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Flat as a prepubescent boy, is what my mom said.
Actually what she said is “flat as Daniel”, but it meant the same thing. I could palm the entirety of my stupid teeny titty in one hand, dwarfed by a puffy pink nipple that may as well have had its own zip code. What a nightmare. No amount of stuffing my bra fixed the problem, and god forbid I take it off on a date and let a guy spy the gel pads I used to fill the empty space. So I asked Reddit how to make my boobs grow.
I’d asked this question of the internet several times.
Reddit had the same nonsense about learning to love yourself, being a proud member of the tiny titty committee, what-the-fuck-ever. I wanted respectable knockers. I wanted the child-feeding monsters my mother had, double-F fatties that gave her fucking scoliosis. When I saw the ad on Instagram, of course I clicked on it.
“Gain two cup sizes, guaranteed or your money back!” It announced, “One patch for the breasts of your dreams!”
For $55 plus shipping and handling. It came in a thick padded envelope with a packet of papers with medical warnings and disclaimers. I found the glossy instruction page, two illustrations: take the patch out of the plastic packaging, apply one on each side of the chest to stimulate breast growth. They cooled my skin like a lidocaine patch, smelled of mint and dirt. I got several compliments on my new perfume.
“Very avant-garde,” my office mate said.
They fell off on their own in the shower that night, left a weird speckled rash behind, and when I woke up the next day my tits ached like they hadn’t since puberty. Good sign. The instructions said not to wear a bra for a week, so I didn’t, and no one noticed.
I checked my progress in the mirror. My tits didn’t disappear behind my hand anymore. My back ached a little. They drooped when I leaned over. Thick and heavy, I couldn’t believe my luck. I went back to Reddit so I could shove it in the faces of the tiny titty committee. Of course, they wanted to know how I did it, but the website was gone.
My tits started to overflow my hands. I bought new bras, then more, then more, until I was shopping at specialty stores for well-endowed women online. I didn’t see a doctor, even when I had to start sleeping on my stomach because the weight of my breasts suffocated me in the night. Every day I looked at my breasts spilling over the G-cups of my bra in the mirror and sang in delight. A bombshell. A horny hentai goddess. Inflated like a goddamn helium balloon.
They ached so badly. Sometimes, I’d feel my skin pop another stretch mark. Pink stripes ran the length of my knockers. I took a hot bath to soothe the pain away. Bubbles, candlelight, picture-perfect feminine relaxation.
I looked down at my breasts and saw a thin white tendril wrap itself around my nipple. A sharp pain sang through both of my breasts. I dunked them under the hot water to relieve it, but it kept coming. Splitting my chest open. Ripping my tits away from my body. I emptied out like I’d taken some kind of laxative, white whipping threads filling the bath and covering my body. I screamed and wailed for someone to come help me.
My roommate broke down the bathroom door. She screamed herself, vomited, passed out at the sight of the worms filling the bath. I clutched at the deflated sacks hanging off my chest. Emptied. Stretched to nothing. 25 to geriatric in ten seconds. The worms clogged the drain. The water went pink with blood.
I woke in the hospital with no tits to speak of. No nipples. Long incisions where my beautiful knockers used to be. My mom was at my bedside, looking sick and baffled. I asked the doctor about my options for breast reconstruction.
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