How about this?
By Gary Zenker


She pulled her blouse open to expose her breasts to the stranger in the dimly lit back room. “Well, how about this?” she asked, clearly confident that she already knew the answer.
Men spent so much time focused on them, she thought, stealing glances and even copping a feel (like that guy at the bar last week who was much less drunk than he tried to make it appear). Hers had attracted a great deal of attention given their size and her small frame. For the nearly 20 years that followed puberty, her one constant goal was to make people appreciate her value without it being directly related to the size of her chest. That wasn’t easy. Boys from school had entire conversations staring down at them. She’d catch work associates pretending not to do the same thing. Even her bosses had trouble looking her in the eyes.
She’d gone through extraordinary efforts to hide them, using thick sweaters and shapeless tops, and at one point even (painfully) strapping them down; everything short of having actual reduction surgery. All that her efforts succeeded in doing was to make her look frumpy and unattractive. She cried a lot even as her girlfriends revealed how they secretly wished that theirs were like hers and they were the recipients of all the attention she received from the boys.
Virtual strangers would ask her “are they real?” It made her angry. Of course they were. Who in their right mind would do this to themselves on purpose?
But in her thirties, she became more comfortable with herself, her talents and the girls. She would never give them actual names, like guys do with their dicks. That seemed weird and schizophrenic, as if the genitals lived a life of their own. Well, maybe for guys they do…but the girls seemed less offensive and less medical-sounding than breasts. Chest seemed like the right word for guys, not girls. And why the hell would anyone call them boobs? Unless it was for the effect it had on guys who looked at them.
With the comfort came confidence and more attractive clothing. And after a while, a show of just a little cleavage. Then, more. Instead of feeling embarrassment, she discovered the empowerment they seemed to give her in situations.
“Not bad,” the greasy man squinted and cracked a smile.
“Not bad? Really…maybe I should just put them away,” and she reached to close her blouse.
“No, Good. Really good.” And he continued to stare at them.
She slowly released a practiced, innocent smile revealing her perfectly straight and very white teeth. He didn’t see them or the money her parents had spent on their straightening. She pulled her blouse open again and, this time, shook them a little for effect. The man had a stupid smile plastered on his face. His parents should have spent a few bucks on his teeth, she thought. She continued to smile anyway.
“So we should talk about price.”
“$400.”
“$400? Really? I don’t know why I even came back here with you. I think you can do better.”
“Okay…$375.”
She started to close her top. “I know you can do better. I don’t think you really appreciate this.”
“Oh I do, I really do, but there IS a limit.”
“Well, think about that limit better and we’ll speak again…some other time. Well, unless I find another taker across the street,” and she closed the top.
“Wait, I could do $300.”
“That’s more in the neighborhood. Which reminds me, you know where to show up?”
“Yeah, I have your card.”
“Good. Thursday. 3 pm. I’ll be there waiting.”
“Normally I need a two-hour range…”
She laughed at his unintentional play on words. “Sorry. I have a busy day, you know. Be there at 3. I’ll be waiting for you, honey.” She blew him a kiss, secured the last blouse button as she left the back room, and walked across the crowded floor to the expected stares of men trying to hide their preoccupation from their wives. She crossed the parking lot to her waiting car. The passenger door was unlocked and she slid into the seat.
“So you finished up in there?” the man asked.
“Yep.”
“How much?”
“$300.”
“That was $100 lower than what they offered to me when I was in there yesterday.”
“What can I say. Big Tit Discount. You aren’t built for that. The oven will be delivered on Thursday. Something tells me that store owner will make the delivery himself. You may want to hang around and watch his disappointment when he sees you there, too,” she giggled.
“I love you.”
“Look me in the eyes when you say that, buster.”


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Gary Zenker is a marketing professional by day and writer of funnier things by night, He runs the Main Line Writers Group in King of Prussia, PA and co-authored Says Seth: Life Observations from a Six Year Old Perspective with his son, Seth.