October 17, 2007
On the Time I Paid for Tits


img_4286th1.jpgI grew up under the terrible misapprehension that I was going to look like Raquel Welch.  Never mind the fact that I was blonde, boxy, muscular hippie child, resembling the fourth unknown member of Hanson; I was convinced as a little girl that I would suddenly sprout long and amber limbs.

And big boobs. I was sure I would have them.

I did not. I no longer have the physical evidence-I lost the picture after the mysterious circumstance of having shown it to a friend who was quite frankly appalled that I would thrust it under her unwilling gaze-but I used to have small, flat A-B cup breasts. I tell myself that if my breasts had grown small and peach perfect I’d never have touched them, but the truth is I probably would have, steeped as I was at the time I bought my boobs in the heady largess of stripculture.

In short, between my long-held physical expectations and the fact that I was a stripper, when July of 1992 hit, I was more than ready for manufactured, silicone-shelled, saline-filled artificial second adolescence.

I had, after all, spent the previous nine months gestating in the womb of Thee DollHouse chain, swimming in the ambience of top-heavy women. And I wanted tits, dammit. Big, glorious, semi-pendulous tits.  I had, of course, seen my share of totally effed-up boob jobs. I had seen them up close and personal, and they had scared me with their Swedish architectural furniture gleaming hardness, their visible and tangible angry scars, and their mismatched wall-eyed nipples, like car headlights installed by a crazed mechanic.

I did not want bad boobs. I already had bad boobs. At least in my mind, I did.

When I hit puberty, my first puberty, the natural one, I was a tad, uh, chubby. My breasts popped out in about two days, and along with them, much to my disgust, bewilderment, and dismay, bright red stretch marks radiated out from my nipples. I spent decades trying to will those stretch marks into nothingness-I rubbed lotions and potions, I tanned topless, I wore my bra to bed. The marks faded from their original fuming crimson to a silvery-ghosty white, but they never went away.

My breasts just had never been pretty, and if I was going to sink time and money into making them glorious-and I was-glorious they would be. So I went to the doctor of Alexis,  my sublime stripper friend, in Maitland, Florida. Alexis herself had taken the trip to Florida a week before to get her third nose job, and she met me at the airport in denim cut-offs, a daisy-patterned t-shirt, a huge white splint on her face, and twin bruises under each big blue eye. She looked like a deranged pin-up.

The next day we had my consultation with Dr. Eisenberg, my kindly-looking plastic surgeon; his nurse had tits the size of honeydews. I had a vague idea of how big I wanted to be, so after poking and prodding and squeezing my unacceptable natural breasts, Dr. Eisenberg put me in a room to play with a big box of free-range implants.  Arrayed before me were plastic sacks of saline in sizes ranging from partially squashed plum to substantially smashed cantaloupe. I found myself eventually choosing between two approximately the size, but not the weight, of a flattened peach.

To the consultation appointment I had chosen to wear this vest I had-very 70’s and white trash-it snapped up the front in a profusion of flower-printed denim. I love it to this day, because of its white trashitude, like I love Frito Pie. I put implant after implant into the vest, against my bosoms, and turned to the side to see what I looked like. I picked, I think, implants of 460 ccs.

The next day we woke up early and Alexis drove me to the clinic. I was nervous. I’d had bad dreams about bad breasts, and I guess they at the in-and-out burger of new noses and thinner thighs were accustomed to my flavor of panic because the first thing they did was give me an IV of some downer. I remember vaguely conversations. I remember vaguely being on a tilted table. I remember vaguely counting back from 100. I know I drifted off. I woke up weeping, which is what happens to me whenever I have anesthesia.

And I woke up in pain, and groggy, and stumbling incoherent. I fainted several times between leaving the clinic and getting into bed at Alexis’s boyfriend’s condo. I forever associate George Thoroughgood with my boobs because “One Shot, One Whiskey, One Beer” seemed to be playing nonstop on the ride home in the pickup.

The next day, after a pitiful night of sleep whem I felt like I was balancing Barbie’s Dreamhouse on my chest but under my skin, Alexis said, “Let’s see them.”

No, I said.

“You don’t want to see them?” She looked shocked.

No, I said.

“You have to see them.” She took me by the hand and led me into the bathroom. She lifted my tank top and took off the bra that was serving as a dressing.

I had FrankenBoobies. They were hard, high, swollen, and covered in inscrutable purple lines. I had a moment of resignation: so, ok, I’m a freak.  I can live with that, I thought.

And they were numb. Totally, completely and utterly devoid of any feeling.

Later that week, I returned to New York, and by the time I did, I had begun to grow accustomed to the weight, the weird and unforgiving lack of pliancy, the extreme largess of my chest.  It was kind of novel and neat.  I was a freak, I thought, but an interesting one.

I remember showing them to Will, my boyfriend at the time. He loved them. He was so proud to have a girl with big tits. My IQ, my generous spirit, my sense of humor, even my ability to deepthroat was immediately overshadowed by the grandiosity of my bosoms. He immediately wanted to pose me on his Harley and take pictures. He was positively buoyant with my breasts.

I had become one of those topheavy women.

And I got treated differently.

I have always been fairly pretty, and that prettiness undoubtedly had its perks. But, dang, don’t let anyone ever tell you that big-titty women don’t get a free pass in this society. I have never had to pay a traffic ticket since I became a D-cup. I have never had to pay to get into a club. I have never had a problem getting sales help in electronic, appliance, or automotive shops. I have been served with eviction notices about four times, and yet my rental agent loves me. Loves me. I have also been judged, and I have felt ambivalent about that judging.

I remember returning to work with my newly augmented self. When a stripper gets implants, she shows everyone. And everyone touches them. Your boobs are not yours, you see, and it’s not unusual for two strippers to greet each other by grabbing one another’s tits. Like shaking hands, but not.

Much was made of the new proportioned Candace. And she started to make a bit more money, especially as her breasts dropped into a more natural and less upright and locked position.

But something else happened too, something unexpected: I got more comfy with my body. I can’t say that I’ve made peace with it exactly-but I can say that my artificial boobs helped me reach a quiet entente. It wasn’t a side effect I expected, but it’s one that surprises me happily.

This July, I celebrate a thirteen-year anniversary with my implants. I no longer think of my breasts as anything but my own, even if a substantial part of them has been brought to me by the technology of Dow Corning. They’re just me-just part of the good, the bad, and the gloriously mundane life that I have lived.
 
 


Comments

One Response to “On the Time I Paid for Tits”

  1. Racy Redhead on October 25th, 2007 9:00 am

    Love it!!
    I have 40F boobs. I also have a degree in English and History and am told I have a beautiful face and lovely eyes. I’m articulate and confident. But whenever I meet a man - whatever the circumstances - it takes an average of 3 seconds for his eyes to slide south!
    Big tits = free pass to whatever you want!
    So very true!!

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