It was a beautiful day in Vegas. I was at the pool of a 5 star hotel, soaking up the sun. Suddenly a scrote approached.
“Hey, can I take a picture of you? I’m with a bachelor’s party and we’re on a scavenger hunt. We’re supposed to find a girl with really fake boobs.”
This wasn’t how I’d imagined having fake boobs would be. In my mind, they would be a solution to the problem that had been plaguing me since pre-adolescence, when all of my friends started sprouting but left me behind. For so long, I’d felt like a sorry excuse for a woman- like I just couldn’t measure up… literally.
My first boyfriend, Andy, was obsessed with getting me breast implants. “That’s all you need to bump you up to a 10,” he’d say. Sometimes we’d be having sex and he’d put his hands above my breasts as if he was imagining having more to grab onto. Andy came with me to my consultation. “What size breasts would you like?” The surgeon asked. Andy and I both answered at once. “B’s,” I replied, while he excitedly stated “D’s”. The surgeon insisted that I’d be unhappy with B’s- that most of his clients who choose that size end up coming in for a larger cup later on. We settled on C’s.
But something happened on the operating table, something I’ll never understand. Did he overinflate them by accident? They were saline implants, after all. Or did he decide to give Andy what he was asking for, since he was the one paying? At any rate, I ended up with D cups.
On my small frame, they truly looked ridiculous. And people seemed to enjoy pointing them out. I became very familiar with a particular line, and what it intended: “Hey- can I ask you a question?” This line was almost always followed with “Are your breasts real?” It was a loaded question, as it was obvious that they weren’t. I think they were secretly hoping I would say they were so they could laugh at the absurdity of the lie. Total strangers asked me this regularly.
When I finally got the nerve to break up with Andy, he told me he was going to get a lawyer to enforce the contract I’d signed, which said I would pay him back for the implants if I left. The contract had legit been written in green colored marker. I told him the hospital bill he’d incurred by physically abusing me was twice the cost of the implants, and asked that we call it even.
I had the implants removed and tried to learn to love myself, deflated bags of flesh hanging from my chest and all. But after a year I caved and got the B’s I always wanted. The surgeon did a great job and they look very natural. I still dress modestly, though. I never want to be seen as just a pair of breasts again.
I write this because it was eye-opening for me. Our society seems to think it’s perfectly okay to shame women with awful plastic surgery, because “they did this to themselves”. But many of these women just wanted to be left alone. They thought surgery would fix what they were already getting made fun of. Making fun of them for the surgery is just adding insult to injury. Many of these women are also deep in pickme hazes, and are likely being abused by scrotes.
If you see a woman with awful plastic surgery, please be kind.