And I never had a complaint.
But, there was no denying the fact, try any angle, even a well-engineered brassiere, I was small. Not smallish, small. The pencil test? I flunked: there was no sag to be found here. And the rule against accepting tips between my breasts didn’t apply — I was neither proficient nor capable. The trick required an awkward position and both hands. The stunt was silly when I attempted it. I was pert, proportioned, and perfectly healthy. Voluptuous, lush, and stripperesque, I wasn’t.
Somehow, I still managed, to the surprise and mystification of my co-workers, to be a top girl. I might have worn an A-cup, but my personality would have overflowed even Darci’s super-DD triple-strapped contraption. As it happened, I cornered the personality market at work. It seemed few girls communicated happy enthusiasm like I did. Small but dynamic, I kept pace with my silicone-enhanced sisters quite nicely. I bubbled and played at work, reveling in the fun and ease.
It was a lot easier than studying. And never boring.
My moods were infectious. Men couldn’t help but smile. And just in case I had an extra glum “Waldo,” Foxy Lady code for lovestruck dupe, I memorized three jokes. In addition, I had well-polished stage skills (thanks to my high school drama coach). Pale Swedish coloring didn’t hurt, either. My blue eyes glowed under the lights (I was told repeatedly) without any effort on my part. My long blond locks were plain-Jane, no more. As a stripper, the tousled fluffy look was exotic and sexy. I demonstrated a striking, naturally erotic look. This, combined with my twinkling energetic stage persona … and who was looking at my breasts?
Well, OK, maybe a few guys.
I was utterly blown away by the cash I could bring in just being me. Huge misshapen breasts, perfected globes of silicone, natural minis, even surgically misplaced nipples — the customers liked them all.
Like I said, female, topless — good enough.
As writer Eric Pooley explained it in a women’s magazine, “Our affection for breasts isn’t necessarily some cartoonish mania, though; we are not, as a species, fixated on size. We love all sorts of breasts.” That may be true, but extra flesh equaled easier seduction and, I was told and it seemed accurate, even more money. For the packs of men and their wallets on the weekends this was especially relevant. It was true that when moving en masse they did flock to the generously enhanced figures. They stood out, way out. We worked everything we had, and some had more than others to work. If I was top girl material already, what would I be with perfect C’s?
Just another top stripper?
“You think you make a lot now?” Cherry lectured me in the dressing room one night. She was a well-preserved, Jaguar-driving old-timer. Speaking from over ten years’ experience, she held a valuable perspective. Adjusting her cleavage neatly, she continued matter-of-factly, “With tits you’ll make so much more.”
“I can’t imagine more —” I scoffed.
She interrupted with a sage look and put an arm on my shoulder. “Listen to me babe, there is more.”
I was listening intently. For the moment I was her girlfriend, but if I got in her way I’d be just another unappreciative jerk, in her way. There was no middle ground with Cherry. I carefully respected her opinion, although I knew I couldn’t be convinced. Even for more money, if that was possible.
“You make two grand a week now. With a B-job you’ll make two and a half or three. You’ve got the butt, the hair — Heidi! You’ve got it all except for the breasts. Why not do it? You’re going to do it sooner or later anyway.”
“No, no, Cherry
“Yes, you will. We all do it.”
Oh, there’s a reason.
“You’re a smart girl, Heidi. You’ll do it.” Then she examined my bosoms, which were timidly swelling the top of my gown. She pinched a healthy portion of my cleavage skin, then she pulled and twisted it in her fingers. “Hmm” — she considered my raw material — “you might get away with a D, but just get a nice full C. You’re petite. That should be enough.”
Enough? When is it enough? Enough breast, enough money?
It was true, though. They were everywhere. Everyone was getting them, or supplementing them, or having them moved, or lifted, or dropped. They were strapping the high beamers down, pushing the sagging ski slopes up, massaging scar tissue around, camouflaging incisions and bruises. They compared cc’s, eyed the buckles and puckers of each other’s sacs, and contemplated suddenly appearing lumps of muscle.
A barnyard full of Perdue oven stuffer roasters, “Bred to be bigger breasted!”
It was winter break, the week before Christmas, and I was working a heavy schedule to prepare for the spring semester and distract myself from thinking about Tony, who was growing increasingly remote. He was depressed, I knew, with good reason. His mother was fighting cancer, and the prognosis was not good. In fact, Tony had been pulling away little by little for a few months. What I had thought was a need for space had become a near disappearance. I hadn’t seen him for several weeks, and we’d only spoken once in that time. I wondered if I was single. I was alone. Erich was in Spain competing in the Olympics; Reid was bartending in New York; and Isabella was busy all the time with the family business and the ailing Mrs. DeLorenzo, so I worked all I could at the club. There, I couldn’t help but register the mass hysteria. Boob jobs were epidemic. New profiles were everywhere. There were even two twenty-one-year-olds celebrating their freshly sucked and sculpted hips and buttocks. It was insane.
This Saturday night I counted the naturals and the otherwise. I found the ratio was 20 to 80 percent. I was in the minority. Even as a stripper in a strip club I stood out! Perfect D’s were looking normal to me. Little ones should have appeared abnormal, but I didn’t often have a chance to see them. I forgot to compare my own body. I didn’t feel abnormal. I observed without identifying.
It works!
Not that I didn’t want to make as much money as possible. I did. I just couldn’t take the sex image trade seriously enough to surgically alter my body in a potentially dangerous way.
What would I do with them anyway? Two badges of pseudo-mammary glands burrowed inside my neat little body proving my worth. Erich and Reid would think it was hysterically funny, Tony would be embarrassed, Isabella would respect my decision. I still have untapped resources in my mind. And I’m too busy — with school, my writing, my future. Those bulky things would get in my way. I’d miss my old body. It’s too easy; I don’t want a crutch. I can do it all myself.
I had never been one for alcohol or drugs, obsessiveness or compulsions. I craved the satisfaction that came from accomplishing goals all by myself. Selfish perhaps, but it made me feel good to be me.
It was early in the shift and still quiet. I entertained — strolling, smiling, posing, preening — without thinking about it and looked around the floor. The other dancers were gorgeously formed, with or without the implants. If they made more money, it was mostly from their increased confidence. The breasts were actually toys or tools for enhancing self-esteem.
“Hi, Angel Breasts,” a man said, breaking my thoughts.
“Angel breasts?” Are you talking to me?
I lowered my chin and — my mind back on the job — fixed my eyes on the middle-aged politician smiling up at me. I took my time, looking him over silently.
Suspended in front of him was his small pale hand. He was offering me five or six bills (surely ones). His other hand strayed to his paunchy middle, the drugstore cigar in it threatening to scorch his flammable suit. He knows to keep that offensive thing away from me. In the past I have even complained to him.
Would I be that forward outside the club?
On occasion I have put the smelly things out for him. The first time I did it he had a panicked moment as I swept the smoldering stick out of his grip. I had looked him in the face, blandly, while unceremoniously crushing the burning end into an ashtray. It took him only a moment to display a complete and almost eager resignation to this treatment.
He likes i
t, being submissive. Yuck.
I am always point blank with him. The fact that he is the state senate minority whip only adds to his aura of pomposity and falseness. He seems to be drawn to me by my forwardness. He thinks I’m dangerous.
The truth is dangerous.
Finished with my examination, I addressed him cheerfully. “Good evening, Mr. Drummand!” I was a little loud. He nervously looked down then to either side of him — to see who had recognized him. No one ever did, but he always checked.
I kneeled to his level, neatly caressed the bills out of his hand, and offered my cheek. He aimed for my mouth romantically, and missed. I made sure of it. I patted his shoulder and he straightened up, feeling special and important. For a moment he forgot his substandard height and actually seemed to swell slightly. Again he glanced to either side, this time to advertise his position — that is, as the center of my attention. But it was too late, I had moved on to the next piece of cash.
Money, money, money …
Breasts! Butterfly walked by my stage. I remembered that she recently had hers done, just in time for the Christmas rush. It certainly explained the look on her face — smug — and the look of her chest. Huge. Swollen. Unnatural.
Supernatural.
She walked stiffly, carefully, beaming proudly as though she had a delicious secret to share. Eager to try out her breasts, she had returned to work only a couple of weeks post surgery (hence her cautious posture). I kept my eye on her, and, sure enough, she was commanding the men like a queen. Before she had moped and seemed hesitant to hustle. Now she was sure of herself, and her breasts. I watched her table dancing. She would cup the new globes gently and offer them to be visually caressed and fantasized about. She basked in their lust. She knew she deserved it.
It was this same week that the silicone scare hit the media. The FDA was considering taking implants off the market because they were serious health hazards. The reaction among the strippers was hardly what I expected. I was shocked to learn how blinded by their quest for perfection some had become.
When the shift ended that Saturday night all the dancers streamed into the dressing room to change and wait for the parking lot to be cleared. As they did every night, the security staff followed the patrons out the door, then supervised while all of them drove away (making sure that they all did drive away). Generally there was a thirty-minute delay while we waited for the parking area to be secured; no one was allowed to exit until then.
During this time the entertainment staff held their meetings. The dancers washed their faces and hands and feet (and behinds, even), with baby wipes then eased into their regular clothes. The wait was extra long tonight, so I was reorganizing my locker while the other girls counted bills and exchanged gossip. A group of dancers was in a particularly ruffled state. I overheard them talking.
“Yes, I heard about it last night on television. Isn’t it terrible?” Chanel asked Venus, while fixing her lips. (She must be seeing her boyfriend after work, I thought; few strippers pile the cosmetics on that heavily outside of work.)
Venus agreed wholeheartedly. “I heard they’re going to limit who gets the operation — like only let cancer patients have them! They may even take them off the market. I’m lucky I got mine done already.”
Lucky?
“Well, I’m gonna hurry and get mine done right away, before silicone is banned,” Chanel promised, determined to make it happen.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It wasn’t only Chanel and Venus. The women were in accord; no one had mentioned the risks. Before I could conceive of a contribution to this nonsensical discussion, Heddy, an old-timer and veteran of multiple botched breast jobs, added her two cents. “You better hurry girl, just make sure the doctor puts them in behind the muscle and cuts the slice through your —”
Harmony butted in, “No, no, go over the muscle and through the armpit.”
I could see the loaded missiles turning toward the conversation. Sparrow smoothed her shirt delicately over her curves, careful not to poke herself with the red daggers she wore for nails. She looked down her nose at us, then calmly returned to counting her hundreds.
Sparrow was a businesswoman. For her, America meant an inhibited society willing to make her a wealthy retiree. In a few years she’d be back home in Norway, working as a seamstress, comfortable with a nest egg of half a million. Her ballistic breasts, Rapunzel wig, and Dragon Lady nails were part of the costume. No big deal.
I respected Sparrow because she didn’t mess around. She was able to use her body as a tool. I identified with this, but drew the line at her breasts. She was happy with the twin mutants, but I didn’t especially want them.
With silicone breast jobs already the hot topic that night, a few girls finally broached the subject with me. I watched them sizing me up. Kiki was looking me over, her head tilted, eyes inquisitively scanning my proportions. Lady Alexis and Vera were sitting nearby, impersonally examining my form.
The three of them made quite a picture. Kiki was pale and soft, like a wide-eyed blow-up doll, her lips pouty and red. Thirty years older than her, Lady Alexis was the dried version of Kiki, with brightly painted eyes, lips, cheeks, and hair. Vera was a recent immigrant from Brazil. Intensely natural, she embodied the energy and power of a black panther. Even makeup couldn’t compete with her fiercely dark skin. Her clothes — what little she wore onstage — were an insult to her animalistic beauty. She looked most natural when naked.
Naked is natural.
The three looked me over, Lady Alexis and Vera nodding in agreement with Kiki’s whispered comment.
I laughed and asked, “What do you think?” I posed and flaunted in my undies like a supermodel. “Don’t you like them?” I asked, indicating my breasts. Then, as though advertising an item for bid on “The Price Is Right,” I announced cheerfully, “A mere three grand for perfect A-cups!”
The cost of my lumpectomy.
They enjoyed my joke without fully understanding. They were relieved I didn’t have a defensive reaction to their obvious inspection of my petite construction.
“See, she doesn’t need them.” Kiki said to Lady Alexis.
“Yeah,” Lady Alexis concurred with a confused sigh, “she’s streamlined, like a fast car.” She shook her bewigged head, as if I were beyond her comprehension, and added, “I don’t know why, but it works.”
Vera merely followed the conversation, amused as always by “you crazy people in America.”
Kiki rubbed her breasts absentmindedly, massaging the implants and scar tissue, pressing the breasts into her body. (They seemed to want to escape.) “Mine were just like yours before the surgery. I’ll bring in a picture to show you.”
She was puzzled by her own body. I watched her face, mesmerized. I was imagining the pain of the procedure and the strangeness of having a huge chest all of a sudden, but mostly I was attempting to decipher her bewildered expression.
“So, are you glad you did it?” I asked.
She sighed, her porcelain doll face downcast. “Well,” she ventured hesitantly, “I make good money, but I always made good money. Well, I …” She stopped. Her smooth forehead crinkled in thought as she perused her breasts objectively, as if they were foreign objects.
They were.
I smiled at her, encouraging her to continue.
She frowned, and whispered, “I think I am going to miss my old ones. Someday.”
Still attempting to figure me out, Lady Alexis interrupted, “Hey! If you needed them I’d tell you to go buy yourself some titties! But you look good that way, Heidi.”
Kiki looked at her, speechless, as did I. Lady Alexis was known for her crabbiness.
Lady Alexis shrugged, “I’m not jealous; I’ll tell you if you’re OK.”
Vera was both curious and incredulous throughout the conversation. I grinned at her, and she rolled her flashing eyes in response. We identified with each other. We were both athletic and outdoorsy and had both grown up close to nature. Ev
en within the stripper’s reality of platonic orgies and image worship, we continued to see the world simply and with a sense of neutral curiosity. We could laugh.
Kiki still appeared disturbed a few minutes later as we walked into the parking lot. But then, she always looked disturbed.
The next day I drove to Maine, careful to remove my work materials from the trunk. I replaced costumes and police gear with Christmas presents, nothing too extravagant, of course. I wouldn’t want to arouse suspicions. Besides, it was a tradition of mine to knock my family’s socks off with creative handmade gifts. Store-bought items would have been impersonal and insulting by themselves.
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