The Bucket List

by Georgia Clark

  Lower lifetime risk of cancer = 10

  Surgery / reconstruction covered by current health insurance (mostly) = 8

  Don’t have kids / less responsibility right now = 5

  Cheaper and less complicated / horrific than cancer treatment = 9

  Time off protected by Family & Medical Leave Act (won’t lose

  benefits etc.) = 6

  Won’t have saggy tits when old = 3

  I explain the last one: if I get implants, my breasts stay pert while the rest of me doesn’t. It’s not a huge bonus, but it won’t hurt.

  The con column is considerably more grim.

  Losing healthy breasts = 10

  Recovery could affect career / no income = 6

  Won’t get to breastfeed = 3

  May be for nothing (might not get cancer) = 5

  No sensation in new boobs = 9

  Guys might find it weird / turnoff =

  It’s this we can’t agree on. “The right guy won’t care!” Steph slaps the sofa. Her teeth are slightly purple from the wine. “One. One fookin’ point.” Her British accent always gets stronger when she’s drinking.

  “Eight,” Vivian counters. “Eight points. This is New York. Dating is a blood sport. Guys will use anything to knock you out of the running. Having scarred, fake tits because of cancer at twenty-five is an instant pass, even if you are hot and smart.”

  Steph gasps. “That is so mean.”

  “It’s not what I think,” Vivian exclaims. “I’m just giving you a straight male perspective; you’re gay.”

  “You’re a woman!”

  “I sleep with men. I have sex with men.”

  “More than I can say.” I take a bite of cold pizza.

  “I’m still aware of the existence of men,” Steph says. “Who happen to be human, like me. If I really liked someone, I wouldn’t care. They won’t care.”

  “Yes, they will.”

  “Lacey’s perfect guy is compassionate and open-minded.”

  “Lacey’s perfect guy is a guy. With eyes and a cock.”

  “I think my perfect guy would be both,” I say. “A compassionate cock.”

  “What is your type?” Vivian turns to me. “I could never figure it out.”

  “My type?” I shrug. “Shoes and a MetroCard.”

  “Seriously,” Steph says. “What do you want in a guy?”

  The Punch-and-Judy show have broken the fourth wall and are staring at me expectantly.

  “I don’t know . . . Gainfully employed college grad with the wit of Steve Martin, the body of a Montauk surf instructor, and the sexual appeal of a hot cheesy pizza. Ideally done a main-stage TED talk or started a literary salon or something. Funny but not sarcastic. Smart but not a show-off. Financially comfortable but doesn’t work all the time. I don’t mind curly hair but not tight curly: JT solo career not JT *NSYNC . . .” I notice the girls’ expressions and cut it short. “But I’m flexible.”

  Vivian looks skeptical. “On what part?”

  I think hard for a long moment. “I’m not flexible.”

  “Wow.” Steph looks worried. “Maybe I’m too open-minded.”

  “Straight girls could be cut from your list,” I offer.

  “That is my list,” Steph says.

  The front door opens. Cooper, Steph’s new roommate, comes in carrying what looks like a tote bag full of books. “Hello roomie,” he says. “Hey Lacey.”

  I freeze.

  To Vivian, “I’m Cooper.”

  “Vivian Chang.” They shake hands. Steph’s already on her feet, next to him. “Can we ask Coop about . . .” She gestures unsubtly at the board that, to my alarm, he’s examining with interest.

  I’m surprised to find myself shrugging. Cooper has the sort of diplomatic open-minded ease borne of well-funded public schooling. Besides, he’s already reading it.

  The girls tag-team an explanation: “You know, like Angelina Jolie.”

  “So,” Steph says. “What do you think?”

  “Be honest,” Vivian says. “You’re only hurting her if you’re not.”

  Cooper’s thinking. We all wait. He is pretty cute, in that scruffy-haired-nerd-who-likes-political-humor sort of way. I actually care what he thinks.

  “Assuming that we’re not talking about some sort of medical horror show,” he says, “I think it depends on if the girl finds them sexy.”

  Vivian and Steph look taken aback.

  “I can’t speak for all guys,” he continues, “but, generally, guys like it when girls like their bodies. I’m sure there’d be an adjustment period, but if she was into it, I probably would be too. Our bodies are changing all the time. But confidence is what’s really attractive.”

  He gives me a That okay? look.

  “Wise words.” I smile at him. “The Buddhists are rubbing off on you.”

  “Namaste.” He bows jokingly, and heads to his room.

  “Maybe you should be rubbing off on him,” Vivian murmurs, after he closes his door. “He’s cute.”

  “No,” Steph jumps in. “No way. This house is finally a drama-free zone. No one’s shagging my roommate.” She taps the whiteboard. “One point.”

  Vivian says, “Eight.”

  They fold their arms and look at me.

  So it’s up to me? And my sexual confidence? Fan-fucking-tastic. Silently, and with no small amount of shame, I write . . . 7.

  I hate that it matters. But it does.

  Final score: Cons 40. Pros 41.

  A flutter of relief, even happiness, flickers through me. I have an answer! The indecisive nightmare can stop!

  Then it hits me.

  I know, intellectually, that it makes sense: a medically sound 127 Hours. The fact I even have a choice is a privilege: millions of women can’t make the decision I can. But it’s not a decision I want to make.

  I look over at the girls. Whatever they see in my face causes them both to straighten, momentarily sober. They exchange a worried glance. Their open, alarmed need to join forces while I’m right in front of them makes me groan and sink to the sofa, my face in my hands. The urge to curl into a tiny ball is overwhelmingly powerful.

  Steph rubs my back. “It’s okay. Lace, it’s okay.”

  “But it’s not,” I say into my hands. “It’s kind of not.”

  A pause. Then Vivian speaks. “How about this.” She’s using her negotiating-in-meetings voice. “You just commit to thinking about it. That’s it. You don’t have to make any hard decisions. You just have to think about it.”

  I look up. I have the distinct impression I look like an orphaned puppy. “For how long?”

  Steph uses her soothe-the-baby voice. “However long you like.”

  I whimper.

  “Six months,” Viv replies, matter-of-fact.

  A deadline. Good. “Six months,” I repeat. “I can make a decision in six months.” With that airy buffer of time in play, I suddenly feel a little more expansive. I’m up above the whole thing, looking down at landforms, seeing the big picture. The reality is, it’s not an emergency. Of course there’s the possibility of aggressive cancers forming sooner in younger generations, and I agree that prevention is better than cure. But I still don’t need to rush into anything. I want to give myself time to really think about this. And six months feels like a perfect amount of time: luxuriously but not recklessly long. I try something, tentatively. “Say you were gonna do it. In six months. Is there anything you’d, I don’t know, want to . . . try or do before then?”

  “Do you mean, like, tests and consultations?” Steph says.

  “No, I mean the final hurrah. Saying ta-ta to the tatas.”

  “Oh,” the girls say. We all lean back into the sofa, absentmindedly squeezing our boobs.

  Steph’s gaze goes dreamy. “I’d sunbathe topless in the Greek Isles.”

  Vivian sips her wine. “I’d titty-fuck a boy band.”

  I cough laughter, muting it for Cooper’s sake. “I’ve never titty-fucked anyone.”
>
  “Oh, Lace.” Steph gives me a look of pity. “Even I’ve titty-fucked someone.”

  “If we’re being honest,” I say. “I don’t usually ‘get there’ with a guy. Orgasmically speaking.”

  The girls pause. Too late I comprehend this is a significant reveal.

  “How often do you come?” Vivian asks.

  I want to laugh or affect indignation. But they’re both looking at me like this is a perfectly legitimate line of questioning. Which of course, it is.

  “I’d say eighty-five percent of the time . . .”

  “Oh.” Steph relaxes.

  “. . . Is how often I fake it.”

  Steph spits out her wine. “What?”

  “I’m a faker,” I say. “I know I need to be more communicative, but I tried that and it was so awkward. I didn’t know what to say. And most of the guys I’ve hooked up with were basically half-night stands. It’s all over so fast.”

  “You’ve never had a regular sex friend,” Vivian says, like she’s just putting this together. “You haven’t had a boyfriend in New York.”

  “Nope,” I say. “Just hookups. Hence my salient Meg-Ryan-in-Katz’s-Deli impression.”

  “What about college?” Vivian asks. “You had a boyfriend, right?”

  “Ash.” I nod. “Total sweetie. But Ash and I were more like best friends than fifty shades of any color palette.”

  “That was not my college experience.” Vivian stretches, her sinewy arms tightening. “I basically didn’t wear pants for four years.”

  “I just had a lot of threesomes,” Steph says thoughtfully. “At the time I figured I was really into group sex. With girls.”

  “What finally clued you in?” Vivian asks.

  “First season of Orange Is the New Black,” Steph says, and we all nod sagely.

  I remember the scenes Steph is talking about: full, soapy breasts in a steamy shower. Neck-arching pleasure. Heat radiating from pert nipples. “That could be gone for me,” I murmur, glancing at the small dip of my cleavage.

  Steph squeezes my hand. “I’d say it doesn’t matter, but it really does. To me. I love having my boobs touched.”

  Vivian nods, like it’s a no-brainer. “I can come from just nipple play.”

  I blink. “Holy polymorphic pleasure zones, Batman.” Annoyingly, I’m blushing. I resist the urge to squirm, trying instead to channel my friends’ unfazed cool. “Would you guys do it? A mastectomy?”

  Vivian answers first. “I would. For sure. Prevention is always better than cure.”

  I look to Steph. Her face twists into uncertainty. “Maybe, one day? But to be honest, I don’t think I could do it now, in my twenties. What if they invent a cure or I changed my mind? It just seems so final.”

  A cure. What if they invent a cure?

  Or what if they don’t?

  “But wow, I’d miss my breasts,” Vivian adds, skimming her fingers over the small mounds under her shirt. She drains her glass. “Lace, you have to have the Big O before you even think about the Big M.”

  Steph nods vehemently. “Many O’s! You deserve that much.”

  “But I hate dating,” I say. “It’s the most unfun fun thing in the world.”

  “So don’t date,” Viv says.

  “Yeah, just find some bloke to shag,” Steph says, then hiccups.

  This extensive honesty is not my forte, but if not now, when? If not with the girls, who? “I think my childhood kind of screwed me up. By the time I worked out everything I’d been told was basically BS and my body is, in fact, a pleasure garden, it just seemed too late.”

  “But it’s not too late,” Vivian says. “You’re twenty-five. Go nuts. Go to a play party or have a threesome.”

  “I don’t like the idea of being one of two girls some guy gets to hook up with,” I say. “I don’t want to be there for his entertainment.”

  “But what about your entertainment?” Vivian jabs a finger at me.

  “Why can’t you be the center of attention?” Steph says. “Sex happens with other people, but it’s really about you, how you feel, yourself.”

  Sex is about . . . me. I’m responsible for my own pleasure. For working out what turns me on, what I like. And for acting on it. That was not the advice passed down to me by the well-meaning PTA moms of Buntley, Illinois, in their control-top panty hose and beige grandma bras. Sex wasn’t a rollicking adventure park. It was a deserted parking lot you’d best not walk through alone at night. Steph and Vivian are worldly women. I’m a naive child. “I’m a lost cause,” I groan. “It’s too late for me.”

  Steph elbows me. “Oh, stop moping. You’ve got six months.”

  “A lot can change in six months.” Vivian arches an eyebrow.

  That’s true. A lot can change in six months . . .

  Energy swirls inside of me, jettisoning me to my feet. I flip the whiteboard. Uncapping a marker, I write three words in big, bold letters.

  BOOB BUCKET LIST

  Part Two

  * * *

  7.

  * * *

  My new chapter of sexual exploration starts with snoring. Steph is channeling such serious industrial machinery, I’m surprised the mirror hasn’t shattered. I ended up staying over, claiming the car services were surging. Truthfully, I didn’t want to face the start of what could be my last six months of IRL boobs alone. It’s 7:45 a.m. Not a time I knew existed on Saturdays because I’m usually sleeping off a hangover the size of South America. Welcome to the new me.

  In the living room, abused pizza boxes yawn open like cardboard tongues. Red wine turns sticky in the bottom of wineglasses. And there’s my list. In the unforgiving light of day, I’m not sure I can go through with it. Or why it seemed like such an essential idea. Maybe it’s a sexy distraction from a very unsexy problem. Maybe I needed to make a firm decision about something that wasn’t as full-on as yes-I’m-having-a-mastectomy. Maybe it really will help me make that decision. Maybe I was just horny. I take a pic of it on my phone and glance around for something to destroy the evidence.

  The toilet flushes.

  Steph’s asleep.

  Cooper.

  I rocket to the whiteboard to wipe away the ink with my fingertips. Nothing’s coming off. I used a permanent marker. Footsteps in the hall. Panicked, I try to flip the board but it’s locked into position, and Cooper’s padding in with sleep-crazed hair, glasses askew, wearing nothing but Snoopy pajama bottoms, saying, “Oh. Hi.”

  I stand like a starfish in front of the board, pretending to stretch. “Morning.”

  “Big night, huh?” He scoops up a few empty wine bottles. His biceps bulge, briefly. For a nerd, they look surprisingly . . . round. A light dusting of hair disappears below the waistband of his pants. His stomach is flat, his collarbone as solid as the handle of a gun. Coop hits the gym. I’m almost leering, but his gaze is polite. “What did you decide?”

  I pivot my body to follow with him as he crosses the room. “I’m going to think about getting a mastectomy.” I say it like I’m considering switching gyms.

  He stops. The courteous host-like facade cracks. “Holy shit. That’s intense, right?”

  “You could say that.”

  He straightens his glasses, his face alive with curiosity. “How are you feeling about it?”

  “Like I need to do some yoga on my own—”

  “What’s that?” His eyes are on the board.

  “Nothing.”

  “What is that?” He’s coming toward me, squinting at the list. “Are you hiding something from me, former roommate?”

  He pokes me in the ribs and I gasp, giggling, “No, don’t! Don’t look!”

  I try to yank him into the kitchen, but he easily maneuvers me out of the way with those tight biceps of his. I can’t say I don’t enjoy this. “Boob Bucket List.” His face moves through a series of unusual contortions. “Okay. My morning just got a lot more interesting.”

  I cross my arms; fine. “Matters of proximity have brought you into
this. I will entrust you with this information if you promise to vault it.”

  “I promise.” He zips his lips. “I’m very trustworthy.”

  This is possibly true. “Sit.” I point to the couch. “You’re getting the director’s commentary so nothing is misconstrued.”

  “Let me throw a shirt on—”

  “Veto.” I shake my head. “I’m exposing myself to you. Metaphorically.”

  “You can do it literally.” He settles into the couch, folding his arms. Again, biceps. “If it’ll help with your list.”

  Is he flirting with me? Or is it just banter? Behind his glasses, his eyes are bright. They’re not quite green, not quite brown, but it’s not the color that’s the most striking. It’s the intelligence. The corners of his lips tick up in an almost mischievous smile. In high school, I bet he was voted most likely to own a podcast network.

  A good comeback escapes me, so I turn to the board, feeling buzzy and a bit goofy, somewhere between successful presentation and day drinker. “Basically, this is to help me make my decision. Or just help me, period. Okay. Here we go.” I point. “Number one: sunbathe topless. Never done it, Steph assures me it’s the tits, pun intended. Number two: nude photo shoot.” I indicate my breasts. “To immortalize them forever. Number three: wear boobs-on-parade dress to fancy event.”

  “What’s a boobs-on-parade dress?”

  “Like the girls on The Bachelor wear.”

  “I don’t watch The Bachelor.”

  “Think Tinder meets The Hunger Games. With hot tubs.”

  He shrugs, affecting cluelessness. “Can you describe one to me? Maybe try on something of Steph’s?”

  “Steph only wears T-shirts.”

  “There’s scissors in the kitchen.” He mimes cutting a very deep neckline. He is definitely flirting with me.

  I threaten him with a pizza crust. “Don’t be cheeky,” I say, but another part of me is thinking, Why shouldn’t he be cheeky? We’re talking about my boobs. I spin back to the board. My skin feels warm. “Number four: threesome. Classic for a reason. Number five: role-play. Not sure what that’ll entail, but I can do a pretty good French accent: oui, oui, bonjour Monsieur! Number six: sex with a woman. That was Steph’s idea,” I add, turning back.