To Implant?
I have a boob fetish. A pair of jugs will never pass my sight without a full inspection and lightening speed calculation of the percentage of the body fat and arm circumference of the female who owns them, in comparison to size of aforementioned jugs, in order to determine the likelihood of them being real. Yeah, I guess I’m jealous. One time in the Bikram Yoga locker room, a pretty girl of asian decent, skinnier than myself (I’m what one person referred to as “nearly invisible”) took off her sweaty tanktop and revealed a pair of bazookas so perfect and round and perky, it took every bit of willpower to stop myself from poking them and asking “Where on earth did you get those done!!”

I’m of very slight frame. Boyfriends claim I’m proportionate, but it doesn’t stop me from pondering the benefits of implanting a pair of water balloons, if only for the reason that I will stop staring at others. That debate has been solved by a recent trip to Los Angeles, a boob fetishist’s dreamland.

In LA, watermelon tits are EVERYWHERE. Sometimes it feels like you need swim goggles to find your way out of the ladies room. You may think I was in heaven, my brain experiencing a high of booby-overload. But I was not. I was saddened, and after awhile, bored. These tanned, died, and cut up ladies have a huge wave of homogeny that cools their hotness… they all look the same.

As a skinny girl pursuing a career in the film industry, it’s tempting to think “Gosh, will I work more if my knockers are like ScarJ’s and LiLo’s?” But after swimming the sea of unknown jumbotrons, I was slightly sickened by the disproportionate, upside down triangles of women. These rock hard, combat armor breastplates take all the fun out of boobies. They don’t wiggle or shake, they just stare at you, daring you to judge. I would rather have my small and perkies than a pair of these aggressive, unapproachable mammaries that have lost their sensitivity. Then I had an experience with one of the ills of being a B minus…

I booked a job on a commercial (one that I will be telling all of you about as soon as it runs.) I was costumed in a simple summer dress with thin straps, requiring a strapless bra. I bust out my dear friend Victoria’s super bra, padded with jelly-like inserts that are my not-so-secret weapon. After hitting the set and getting into position, the AD comes over, and whispers very quietly and seriously “Jessica, we need to send you to wardrobe for a costume adjustment.” After hitting wardrobe, the costumer pulls me aside and says “Ok, we need cleavage.” The team swarms together and starts grabbing at my tits. First, another pair of jelly inserts are pushed into my dress while the makeup artist brushes a dark line of brown between my hooters. Not enough! So more and more objects are placed in front of my squealing little boom-booms and my chest is growing forward every second. Here’s the thing. If the bra had STRAPS, we’d get that nice little curve on top that makes people think of milk and the swiss alps. You need something to ANCHOR the boobies against, you can’t just keep stuffing objects in front of the boobs and expect them to lift! *sigh of frustration* The dress is settled upon, so we’ve got to make cleavage appear somehow. We manage, simply by lifting my tiny tata’s and placing them on top of the double pair of inserts. This works fine, but the busoms are in alot of pain and they protest by knocking the inserts off to the side every half hour. When this happens, the 3 women flock to my chest, one lifting the titty, one adjusting the insert, while makeup girl perfects that dark line. As much as I like the attention, perhaps surgery would actually be easier?? Or perhaps not, as more can always be added, as the booby team demonstrated, but less could not be accomplished without use of the oh so much more painful, body bandages. Could those actually make the jelly balloons pop? The debate roars on…

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