The Booby Trap and Other Bits and Boobs Read Free Page B

teeny-tiny, right? At the moment I’m a 32AA and I’m
hoping
to go up to a C cup. It’s a bit bollocks, but the doctors can’t promise what
size
they’ll be after the op because they only work with the size of the implant. I won’t actually know what bra size I’ll need until a few weeks after the op, which is slightly worrying.
    So why am I getting it done? I’m definitely getting it done for me. I’m young, I’m single, I’ve got a job, so why not? My mum and sister think I’m mental, but they don’t have boy chests. People always say ‘look at models, they never have boobs’ – yeah, well, they’re also six foot tall and
models
. I am clearly not a model. I suppose, as much as I love Mary-Kate and Ashley, I just wanna feel more womanly and curvy.
    I remember the first girl in our year to get boobs. I think it was Year Five and Jenny Pullman – I think she died last year so I shouldn’t be shady – just ballooned overnight. We could all see the outline of her training bra through her yellow blouse – the boys were mesmerised, and us girls were all desperate to see them when we got changed for PE! I couldn’t wait for mine to pop out too. Well, I’m still waiting! I don’t know about you, but when I was little – well, like twelve or thirteen – I used to lie in bed and actually pray that tomorrow would be the day I woke up with big breasts. We never even went to church, but I used to properly put my hands together and pray to the God of Boobs. Obviously it didn’t work.
    When I go out with my mate Cherise, she’s (and I’m not being a bitch cos she looks great) quite a lot bigger than me, but she always gets all the attention from the lads. Take last Friday night for example – we went out near Clapham Junction to this amazing tiki bar place that’s done up to look like a grotto. Me and Claire, my sister, got there first and were already at the bar when Cherise walked in. I swear time stopped, the music went quiet and every penis pair of eyes in the bar followed her across the room like she was the Pied bloody Piper or something.
    She didn’t even have her boobs on display or nothing – they’re just
there
– but within about thirty seconds flat, some preppy city boy in one of them candy-stripe shirts was offering to buy her a Woo-Woo. I might as well have been invisible. I reckon having an amazing rack means she just has more confidence, like a glow or something. Whatever it is, I want a piece of that. I’m bloody sick to the back teeth of worrying about my chest.
    Every single time I’ve been with a guy (and no, I’m not gonna put my magic number on here!) I
dread
getting my kit off. The terror starts as soon as you have a snog. Picture the scene. You’ve been on a date or out dancing and he comes back to yours. You stick Adele on and get a glass of wine. You move to the sofa and make some chit-chat before he goes in for the kill. You know how it goes, the kiss gets deeper and his hands start wandering …
    That’s when I stop thinking about the kiss and one thought fills my head … CHICKEN FILLETS. You can feel it in the way the kiss changes rhythm – he
knows
. He’s wondering if he can sue for false advertising. All I can think about is how I’m gonna whip them out without him noticing or about how I’m going to have to apologise for the major lack of breasts. You can see it though, even though they all say it’s not a problem. They smile, but they don’t smile with their eyes.
Gutted. Flat as a pancake.
    Anyway, never mind the guys. This is a present to myself. I’m gonna feel better with bigger boobs. You’ve gotta love yourself, right?!
    This wasn’t an impulse buy, girls. It’s not like I was at the checkout at Tesco and suddenly thought, ‘Ooh, maybe I’ll get some chewing gum and some silicone