I have never been skilled in the mysterious arts of femininity. On the rare occasions I do wear a skirt, people ask me either who died, or do I have a job interview. I thought until fairly recently that flatirons were for making waffles. I don’t care if my nails are all the same length. I can burp my name. You get the picture.
Some of that changed when Mavrick came around. The thing about dating a good looking fella is you feel compelled to step up your A game. The day I discovered it took him longer than me to get ready, I vowed to change my ways. A little.
I started getting waxed. I started getting my nails done. I started straightening my hair with my waffle maker. I started to wear heels. And tighter clothes. I also got pregnant and shot a baby out of my wahoo, and let’s be honest, that’s pretty womanly.
It was a start, but there are still things from my past I won’t let go. My last name. I still don’t wear a whole lot of skirts. I can still burp my name. I am a feminist. Not an in your face, die male chauvinist pig fem, but a fem none the less. My brand of feminism is more personal. It’s basically I pick and choose what I like to believe, and leave the rest on the table. A feminist buffet, if you will.
And that’s why I won’t be upset to find out some of you may be shocked to learn that I have always wanted to get my boobs done. Always. Since my early 20s, when I realized that ship had done sailed, this was all I was getting. It probably doesn’t help that I grew up with a very busty mother, and Polar Bear has a large rack herself. They were also both tall. So I, the eldest, got skipped with the boobs and height gene. I was just short, flat-chested mindbling. And I hated it.
I would daydream about larger breasts. I had a jar on my desk at work, marked Boob Fund. People would actually put money into it. Everyone knew I wanted a knocker enlargement, and one day our IT guy, Ralph, came up to me to tell me that very weekend, 102.5 DVE was holding a boob giveaway contest at The Oregon, a local watering hole.
I hotlined CC. We had to go The Oregon, stat. Of course she was on board, so me, CC, and a few other friends all loaded up and headed out for the Big Contest.
We get there, and boy howdy. Did I feel like an idiot. Remember how a few paragraphs ago I was telling you that I am not a General in the Army of Womanhood? I decide that the PERFECT outfit to wear to a contest giving away breast implants would be khaki Bermuda shorts, a plaid American Eagle short sleeve button down, and Teva’s. I might as well have had a sign on my head that says “I Hardly Ever Get Laid”.
I looked at my competition. They were all total skank bullets in various stages of skankography. Every single one of them was wearing a.) a skirt, b.) leather boots to at least the knees, and c.) eye makeup. I felt outgunned, and I hadn’t even gotten my name tag yet. I was dejected and ready to leave. Then CC decided to give me The Talk.
“Mindbling, don’t you dare. Don’t you DARE walk away from this now. This has been YOUR DREAM for as long as I’ve known you. You can’t let these people take that away from you. Not without a fight. I know you. I know what you’re made of. You get up there and you show them (points to drunken crowd of men clamoring for the seats to give them the best shot at seeing boobies) you show THEM what you’re made of.”
It was very dramatic. I’m pretty sure music started playing in the background and the ghost of Herb Brooks levitated through the scene. It worked. With renewed resolve, I marched up to the sign in table and proudly announced, Hello. My name is mindbling. And I’m here to win some titties.
The emcee marched all 12 of us onto the stage, and the contest began. Skanks 1-11 were first. I was dead last. The dudes hooted and hollered for each Bree, Brandi, and Ashlee, but when it came to introducing old mindbling …. Crickets. I believe tumbleweed rolled across the stage. In their defense, I did look like I just popped in on my way home from a camping trip, but still.
The first two rounds were trivia elimination, so I knew I had that going for me. Especially when Skank Number One answered her question, ‘Who is the Mayor of Chicago’ with ‘Ronald McDonald’. I breezed through round one, on the strength of my knowing what galaxy we live in. Thank you, third grade science.
By now, I had started to loosen up. And, of course, the rum was kicking in. So I was getting better on the mic. I might not have looked like I was going straight from this contest to do three main stage shows at the Eager Beaver, but I have some wit and charm. People were starting to warm up to the strange little blond wearing plaid. I was getting some chuckles, and some nice gentleman even bought me a drink.
Of course by now CC is hammered, and loudly cheering me on from the side. She had a robust group of gentleman with her, so compliments of CC, going into the final round, I had a fairly impressive cheering section.
It was down to me and Brandi. Somehow, she was able to name, in order, all of the planets in our solar system, and now we had to go face to face for the tatas. It was a question round, audience favorite wins. The question: what would you do with your new boobs if you win?
Brandi fires off her answer, “Strip and make porn! WOOOOOO!!!”, and of course the crowd goes crazy and Brandi flashes them her current boobies, and I’m like, shit. What am I going to say? I never thought about what I would to WITH them, I just knew I wanted them.
All eyes swung toward me. The bar was silent. The mic was in my face. “Umm, go braless .. and uh…uh” It felt like an eternity. CC was staring at me so hard I thought her eyeballs would pop out. Everyone was looking at me! Ahhh….
“and, um, um ….”
There was a split second of silence as they absorbed what I said, and then a roar went up from the crowd. People rushed the stage. I was crowd surfed. CC was crowd surfed. People forgot I was dressed like a Brownie Troop Leader. I was now, and forever would be, the Titty Fuck girl. And they loved me.
You would think I won that contest in a slam dunk. And you would be wrong. Turns out Brandi flashing her boobies gave the people running the contest the brilliant idea to see who would show more, me or Brandi.
Apparently these Einstein’s failed to notice I was dressed like I was half Amish, so hey, maybe I’m not that type. Brandi immediately dropped skirt and waved her beaver around, and I was out. I tapped. No thanks! I might want boobs badly enough to be in this contest, but by god, I still had some dignity remaining. And I left with it that night.
My dignity, that is. Brandi got the boobs. And I’m glad. I wasn’t ready for the boobs then. I would have abused the boobs. It’s like the Force. Boobs are powerful, and in the hands of the wrong person, dangerous. So I shelved that dream. That was 12 years ago.
And this is now. Next week, I go to meet with my surgeon. In a few weeks, I’m going to have my boobies. And I don’t need any stupid contest to get them. I have disposable income now, and that means I can buy my own damn boobs. And to me, that’s what being a woman is all about.
I’ll keep you posted! Yours in titties,