits as a male, a sort of reveal of the self. (Not sure when reveal became a noun, but the hell with it, I'm going with it, just this once. )
As far as male culture goes, this is almost a stock character: the guy who isn't nearly as smart as your average anvil, being guided by pheromones and animal instinct (and beer) toward the Promised Land … which turns out to be situated on milady's chest, and not in another locale which one might think more to the point of, you know, the whole exercise.
I know much has already been written about the American cult of the female breast, which does seem to have quieted down in recent years. (The cult, not the breast.) I'm sure there's still the occasional need for some woman somewhere to say, “Hey, genius, my eyes are up here.” But I have the overall impression that breasts aren't quite the male obsession they once were. (Of course, maybe I need to get out more.)
It doesn't seem so long ago that women were making quite the deal out of getting implants, which back in the day were silicone (which sometimes leaked, with disastrous results), weaponizing their chests for the war between the genders (fka the battle between the sexes.) They were doing it for their self-esteem, yes -- but any woman who went through the pain of surgery often had more practical aims in mind: those breasts were also intended to be man-bait.
Now we move to the transgender arena, where breasts start with hormones from an endocrinologist, and where many of us, but not all, have breast augmentation surgery. I have no plans for such work; my breasts took about four years, but they're here, and each is a large handful. I'm possibly closing in on a C cup, which I think was my maternal grandma's size; I was told years ago that that was a reliable predictor of what I might end up with, chest-wise. I'm already pretty pleased with them. To me, it's nothing short of a miracle that I have them. (Along with my recently acquired vagina.)
I know that some of my trans sisters go for bigger breasts to help with passing: it's harder to out someone sporting genuine double Ds. But again, that's very American: we want better, and better always seems, in the Land of Plenty, to mean bigger. And of course, breasts serve as advertising at a distance: they're the first things, along with butt and legs, that will keep a male's attention as the woman gets close enough to bring other details into view. And plenty of trans ladies want that advertising, for the same reason a natural-born woman does: to attract the male gaze.
Yes, we're all still toiling under the lash of evolution, and probably will for thousands of years more. And breasts, and the place they hold in our culture, will always be part of that. Breasts symbolize health, sex, motherhood … and power. But they tend to symbolize the power of the man who landed a big-breasted trophy wife, rather than the woman's own effectiveness in the world.
Meanwhile, my younger kid, Molly Oliver, my non-binary offspring, from time to time brings up the subject of breast removal for themselves. And inwardly, I cringe, simply because they really are lovely breasts. (That look somewhat like mine.) But it is Moll's body, and if their breasts don't make them happy, I can hardly get up on my high horse about it.