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I first met Holly last week on 5^th Avenue.  I was walking down the sidewalk when I looked up and saw a pair of tits.  My mind wasn’t ready for it.  There are never tits on 5^th Avenue.  I felt like a Native American first seeing the ships of Columbus.   What are these things doing here?   But like a true professional, I pushed through my shock and immediately asked Holly for her portrait.

The following day, I posted the photo to the HONY Facebook Group.  Holly’s tits got a big response.  Nearly 50 people commented on the photo.   Most were supportive of Holly: she was brave, a trailblazer, an activist.  Somebody recognized Holly and tagged her in the picture.  Later that evening she ended up joining the discussion.  Everything was very scholarly and liberating until Facebook removed the photo.  No woman tits, said Facebook.  Only man tits.   I was morally outraged.  This seemed to be the worst sort of discrimination.  Facebook was sending a horrible message to the young women of America:  even though your tits are equal, they must be kept separate.  That sort of injustice could not stand.  It was time for a Rosa Parks of tits.  I messaged Holly and asked for an interview.

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Holly and I agreed to meet yesterday at the Barnes and Nobles on 5^th Avenue.  You can come see what I do, she told me.  I had no idea what she meant by that.  I expected to find her bare-chested, defiant, and forcing pamphlets into the clenched hands of tourists.  But when I arrived she was fully clothed.  She was rocking on her heels.  She looked nervous as shit.
“I’m nervous as shit,” she said.
“Why?  What’s going on?”
“Bill Cosby’s in there. “  Holly pointed at the bookstore. “He’s signing books.  When he comes out, I’m going to flash him.  That’s what I do.”
“That’s what you do?”
“Yeah, me and my friends are artists.  I’m trying to get attention so I try to flash celebrities.  I take off my shirt and run up to them.  You know, like a topless paparazzo.  That’s what I call myself—Holly Van Voast, Topless Paparazzo.”

So maybe Holly wasn’t Rosa Parks after all.  But she did symbolize something important.  Something much more relevant to our modern world: “It’s not enough to be talented anymore,” she explained.  “You’ve got to be able to get people’s attention.”

We hadn’t been talking for long when a silver Cadillac pulled up to the curb, and a sweater-clad Bill Cosby stepped out onto the sidewalk.  He waved to a few people on the street and then disappeared inside the store.   “Holy shit!” I said, losing composure.  “There he goes!  We missed him.  He just went inside– let’s follow him.”
“We can’t.” said Holly.  “They won’t let me inside.”
“Why’s that?”  I asked.
“I flashed Snooki a couple weeks ago.  They know what I look like.”

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Since we had some time before Cosby re-emerged, I suggested to Holly that we go to Rockefeller Center and take some portraits.  Holly seemed hesitant to leave her post, but eventually agreed.  “Let’s make it quick,” she said.  “We’ve got to be here when he comes back.”

We didn’t last long at Rockefeller Center before security kicked us out.  But I managed to get some great portraits.

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When we got back to the Barnes and Noble, the silver Cadillac was parked outside of the front entrance.  The line for autographs was growing smaller, and it was clear that our target would be emerging shortly.  Holly assumed position behind a newspaper dispenser.   She looked around nervously.  She fidgeted with a thread hanging from her sweater.

I noticed that the driver of the Cadillac was eying us suspiciously in the rearview mirror, so I pretended to read a newspaper while I spoke to Holly out of the side of my mouth: “You stay out of sight,” I said.  “I’ll get into position for a better view.  When I raise my camera to my face, you’ll know he’s coming.”  I split off and positioned myself between the Cadillac and the front entrance.  Then I waited.

Within minutes I was joined by a handful of middle-aged men with cameras around their necks.  These were members of the paparazzi.  They seemed to share a strange, sad camaraderie.  They exchanged horribly depressing pieces of inside information:  I hear Kris Jenner is going to a gallery opening tonight, one of them whispered.   She’ll probably hit the 54^th Street Starbucks afterward.   One man came up to me and spoke in a very low voice: I hear that the 16 Handles Yogurt Shop is a great place to relax, he said.  I thought for sure he was retarded, so I just smiled politely.  Then he continued:  You know, it’s a great place to relax your hand.  When you’re finished signing autographs.  Man these people were depressing.  I wasn’t here to photograph Bill Cosby.  I was here to make sure he saw Holly’s tits.

I waited for what seemed like an hour.  I started to get very cold.  No Cosby.  I could see that Holly was getting restless.  He should have finished by now.  Things weren’t looking good.  Then disaster struck: the silver Cadillac started up and pulled away from the curb.  A decoy!  Damn you Cosby!  I walked over to Holly: “What do you think?”  I asked.  “Did they smuggle him out the back?”

“I bet they are going to take him out the emergency exit,” she said.  “Just like they did with Snooki.  Follow me.”  Holly led me to a door on the other side of the building.  Still no sign of the Cadillac.  “All we can do is wait,” she said.  But things weren’t looking good.  It was looking like Cosby may have escaped without seeing Holly’s tits.  But then salvation.  The Cadillac reappeared.  Like the sun.  And we were warmed with renewed hope.  It pulled up to the curb, right in front of the side entrance.  “Stay out of sight,” I told her.  The place was swarming with Barnes and Noble employees now.  “It’s about to go down.”  I gripped my camera tightly.  I checked my settings.  I couldn’t afford any misfires.

Then the door opened.
The target emerged.
Holly ripped off her shirt and leapt into action.