Who Did Your Tits?

Some people think having large breasts makes a woman stupid. Actually, it’s quite the opposite: A woman having large breasts makes men stupid. –  Rita Rudner

I can thank my mother for a small waist, but unfortunately the tits which came with it were equally small.  And though lots of people of both sexes told me it didn’t matter, to me it did; I started wearing padded bras in high school and over the years tried every herbal supplement and exercise I heard of to make the damned lazy things get bigger.  But it was no use; whenever I took a shower I would stand there looking in the mirror at what looked like two fried eggs stuck to my chest, and more often than not would sigh, try to convince myself that they really did look OK, or even scream “Grow, damn you!  Why can’t you GROW?”

I eventually stopped shouting at them and resolved myself to the fact that as happy as I was with my figure in every other way, I was going to be stuck with these absurd little-girl titties until I could afford a boob job, which wasn’t going to happen on a librarian’s salary.  A stripper’s income is far more generous, however, and eventually (after I had paid off all my outstanding bills) I realized that I had enough spare cash to finally buy the Holy Grail I had not-so-patiently awaited for some 15 years.  So I looked through the plastic surgeons’ ads in the phone book and called a few board-certified ones for quotes; though I am thrifty to a fault I wasn’t just going to pick the cheapest one for something like this.  I asked questions and consulted my gut, and the one I got the best feeling from actually was the least expensive of the really good ones; he achieved the savings by performing his surgeries at a surgery center on the Northshore rather than in a hospital in Greater New Orleans, which resulted in my saving over $1000 even though his own professional fees were comparable to those of the other surgeons.

So I plunked down my $3900, picked my size and scheduled my surgery for the following week; my friends all thought I was insane for choosing to go up SIX cup sizes, from not-even-A to DDD.  But I ignored them; I had spent plenty of time padding up my bosom, then putting on tops and looking at myself critically in a mirror, and I knew it would look good and right.  When the big day came Grace drove me across the Causeway before dawn (why do surgeons insist on operating so damned early?) and then went to breakfast with a friend; it was my idea, since there was little point in her waiting around until I woke up.  Anesthesia does not agree with me; I was as sick as a dog all day long, but though I faded in and out of consciousness and periodically stumbled to the bathroom to throw up, I couldn’t help but be stupidly happy.

Even the pain (which wasn’t so bad except when I elected to breathe) couldn’t ruin my mood, and as the weeks went by that quickly lessened.  My friends all admitted that they had been wrong, and that I had picked the perfect size for my figure; my new tits balanced my hips and bottom perfectly and made my waist look even narrower, and my clothes looked spectacular.  I had never had so much confidence in my physical charms, and I’m sure it was projected to the men around me because I honestly feel as though I was more attractive to them during that year than at any time in my life before or since; I’ve always been described with words like “stunning”, but now people were using terms like “drop-dead gorgeous”.  And I’m sure it was almost entirely due to the fact that I was at long last truly comfortable with my body.

I say “almost” because I must give credit where it is due; my plastic surgeon, Dr. S, is an absolute master of his art, and he felt that he had outdone himself in my case; he even asked if he could use my “before” and “after” pictures at a conference (I of course agreed).  He gave them a beautiful, natural shape which IMHO has only improved over the past decade as gravity causes them to settle into a less globular form and the scars faded into total invisibility.  Indeed, their appearance is so natural that I’ve actually had men take them for the home-grown variety.  But I’m nothing if not honest, and whenever a man made such a statement I always corrected him.  Nor would I lie when asked, though I must admit I had fun with the question; I answered “Are they real?” with, “Well, they certainly aren’t imaginary!”  My reply to “Are they natural?” was “Well, they aren’t supernatural!” and my favorite permutation, “Are they yours?” was answered with, “They had better be, I sure paid enough for ‘em!”

Most men of course recognized them for implants for the simple reason that, as natural as they look, no woman over the age of 16 could possibly have big hooters which are as perky and firm as mine are.  The dead giveaway is that when I lie on my back, they don’t droop to the sides as unaugmented mammaries do.  But with rare exception, men don’t seem to care; artificial or not, they drew plenty of compliments.  The most appreciative audience of all, though, were physicians; they not only enjoyed them as men, but also appreciated the surgical skill which crafted them.  New Orleans has been called “the biggest small town in the world” with good reason; everybody knows everybody, especially in professional communities.  So when I disrobed in front of a client who was a medical man, the first words out of his mouth were often “Who did your tits?” and of course I told him because I knew he might end up purchasing a boob job for his wife one day and I wanted to give Dr. S the advertising.  Once I did a bachelor party for a doctor; the only non-physician in the room was his brother, and after I had finished my dance and show I was of course confronted with the inevitable question, followed by a number of the guests asking if they could examine them (for purely professional reasons, of course).  I just agreed and rolled my eyes while being groped from both sides, and everyone laughed and complimented me on being such a good sport.

It wasn’t just men who appreciated them, though; wives in couple calls were often fascinated by them, as were strippers or other escorts whom I met in multi-girl calls.  And at Mardi Gras of 2005 I had a particularly memorable encounter with a beautiful nurse.  I was there on Bourbon Street with my husband and a friend of his who had never been to a Mardi Gras before, and as usual I was flashing my tits at every opportunity.  I’m always amused by the bluenoses who simper about how awful it is that “women expose themselves for a set of plastic beads” on Fat Tuesday; it never occurs to these lemon-suckers that we flash our tits because it pleases us to, not to get the silly beads!

Anyhow, I had just put my top down after one such showing and a lovely woman walked up to me and said, “Excuse me, but when you flashed a minute ago my boyfriend missed it; would you mind showing them again so he can see?”  Well, I wasn’t about to let such feminine coolness go unrewarded, so I of course repeated the performance.  They both complimented me on them, and she asked if she could touch them; I agreed and the intake of breath from fifty male spectators was audible.  Again she told me how beautiful they were, then came the classic question: “Who did them for you?”  It turned out she was not only a nurse but worked at the very surgery center in which I had the operation, and when I told her my surgeon’s name she exclaimed, “Oh, I love him!  He’s so nice, and I’ve always said if I ever had mine done I would want him to do them for me!”

“Well, I can definitely recommend him; you can see what good work he does,” I said.  Now, picture this scene; here are two beautiful women standing in a crowded street in broad daylight, the first with her blouse pulled up while the second holds her tits and the two carry on a lively conversation oblivious to several dozen appreciative male onlookers.  Only in New Orleans!

After a few minutes, she let go of my boobs and I dropped my top, and we hugged and kissed and I wished her and her man a happy Mardi Gras.  And as we turned to go, my husband’s friend said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes I wish I were a woman.”  We laughed and I assured him that I understood.  Though neither prudes nor neofeminists comprehend or accept it, there is a power and joy in unashamed female sexuality that is like nothing else I know on Earth, and I thank Dr. S and his masterful technique for giving me the confidence to experience it.