For days after writing “The Boob Pillow,” I dreamed about breast enhancing products.
I couldn’t get them out of my head, especially after I discovered through continued research that not only can women purchase a reparative pillow for their boobs, they can also buy new boobs.
Custom breast prosthetics of every type are advertised online, where padded breast inserts are described using words like “soft” and “natural” and the term “raised nipples” are used as casually as if speaking of houseplants, or dental floss. The products are claimed to be laboratory-tested and nonirritating to the skin, criteria which probably don’t apply to any wheel-spinning experimental lab mice that might be forced to bare the extra weight of silicon breasts under their exercise bras.
In the name of participative journalism, I bought a pair of inserts. The way I figured it, even if a good story didn’t come of it I’d look a hell of a lot better in a V-neck sweater.
First, I had to sign up for the free online personal consultation so an online “expert” could assess my needs. I answered multiple-choice questions like, “I’m looking for a breast for…” and “How exposed will your breasts be?” But after I shared intimate details about myself, I wondered about confidentiality. I didn’t want to check the site again to find they had used my chest as the “before” photo.
The “expert,” also a well-known golfer, repeatedly assured me that any information would remain private, by way of a 128-bit encrypted server that protects data. I was skeptical. I figured anyone could crack the code word—it didn’t take a genius to figure out “boob” backwards.
While I found his obsession with confidentiality annoying, he was very knowledgeable about women’s breasts, especially for a full-time golf pro. He admitted that he himself has been known to wear the breast enhancers at home for fun, and that they may even have saved his life a few years back during a whooping with a golf club.
With his guidance, I selected the perky breasts with nipples and thanked Tiger for his time. He asked for my phone number and said he’d call me soon, although he’d be out of reach for a while attending a relationship seminar.
A few days after my package arrived I called Tiger. “I don’t know about these inserts,” I said. “I know in some cases women need them. But in my case it just feels strange wearing them—like I’m cheating. Maybe I should learn to appreciate what I already have . . .”
“Take it from me, Lisa, cheating’s only bad if you get caught,” he said. “And even then” he added, “it’s worth the exposure.”
“I don’t like the sound of that Tiger, ” I said. “I want to return them.”
“Come on, Lisa. Give them a chance. They’ll grow on you.”
“No, I’ve made up my mind.”
“A few more weeks,” he said.
“I mean it Tiger, no.”
Just then I was jolted from my slumber. “Lisa, wake up!” Chris said.
“You were having a bad dream,” he explained. “It sounded scary. You kept yelling, ‘Tiger, no! ‘”
“Oh!” I said, remembering. “I had another dream about fake boobs!”
“A tiger was wearing fake boobs . . .?”
“Not exactly. Uh, let’s not talk about it.”
“All right. But why do you keep dreaming about boobs? Do you actually want a bigger bust?” he asked.
“I don’t think so . . . do you want me to have a bigger bust?”
“I like you just the way you are and I always have. Can we go back to sleep now and talk about this in the morning?”
“Sure. But I don’t want to talk about it in the morning. I’ve decided I’m comfortable the way I am. I’m glad I finally got fake boobs off my chest.”
On a separate note, I’d like to send thanks to Judy Berman who nominated me for “One Lovely Blogger Award.” Visit her blog, earthriderdotcom and enjoy “stories of travel, family and life.”