I don’t know why I’m writing this. This is a situation exactly like one I would get myself into: an older man wants me to have sex with him and I am the least likely person for him to have sex with. I’m not supposed to be here. I signed up for a nice and simple summer job and now this guy thinks I’m his perfect, fun-sized, blow up doll. He looks at me like I’ve seen my brother look at women. Like my dad looks at my mom. Big boobs, big butt, and that’s all he needed to know. He’d take it from there. If he could have had it his way, I would never wear clothes, at least not clothes that he didn’t specifically pick out and have altered to show off me off.
This was supposed to be an easy $10,000. I was told I’d make $1,000 a week with my eyes closed. “Show up. Smile. Follow the instructions and voila.” I could go to Europe next year, postpone getting a real job, and everyone would be happy with me — my family, my friends, no judgment. They actually would look up to me because I’d accomplished something.
But this was, all along, the situation I’d end up in. Quiet. Nice. Never-started-trouble-with-anybody girl. I will gladly admit that I’m conservative by my generation’s standards. I don’t need to be out partying every night or hooking up with boys but, of course, God, being a practical joker, gave me big boobs and a butt I cannot hide. And, of course, my first customer was a rich, horny, powerful man and I’ve dug myself a hole.
I’ve spent the past week trying to look at it from his point of view. Which admittedly is making a bit too much sense. He’s got everything he wants in the world and it’s really easy for him to pick up women. We need money and are willing to spend time with him. It’s not as gross as Hollywood makes it seem in the movies. You don’t get in a car with him and he’s sitting there naked and we drive right up to his bed. No. He’s sweet, interesting, and actually holds really good conversations. You spend time with him, have dinner, come over for a few hours, and sit by the pool. Maybe meet some of his friends and look into his world for a couple days. At that point I thought, “This is really nice. Wow. People live like this. It wouldn’t be so bad to have money.” Obviously, I want money. That’s why I’m in this mess. But it hit me, “Wow. Rich people live really well.”
Either way, now I’ve got my foot stuck in it. He’s got a kink for me looking professional. He likes tight clothes. He feels like he can x-ray vision them off me. The annoying part is that I feel sexy in them. I like formalwear and always have. I’ve always felt good in them and it’s not until I got my boobs and hips that I realized what an impression they could have on men. Men go crazy. Clothing is tight. There’s nothing I can do about it. My butt sticks out and my boobs are huge. That’s my build. I’m curvy and these kinds of clothes were not made to hide anything.
They’re made to be tailored right to your skin. If you are a tall, lean girl with a modest bust, you can come off as sexy as you want. You can be laid back in a medium shirt that’s plain and you’d still look professional. Or you could wear something tight, have a button undone, a shorter skirt or a shorter blazer, and suddenly look really sexy. For me, I don’t get that choice. For me, it doesn’t matter what style or what size the clothing is. My boobs are out and about. When I walk, they jiggle. If you want to take a look at them, I can’t stop you. My ass shakes behind me and, if you wanted to look, I literally couldn’t stop you because I wouldn’t even know you were doing it. It would be only until I turned around real quick and caught you looking away that I would know.
I just hate being oversold. I hate being a sucker. After I graduated high school and got my associate’s degree, this wasn’t supposed to happen anymore. I made a promise to myself. I was going to just stop letting people walk all over me. No more quiet-as-a-mouse and, you know, pleasant-as-a-1950s housewife. I should have known that this was too good to be true. And even then I might have been okay. I could have left and found a different job somewhere else but now I’ve got this man hanging over my head.
Well, I’m supposed to see him for dinner and we’ll see how it goes. He’s picking me up around 8:00 tonight. We’re going to Orlando’s which is a expensive Peruvian restaurant in my town. I don’t know what I’m going to wear. I have a nice blue dress I was thinking of. Dark blue. Figure hugging. Cleavage but still elegant. Not that short. The problem is, I haven’t worn it in two years since high school graduation at Jessica’s house. That day I remember — now that I’m looking at the dress again — her dad looking at me a lot. Mr. Matthews ogled me good. He offered me drinks, I don’t know, five times that day. Every hour or so, he slid by when I was alone and no one else was around and cooly bend over and offered me beer. He even sat next to me, pulling up a cooler like a bar stool. I was so stupid, literally. I chatted with him. “Hi, Mr. Matthews. La la la grades, graduation, don’t mind me.” Meanwhile I sat there in this fucking dress with my boobs falling out and I can imagine what he was thinking.
Thank God. I never saw him again. No. I think I saw him randomly at a smoothie shop but he didn’t say anything so that was all right. He was actually more interested in Sarah that night. So weird. He was one of those young dads with a backwards baseball cap, always making references to movies from the 1980s as if we had any idea what he was talking about. Honestly, he probably was a big player but got married too early. That’s what I think. Jessica never had a good relationship with him. I can imagine. If my dad was hitting on my friends, I wouldn’t have the best relationship with him either.
But needless to say, this dress is going to be a mission. My boobs have grown four or five cup sizes since then. I’m not an F. I think I was a small F then. Now I’m double H on a good day. So, oh my God, I am so stupid. Oh my God, Glover is going to love this too much. Too freaking much. And this is our third date. I don’t know what he expects after this. I know I’m being stupid and naïve. But he’s been such a gentleman. So relaxed. We’ve kissed but it was respectful and quick, during the right time in the night. We ate dinner, had great conversation, paused outside the restaurant, looked at the stars and the moon and, at the right time, before we parted ways, we looked at each other that way that people do and we kissed. That was very sweet. I could live with that. But obviously as time goes on, men get ideas that they can’t quite control. There are certain social rituals.
I’m probably going to wear my blue heels to match the dress. Honestly, they’re stubby. I might wear the black one because they’re taller. They still match but… I’m very stubby. I’m 5’4 and would love to be a 5’9 supermodel. I’d love to stretch all this out and distribute my curves. I look like a fancy bottle of Japanese soap. Those ones with the big bottom and the big top and then a really thin middle. I like to wear heels. I like tall heels. They don’t hurt my feet. I’ve always loved them. I’ve always loved giving myself more height so that’s good but at the same time I don’t want to come across as a floozy or one-night stand. I don’t want this guy bringing in a girl thirty years younger than him, big boobs, big butt, tall heels, dressed to the nines, hair, makeup — what else are they going to think but, “Hey, this is a hooker?” I’m not a fucking hooker. I’m a fucking, you know, I’m a lot of things but I’m not a hooker. Call me naïve. Call me a girl who’s doesn’t know anything about the world. That’s fine. I admit it but not a hooker.
……………..
Nothing else fits. My red dresses is for parties. The white one is for Christmas. The brown one is casual. This is it. This blue one is the fandango-midnight-dinner dress. But I didn’t know I grew this much. I knew it but I didn’t. I thought there would be some room I could tuck myself in. I didn’t have to look like an exploding cup of jello. I am not going to be able to keep his hands off me. That’s it. This is over. I can’t hide all of this. If I tuck my boobs down then I feel like I’m going to rip the dress. If I pull them up then I’m coming over the neck and even my armpits. I look like a girl who just burst out of her training bra and became a D cup overnight except I was an F and now I’m an H.
I texted Glover, “We might have to postpone tonight because I can’t find anything to wear.”
“You don’t have to dress up. I just want to enjoy an evening with you.”
“I know but this is a really nice restaurant and I had a really nice dress picked out but it’s not working. Can we do next week?”
“Don’t make a big deal out of the dress. You’re going to look lovely no matter what you wear.”
“I know you say that now but if you saw me in the dress you wouldn’t think so. This is not a dress that can be worn in polite company.”
“Well, we’ll let polite company decide that.”
“You don’t understand me. This is not eveningwear appropriate. I need a tailor sent here or a postponement.”
“What’s your address?”
“Why?”
“You said you need a tailor”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. That was a joke.”
Twenty minutes later, a chipper, sweet-faced old lady showed up to my apartment in a maid’s uniform, said three words, whisked me upstairs, drew a tape measure around me like a lasso, made a few marks, nodded, smiled, and then went to work resizing the dress. In less than thirty minutes, she gave me four more inches in my bust. She took the skinny part of the waist and widened it so the dress got much shorter but my boobs got more room. I don’t know how she did it. She was a saint and miracle worker. My boobs literally fit perfectly. They were still ginormous and I didn’t know how I was going to carry them in and out of the restaurant without waiters crashing their plates into the wall but I was in there. They just fit.
When I went outside, there were two cars, one for each of us, and mine took me to the restaurant.
“You look gorgeous.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you find Delilah all right?”
“Was that her name? Delilah, yes, she was a charming.”
“She’s worked for me for 15 years. Never heard a complaint.”
“I’ve had a few things altered in my life and nothing has ever been so quick or fit so well.”
“Not too tight not to lose you’re not drowning in it?”
“No. I’m definitely not drowning in it. No one, if anything, I was drowning it before.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” I put my hand up in surveyed my chest. “This was not cooperating.”
“Too much up top?”
“Too much up top. I haven’t worn this dress in two years. I’ve obviously grown a lot. I didn’t take that into account and then reality smacked me.”
“That’s a good thing we have Delilah. It just looks fantastic. You should always be comfortable. Everywhere you go no matter what.”
“Oh goodness,” I rolled my eyes.
“What?”
“Easy for you to say. Money rains from the sky but us regular girls got to have other considerations.”
“Of course but I’m only saying you deserve to be comfortable.”
“Yeah, yeah. I probably should have came with the first dress. You would like that more.”
“Why?”
I put my hands in front of me. “Because I was a walking pair of boobs.”
“You defeated your dress.”
“Yes. It wasn’t much of a battle.”
“I don’t think many know how to fight as well as you.”
“No, most don’t. Come on. Let’s pick out what we want to eat.”
The evening went on nice after that: ordering, pleasantries, I talked about my mother and how she was doing, he told me about business and how busy he was. But the whole time there was a lingering sexual tension because, well, I had just come to dinner with my boobs being so big that they needed a custom dress and even though the dress now fit well, my boobs were my boobs. The neckline showed about five or six inches of cleavage and was a nice square window. It didn’t matter what we talked about or what was on my plate. He could see a whole other plate. He was respectful as he always was of course and, at one point, we held hands across the table and I leaned forward because he spoke softly and I realized that my boobs were in my plate. Plop. Plop. In my plate. In the pasta. I’d done this a million times but never on a nice, fancy date in a fancy dress. I pulled away, looked down, and, truth be told, didn’t see it at first. It was under my boobs so I couldn’t see the stain. I looked at him and saw him smile.
“What?”
He looked down as did I and I didn’t see my dress still but I saw imprints on the plate — two circular smudges — and I fucking knew immediately what was wrong. “Oh my God.” I lifted my boobs up as elegantly as possible at the table, in the middle of this restaurant, and dabbed my napkin like a polite maniac. I tried to do it classily but of course there was way to lift up double H cup boobs and try to wipe pasta sauce from underneath them without getting in their and mushing. The sauce hadn’t been there long and I was able to get it mostly but, oh my God, it so embarrassing. He had a great time and beamed the biggest, most goofy smile. I probably would have done the same if I was in his position.