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Marilyn Monroe once said, “No one ever told me I was pretty when I was younger. All little girls should be told they are pretty, even if they aren’t.”
I suppose that is but one of the millions of reasons I identify with my idol.
Growing up being told you look like Liza Minnelli when you are dying to look like Marilyn was hardly music to my ears. Once, while dropping off my girlfriend, her father commented on my “larger than average nose” and compared me to Barbara Streisand. I cried for hours. Babs has the voice (and attitude) of God, but try explaining that to a nine year old who listens to Madonna.
And so, my obsession with the beauty I wanted to be began. Unlike other little girls, my bedroom was a dressing room and my closet, a boudoir. You see, the movie-star-in-training role was something I took very seriously. Thinking homework was for the average, I spent my time flipping through every Marilyn Monroe book I could get my hands, practicing every pose she made.
My peers played “house” while I played “Oscars,” and dress-up was taken to a whole other level when I discovered, at the ripe old age of seven, that socks could be folded--just so-- to make a pair of remarkable breasts. The obsession with my nose faded into a desire for a heaping bosom. Excited to be one step closer to Marilyn-hood, I ran out of my room and into the living room where my conservative grandfather sat, horrified, as I showed off my newly curvy shape.
“Socks are to be placed on your feet only, young lady,” he scolded.
Crushed, I did as I was told and pulled them out, reminding him very matter-of-factly that I knew very well that when girls grew up no one made them take out their socks.
At twenty-three I was still having the same argument.
“Why in the world are there tube socks in your bra?” asked my boyfriend with a different-yet-similar horrified look.
Unable to explain myself in the eloquent manner I had been able to so many years before, I decided upon a more direct approach.
“Shut up,” I said, adding “If you tell anyone, I will tell them about your cartoon obsession, freak.”
“Ok,” he said. “But that’s false advertising.”
“Hmm…could that be true?” I thought, and thought nothing more about it.
False advertising got you into clubs and free flowers from street vendors. Besides, honesty is good in relationships, all’s fair in the war between au natural and vixen.
The socks were working until one night, while dancing to Madonna (the more things change, the more…well, you know) I did a dipody-do-boom-boom and the next thing I knew, my left breast slithered right up my clavicle.
“Oh my G-d!” my girlfriend screamed.
“What’s wrong?!” I asked, expecting to hear of an evil ex crashing the soiree or a hottie A-lister making a scene.
“Um, LOOK!” she yelled pointing at my chest.
I looked down, only to see a bone-white tube sock flopped out of my chest. The bouncer stared. The music died. People froze.
Something had to be done.
By a doctor.
My girlfriend wrote down the name of her augmentation fairy. Dr. Saucy. This was the number to have. Dr. Saucy was responsible for half of the Baywatch babes and every other trophy wife in Beverly Hills.
He was also known to be—quite, hands on.
Three long conversations later, Dr. Saucy agreed to fondle my breasts during a free consultation. Within an hour, we had flipped through more porn magazines than a seventeen year old gas station attendant and BOOM! My 32D’s were found. Thank you Jenny McCarthy, your knockers were quite the inspiration.
“Put these in your bra,” said Dr. Saucy
In they went.
“Turn to the side,” he instructed.
To the side I turned.
It was then I witnessed the true effect of large breasts on a man. “Oh, yes, wow,” he said.
“They will be delicious.”
Did he just say “delicious?!”
After a few squeezes, an extremely close examination and a ripping of my paper robe that made me feel like I was a damsel in a romance novel, Dr. Saucy and I were in his back office talking surgery and payment.
It seems I would get a discount either by going out with him or bringing in a friend. Luckily a great pal of mine was as flat and breast-obsessed as I was. She was also just as nutty.
Soon, my gal pal was in the office getting squeezed. A week later, we had D-cups.
Getting boobies is a bittersweet experience. On the one hand, HELLO BIG BOOBIES!
On the other, HELLO BALLOONS HAVE JUST BEEN SHOVED THROUGH MY BELLY BUTTON, UP MY INTESTINES AND UNDER A MUSCLE INSIDE OF MY BODY.
We spent a week in bed together, high on Vicodin, massaging our swollen, painful melons. Soon, we were comparing cleavage and trying on new clothes. One look at our “girls” in matching demi bra’s and we agreed, it was worth it.
At our check-up’s, Dr. Saucy (and his ever-changing supply of male “interns”) agreed that they were, in fact, delicious. He insisted we come into the office together, so he could “compare.”
Now, the feminists out there might say that my decision perpetuated female stereotypes and adhered to the male standard of beauty. To all those who criticize me, I say…
Very funny Brenda Della Casa. On behalf of all heterosexual males, nice job!
On a side note: How does one get a job holding the Material Girl's 'knockers' together, like that guy in the picture above ?
Tommy D
Mmmm . . .
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Posted: 4/4/2005 12:50:07 AM
If there's any residual soreness, you might be able to find a volunteer among the list of contributors to massage them for you. Maybe.
One point of contention, though . . . you say Babs has the attitude of God? What kind of sick, narcissistic God do you worship?
Matthew
Thanks Brenda
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Posted: 4/4/2005 9:43:37 AM
Very funny, and oh... I just sprung a rubbery one.
Heidi
Women get the last laugh
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Posted: 4/4/2005 9:55:15 AM
Growing up always hearing boys say to me, "Oh if only they were a bit bigger..." made me realize that there are so many shallow men thinking that big knockers make a woman beautiful. Well, I say screw the men (unless they want to pay for the new fondling devices) and get a new sexy size for yourself and yourself only. Let the men think that we did it for them, they always think their right anyway...except this time around, the ladies will be the ones laughing.
DC
Confidence
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Posted: 4/4/2005 4:06:44 PM
I am all for whatever makes one more confident. Just don't use them for evil purposes, well I guess tube socks had the same effect. Also, do you hear these stories and then post them?
dirty jersey
Huzzah for new boobs
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Posted: 4/4/2005 6:06:11 PM
I just want to say, good for you. It seems like you always wanted them and you did it for yourself.
Now if only when you had a man who was not so quite well endowed you could ship him off to Dr. Saucy to make the time in the sack a little more worthwhile.
Dare to dream...
E.
LUCKY ME
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Posted: 4/5/2005 5:47:52 PM
Lucky for me I don't need fake knockers.. mine were FREE.. as in natural. God blessed me with a great chest, though sometimes I curse it because I swear I can't go anywhere without some dumbass shouting "damn girl, you got some big boobs!" No shit sherlock, you think I've never looked in a damn mirror and noticed them for myself!
Breast Doctor
Here to help
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Posted: 4/5/2005 10:38:47 PM
Any girl smart enough to write this, honest enough to share it and who doesn't give a shit what everyone thinks is fine by me--damn fine job there, Della Casa. Lookin' forward to hearing more about the things you love!
As for Lucky Me, it seems as though you like your boobies too. God Bless America, people.
Annie Toffanelli
My fake hoots....
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Posted: 4/6/2005 9:44:40 AM
................. still don't take away from my well below average face. Nice work Brenda Della Casa
Skrid jr
Breasts
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Posted: 4/6/2005 9:57:14 AM
My wife has implants and they are perfect and I love them! It's like I've always said: Fake or real, great tits are great tits.
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