The Beginning
“I could not handle being a woman; I would stay home all day and play with my breasts.”
-Steve Martin.
I was about eighteen and I was with my older sister Sarah. I can’t remember where we were, but we were doing what we do best, wandering about, talking about whatever came to mind. Suddenly, I was struck with a very important thought.
“They really need to focus on developing the perfect breast implant.” I exclaimed. Sarah gave me a level stare.
“No seriously Sar. Imagine if they could make breast implants indestructible and completely safe. That would be awesome you know, if they somehow found a material that wouldn’t break down.” I paused for a response. When no response immediately came, I went on. “If they, ‘the big They’, could just determine an implant material our bodies consistently would respond well to… I think it’s pretty clear silicone isn’t the golden ticket right? It would save a lot of woman a lot of suffering and pain, you know? They just have got to get on that, for sure.”
Sarah maintained her level stare, “Maybe ‘the big They’ should keep working on cancer Kim, whaddaya say?”
With a quick nod, I shut my silly mouth.
According to the American Society for Aesthetic Plastic Surgery 307,180 breast augmentation procedures were performed in 2011.
307,180 women whom you might know, 307,180 women who you probably don’t know, 307,180 pre-ops, elective surgeries and recoveries and 307,180 stories to tell. 307,180 lives that are being lead hopefully right this moment somewhere on the face of this planet. 307,180 women said ‘yes’ to breast augmentation in 2011.
It could have been 307,181 if I had said ‘yes.’ 307,182 if we both said ‘yes.’ 307,183 if my mom said ‘yes.’ 307,184 if my grandma said ‘yes.’ 307, 185 if my boss said ‘yes,’ 307,186 if my doctor said ‘yes’ and just around about 307, 187 if my librarian said ‘yes.’ The number would rise if my mail lady said ‘yes’ and my personal trainer said ‘yes’ and my massage therapist said yes to breast augmentation. The choice is there for countless women across the world and across the world millions of women have made their decision, “Yup. I am getting breast implants gosh darn it.”
Ladies, (and men as well but for clarity and continuities sake I’ll focus on the gals) we can and we might and we do say ‘yes’ to fake breasts as women of the modern world. To me, at the forefront of the ‘to augment or not to augment’ debate is a query that endlessly begs to be answered. If and when we choose to say ‘yes’ to breast augmentation and all it entails, what exactly are we saying ‘yes’ to? What exactly am I signing up for by signing my name on the consent form’s dotted line? Likewise, if we ultimately choose to say no to our breast augmentation option, what exactly is it that we might be forever denying ourselves?
Do you have any sisters? How would you feel if your sister told you she was getting breast implants? Think about it. How would you respond? What would your gut reaction be in that moment?
I have sisters. How would I feel if my sister told me she was getting her breasts done? Well, I guess I don`t quite know. So, what if my mother told me? Of if my best friend broke the news? Truth is. I do not know how I would respond. I do not know what my gut reaction would be exactly.
All I can truly know and offer as insight, is that I myself, I am 100% completely obsessed with breasts. Completely and utterly obsessed and that is all I can know for certain. Oh and to be more specific. My obsession, affection, the seemingly gravitational pull I experience is towards fake breasts and fake breasts exclusively. Real breasts, oddly and disturbingly enough, often need not apply to my aesthetic addiction.
I cannot pinpoint the moment for you when I became so enthusiastic about fake breasts. What I do know is that at age 18 I was already asking friends if they had the number for the doctor of the friend of a friend of a friend that got her boobs done.
I am all too well aware that years after my 18th birthday has come and gone I still have to consciously stop myself from thinking about boobs. Because, I tell you, I happen to think about boobs a lot. I look for them everywhere I go like a lecherous thirteen year old boy. Scan the crowds for boobs. I feverishly pour through magazines looking for the good sets of boobs. I talk about my boobs, I talk about other people’s boobs and I talk to people about talking to people about other people’s boobs any chance that I can get.
I’ve gone on hundreds if not hundreds of hundreds of random boob themed websites. I attempted to translate the websites of cutting edge plastic surgeons in Peru. At this highly scientific, borderline spiritual level of boob observation and research I can tell you almost anything you want to know regarding the different types of breast implants currently available in Canada and the Unites States of America. Currently, saline, silicone and cohesive gel implants are available in North America, for the record.
I can explain in detail how you make the possible incisions for breast augmentation. Inframammary insertion incision is where the incision is placed directly below the breast; periareolar incision would involve an incision placed along the areolar border. An incision that is placed in the armpit and dissection tunnels medially is known as a transaxillary incision. Transumbilical is a much less common technique where an incision is placed in the navel and dissection tunnels superiorly. You have to watch Dr. 90210 for that circus. Rare and really something to see I promise. Transabdominoplasty incising is even less common but quite similar to transumbilical incising where the implants are tunneled up from the abdomen into bluntly dissected pockets while a patient is simultaneously undergoing an abdominoplasty procedure. You know.
I can list all the (many) potential side effects of breast implants. I can give you a rundown regarding each of my friends who have had their boobs done. I can tell you exactly when they had their operation, how many cc`s the implants are holding, saline or silicone, how they were inserted and any complications they may have experienced since taking the plant plunge.
And all this friends, is because I just think about boobs a lot.
Hence, this book. I am hoping that perhaps by writing all this down in the Good Girls Guide and having the opportunity to stare at my ramblings, I may finally crack the nut around my consuming obsession with big, round, warm, perfect breasts. I know for sure I am not the only lady who has lived with this type of boobie fascination. Quite painfully obviously I’m not the only one in fact. Breast surgeries have been attempted for hundreds of years on countless women. Since the disastrous and sometimes fatal results of paraffin injections in 1889 to the subsequent trial and error with ground rubber, ox cartilage, glass balls, wool, ivory, polyethylene chips in the early to mid 1900’s. To today`s smooth, imperfect saline and silicone implants of today. I am yet another of the innumerable woman drawn to the flame of enhanced physical perfection. Just another one right here who has grown to love and desire the look of cosmetically enlarged breasts but bottom line, I finally want to know exactly why. I want to know the meaning behind the constant wanting I have been feeling and struggling with. The constant searching for answers while the gripping fantasy weaves alongside the potentially horrifying reality. I want to know what I will gain if I choose breast implants and I want to know the price I will pay for those gains by making that choice. If I can somehow clarify my motives and clarify my risks maybe I can finally be free. I can powerfully, confidently and finally make the decision.
Yes or no.
Yes. I do want breast implants. Come what may, the three of us will face the world together. Or perhaps it’s a no? Perhaps I am definitively satisfied with what God gave me? I will choose peace of mind over pieces of sweater candy. I am so tired of asking myself the question. I am so hungry for the answer. I am completely and truly sick of thinking, searching and obsessing over breast implants.
I grew up in the country with my amazing hippy real estate agent mother, my hero of a hockey player father and two wonderful sisters.
Sarah, is my older sister and Emily, is my younger sister. We were never in pageants or told to loose weight nor were we in serious dance classes. I mean sure, Emily and I did stuff our gymnastic leotards with socks whilst dancing around in our living room but every pretty much every 5 year old does that correct? I spent no time in the Deep South in my teenage years nor was I teased mercilessly in elementary school. Well, I was certainly teased but not quite mercilessly. They were merciful. I was always a touch of a strange child and I may or may not have have worn gold metallic vests, cut my hair like Ringo Starr and repeatedly attempted to convince my classmates I was a witch through grades 2-5. I grew up in a smallish, unassuming, Ontario town on a smallish, unassuming corn farm. No one in my entire family has ever had breast implants.
My mom has rather moderately sized, pretty breasts but I have never heard her mention them much at all, except for how firm they are. My sisters both have fairly modest breasts as well and don’t seem to dwell all that much on them. Familial pressure is all but completely ruled out I would say. I don’t know why I am obsessed with breast implants. It doesn’t make much sense to me at all.
It is a very frightening thought when self analyzing that perhaps you are not as smart as you think you are. I mean, dumb people are presumably unaware that they are dumb or they wouldn’t say such dumb things all the time right? So when I say I think I am a very bright young lady I realize I can’t be completely, objectively sure. But regardless even of IQ, I think I live a full life. A life filled with things I do believe are interesting and that I sure do love to do. I am a country singer, a songwriter and I’m not at all shabby on the guitar. I run a successful laser and medical aesthetic training academy in downtown Toronto. I have always had boyfriends who didn’t want me to have plastic surgery unanimously. I have high self esteem; high self worth and I can communicate well in social situations. I can stand and speak and sing in front of large crowds with confidence and minimal terror. I wasn’t sexually or psychically abused thank you God. I like to draw abstracts and paint them and discuss potential zombie attacks and zombie attack plans of action. I was on student council and I did musical theatre and have a big, healthy ego. I think I am very pretty and I really truly do like how my natural boobs look and feel. I have a great, nourishing and appropriately complicated relationship with my darling family. I have traveled and seen many magical things. I like to take risks but I respect my boundaries and avoid reckless endangerment 9 times out of 10.
I think I am relatively well balanced. I realize that personality and accomplishment is what really counts above all. I think I realize when I am being shallow or fickle most of the time. My breast fetish is the kink in my relatively wholesome armor it seems. And you want the bizarre truth of it all?
It’s really not that easy being the good girl who wants breast implants.
I do not think I am alone. I think they are plenty of good girls just like me contemplating the breasts they would like to have while knowing full well they wouldn’t be tortured or robbed by living a life with the breasts they’ve got.
Good girls like me contemplating breast augmentation and wondering, “Is it worth it?”
I do not want to read another book written by a plastic surgeon telling me how satisfying, reliable and reasonable breast implants are. I do not want to read another book by conservative feminists spewing on about how you are certainly killing yourself and damaging all those around you if you are stupid enough to put those foreign cancer sacks inside your body temple. Yes, I have read countless books along those two, distinct lines. I have heard them out, taken them in and yet I have been unable come to a conclusion after closing their countless covers. Finally, I have no need for those books anymore. I yearn for information that can explain to me how implants affect people’s lives. I need answers that will clarify to me why I have so completely bought into the esthetic of fake breasts. I want the reasons why a healthy, intelligent, talented young girl like me still thinks getting implants will change things around me for the better. Why do I feel I am missing something? Why do I feel choosing implants is not an option for a lady like me? Why do I feel I can’t not, not get implants?
Is it the attention I am craving? Am I punishing myself for some unfulfilled societal expectation? Am I enhancing myself for the bigger and better?
This is how it is inside my head. And I haven’t even narrowed down a single doctor.
It’s ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous. I do not know why I participate so fully.
Perhaps there is a Higher Self within me who can see into the future? Perhaps we have no will power at all and my Higher Self has seen my life already completed? Perhaps my anxiety around the consuming issue is just my Higher Self waxing poetic about why it never wanted breast implants to begin with though I ultimately have no choice? I will inevitably get implants down the line because it has been deemed so already, unbeknownst to me by the unchangeable hands of fate. This is how it is inside my fucking head.
I have to consciously stop myself. ‘Who is it that you think you are for wanting implants if you can so resent and harshly judge those who actually do get implants?’ Gah. I want relief.
Now, as we continue on this beautiful boobie journey you must remember one thing. I have been fascinated by breast augmentation ever since I knew the procedure existed. Long before I was living any sort of lifestyle that you might call high risk or influential toward cosmetic surgery, I was interested in breast augmentation. There is no chicken or egg question posed in regards to why I love augmented boobs. The answer and source of my questing is not simply due to the highly augmented breast population I have subsequently chosen to spend my time with. I may want implants because I worked at strip clubs? But I wanted them far before strip clubs.
I may want implants because I worked at a cosmetic surgery clinic?
But I wanted implants long before I worked at a cosmetic surgery clinic.
It was my obsession that leads me to those professions. Not the other way around.
The Cathouse Exotic Show Lounge
At one point, congruently, I was working at Shoppers Drug Mart as a cosmetician, LA Weight Loss as a weight loss counselor and The Cathouse Exotic Show Lounge as a server all at the very same time.
Hey, I never said I wasn’t vain… or hard working for that matter.
Shoppers Drug mart I hated. I love make up but I don’t LOOOOOOOOVE make up. I think putting peoples make up on is a touch off-putting.
It was long hours, hard floors and florescent lights.
I also hated LA Weight Loss. I didn’t agree with nutritional philosophy.
Couldn’t stand the constant excuses from unhappy middle aged folk and certainly couldn’t live off embarrassingly the low pay.
But. I. Loved. The. Cathouse. Exotic. Show. Lounge. I was just shy of twenty years old. Full of energy, full of zest I had just moved recently I had moved to Vancouver, Canada. There I was taking on the city alone, just another UBC psychology student from Ontario, obsessed with fake breasts. The job at the Cathouse fit me like a well oiled glove.
When I first hatched the idea of working in a strip club I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it far, far sooner. The sheer concept of working so close to all those large, soft, undulating boobs, just waiting to be analyzed, got me so excited I could barely stop my hands from shaking as I vamped my resume. I walked into The Cathouse’s purple foyer at two in the afternoon on a sunny day absolutely terrified and completely hell bent on being one of The Cathouse family. Standing on the sunny sidewalk of busy Granville Street avoiding stranger’s sideways glances I had to talk myself into opening the gaudy brass doors. In one moment I transformed from a well adjusted, nondescript sidewalk walker to tacky strip club cocktail waitress wannabe.
Gwyn was the first person I met. Gwyn walked towards me through the main bar on the blurry red carpet and purple orgy of a carpet. He smiled and he shook my hand. And from that hand shake on, I was never afraid in The Cathouse ever again.
Gwyn and I quickly became extremely close friends. There was rarely a shift that didn’t begin with a solid hour in Starbucks shooting the shit over a hot cocoa with Gwyn or Gwynifred as I like to call him. Gwynifred was the general manager of The Cathouse and he completely changed my tune about dudes who work in strip clubs.
Gwynifred appreciated the money they provided him but he hated the strip clubs. He hated what women had to do that stripped and hated the men who loved what the women had to do in strip clubs. He hated the vicious personal politics and the rainbow glitter and the incessant cock rock blaring from the DJ booth. Above all, he loathed and abhorred fake breasts. But. He let me talk about fake breasts, all the time in fact. Gwynifred was very patient, very good and kind and we got along just swimmingly. So many evenings spent together in Starbucks, Gwyn shaking his head in mocked, authentic disapproval as I would ramble on about tits over my steamy, frothy cocoa.
ii.
I loved my job with all of my tender, young heart. I would come to the Cathouse as early as I possibly could without drawing staff suspicion to how much I completely adored being there. I would start getting ready for work an hour and a half early because I liked to look my best. Times when I would have awesome plans come up I would tell the friend who was executing the awesome plans that I would just call work and beg and plead for the shift off. Then I would never, ever call Gwyn. Because there was nowhere I wanted to be more than at The Cathouse. It was the best plan I had ever made up until that life spot and it was heaven.
If the dancers had known how much staring I got in on their breasts during my stint serving drinks at the club, I would have certainly gotten my ass kicked. My job priority sequence went as follows….
3. Customer service and sales quotas.
2. Ensure cash in fanny pack doesn’t billow out of fanny pack in turn, being lost forever.
1. Observe the boobs and determine their origin. Godly or Doctorly.
I was in paradise. I was like a bird watcher at the ornithology convention feeding exhibit. There were boobs to analyze on the center stage. “Ahhhhh, yes there we go, large but natural. Could potentially use a lift I hate to say. Nice size, good shape and I dig the color of her nipples.”
Boobs on the side stage, “FAKE!! Good size on her small frame. Probably no more than 300cc to 350cc’s, I’d say, most likely saline implants in terms of how they are bouncing so minimally. I should talk to her and get her doctors name. I am not crazy about her boobs but I do want to hear if she would do it again. I want to know if she feels her life has been improved by having breast implants. What was her worst pain on a scale of one to ten? Does she feel she has betrayed a part of herself by going through elective surgery? I want to know whether or not she thinks God minds? Well, why would He mind really? Why, He may potentially not mind at all, not one bit?”
There were abruptly breasts on all sides of me, breasts, upon breasts, upon breasts. Pair the boobs on display on stage with all the girls strutting around hustling to get private dances. Combo that with the hookers filling the bathroom stalls on rainy nights, boob central, it was boob watching Mecca and I loved it all so, so much.
Until I discovered The Cathouse, my inclination towards fake jugs was always only a consistently nagging, peripheral theme in my life. As much as I loved breast implants and wanted to be near them, there simply were not that many ladies I knew in my neighborhood that had them. There was my one friend Pamela who had gotten her breasts done. I stumbled on this gem of knowledge after an idle compliment I gave regarding the nice size of her melons. “Oh, thanks.” She said coyly. “Actually, I had them done two years ago.” I was perked like a cat thrown in the bathtub! My questions spilled all over her and I hung on her every word. I scrambled for each scrap of information that would bring me closer to her big, gorgeous boobs.
Until I discovered The Cathouse, Pamela was about it. Pamela was my one and only cosmetic surgery touchstone. I was her star pupil and her breasts were my most favorite subject. When I discovered The Cathouse things changed for me. Suddenly, where fake breasts were once only a veiled mystery in my mind, fake breasts were abruptly directly in front of my face, everywhere I looked. The Cathouse took breast implants from the distant plains of my imagination and sweetest dreams, smack dab into my reality.
For the first time on my journey, I was surrounded by women with heaving, implanted boobs and it opened my eyes to the possibility that one day, maybe, I could have a set of my very own.
Watching the stage like a stone cold pervert eventually coaxed my co-workers to make appropriate fun of me as such but I didn’t mind.
It seemed like that lacquered wood, velvet curtain and heel scraped haven was the first concise collection of clues that I had ever received that would finally unlock the secrets to being attractive, luminous and supremely feminine. I loved watching a dancer burst out from behind the purple draping to a song you knew she picked because it is one of her very favorites and she could feel it in her bones. ‘Enter Sandman’, ‘Better Man’, ‘Keep On Rocking In The Free World’. I loved watching that moment. Feeling those moments vibrate. Savoring that moment when you will either be pulled cosmically towards the stage to frolic in the woman’s splendor or where you will stay right where you are and suffered the disappointment of the attraction disconnect. When I would feel the subtle pull in my womb towards a particularly beautiful woman, I would take it all in and try to make some sense of it. Revel and discover in the sweetness of the connection between her and I. Is it how she moves? Her hair, her eyes? Her age? Her music? Her stage presence?
Is she skinny?
Is she athletic?
Is she voluptuous?
Did she make killer eye contact with me?
Did I like her before she even set foot on stage?
Was because we had never spoken?
How long ago did I masturbate?
Is it the energy of the crowd?
Are her lips done?
Butt done?
Boobs done?
I would rapid fire ask myself all of those questions and many more in a connected, studied stupor as I stabled myself against the bar wearing my fanny pack and a leer. After I had gathered all the answers to my many questions, I looked for similarities between my answers and found they were always all over the map. What made an attractive woman attractive? I felt seduced by women of all ages, all shapes, hair colors, and social statuses. The more I looked for reasons that were the same the more I found my attraction was nonsensical. In fact, horrifying, the only trait that these girls all seemed to share was…..drum roll please… you got it, fake breasts.
And that officially scared the shit out of me. Wouldn’t it scare you? Doesn’t scare you? The single trait that I found appealing in all of my special lady friends was their common cosmetic surgery. Well then, in that creepy case, it appears I’m royally fucked.
There was in fact, only one exception to my preference for cosmetically enhanced women. But this exception was in fact my most favorite of all the dancers ever, ever, ever, ever. A dancer at The Cathouse named Jamie. Jamie was in her thirties with long, silky dark hair. She was small and very pretty. Not smoking hot but pretty, beautiful, gorgeous with small, modest, real breasts. I had the pleasure of spending a lot of quality time with Jamie as she, Gwynifred and I were partners in crime. Good, sane buddies always looking for a good time in an insane world. Jamie was elegant and self aware, funny and unexpected. She had long term goals and was a yoga instructor like myself. Jamie was there for the money and the money alone in the strip club which is actually the best way to be. She was wildly successful with men and worked the room with this silent class. That class gave her a relatively smooth go of it for the most part. I looked up to her very much and I was always so oddly pleased and excited when I would look down at her chest. When I would gaze at her soft, quiet, graceful breasts I would wish I was a good girl like Jamie who didn’t want or need breast implants to make her a knock out. A good girl like Jamie who didn’t want or need breast implants because she didn’t believe that she needed anything she didn’t already have to make her life great. Oh, if only I was a good girl like her.
Nine months after I left Vancouver for the last time Gwynifred told me over the phone Jamie had gotten her boobs done despite his arguments for her to reconsider and she went big to boot, 400cc on a tiny package. It made me quite sad suddenly and unexpectedly and yet again I had to wonder why I was mourning for my amazing friend whilst imagining the bras I will wear when I am a full, augmented C, all at the same time.
I worked with unwavering enthusiasm at The Cathouse until I moved back home to Ontario. I learned so much and I made a boatload of great, fun loving friends. I look back on my time there with great fondness. I remember back to standing on the sunny sidewalk avoiding stranger’s sideways glances as I talked myself into opening the gaudy brass doors of the Cathouse for the first time. In one moment I transformed from a well adjusted, nondescript sidewalk walker to tacky strip club cocktail waitress and I loved every minute of it. Miss you my sweet Gwynifred, miss you my sweet Jamie. Thanks for keeping this good girl so safe.
I feel I should mention I was briefly employed at Brandi’s Show lounge. Brandi’s was a ultra, high end strip club in Vancouver. That’s right Brandi’s, where Ben Affleck was caught with a stripper while engaged to J.Lo.
I was there for less than one month. I, of course, used that time for rampant boob scoping and although there were plentiful, skillful boob jobs at Brandi’s, I never felt I could scratch beyond the skin surface of the topic. The girls who worked at Brandi’s were pros. Hard, steely pros. Even with unassuming women like yours truly they somehow always eluded my questions regarding how their breast implants affected their lives. If I had wanted to talk about how money affected their lives, then I might have gotten somewhere. The ladies at Brandi’s took very good care of themselves. In a club of that caliber the working women were flawless and cocktail waitresses were forced to wear skintight white spandex dresses, throw our underwear out and our shoulders back and do our best to appear flawless. Brandi’s boasted some of the most impressive boob jobs I had ever encountered in my imagination let alone reality. Impossibly large breasts on impossibly small, tight ladies which would somehow look impossibly NATURAL! The women wore their perfect, adorned bodies with an air of superiority. I longed to know about their stories and their journeys but they kept their omissions very sterile which bored me quickly.
In the end of the first month, there was a scheduling conflict between The Cathouse and Brandi’s. With no doubt of my loyalties I called the very scary female manager at Brandi’s and weaved an elaborate ruse regarding how my fictional stalker had just recently ran me over with his car and I was unable to come into work ever again due to my trauma and injuries.
Gwynifred came with me to pick up my final check so I wasn’t afraid of her.
After working at The Cathouse I would consider a strip club first and foremost when looking for a new, get the nametag, pay the rent and get out job. Then I would hastily give my head a shake and move to the next more tradition option because like a sports bar or grill, after all, good girls shouldn’t want to look at so many pairs of naked, exquisite breasts.
The Clinic
You can get the good girl out of the strip club but as it was soon proven, you can’t get the strip club boobie fascination out of the good girl quite so easy. At 22, I was still crashing myself against the shores of potential big breastery. After a string of assorted, unsatisfying, traditional, short lived, odd jobs back in my native Ontario I finally came across another potent source of valuable, potential big breast information. Once again, I discovered an establishment that promised to hook me to their umbilical cord of knowledge and teach me all about breasts. That establishment was the Ontario Cosmetic Clinic where I scored a job as a front desk receptionist.
I had come in on a whim to fill this little dent in my chin with Juvaderm, hyaluronic acid tissue filler. It was this weird, little dent that both my dad and I genetically share. Its super annoying because whenever we smile it etches this grove vertically along the side of my Father’s and my chin, horrible in pictures with every grin, annoying. Anyway, I had heard good things about the Ontario Cosmetic Clinic and after a botched Botox chin job by a Dr. Qwack, which caused the two sides of my chin to shift unnaturally and dramatically when I spoke for about three months, you can bet your ass I had done my consumer report research. Just being in the waiting area of the clinic, so clean and well decorated, gave me chills of thrills. I sat waiting for my chin inj