If you missed the first installment of “A Tale of Two Titties” start here.
I barely had time to read the poster propaganda before Nicole was back in the room, honing in on my breasts.
“I’ll fasten them for you in the interest of time. Slip this on.”
I pulled the swankiest straps I’d ever seen over my shoulders and waited for Nicole to strap me in.
“Should I be able to breathe in this thing?”
“Your bra was far too lose. This is just right. I promise.”
As my boobs were eye level for the petite Nicole, she had a tendency to stick her face in my cleavage as she analyzed fit. “May I?” she asked with her hands poised inches from my chest.
“Um. Yes?” I replied. “You’re the boss.”
Her pudgy little fingers were suddenly inside the cups, pulling my flesh this way and that. I cursed our decision to schedule the bra fitting before dinner and cocktails. “We just need to pull you in a little here on the sides. Oh, make sure your nipples are centered.”
“I prefer my nipples justified.”
“Nothing. Am I supposed to be spilling over the top like this?”
“Do the windshield wiper,” she instructed.
“Is that like the running man?” I asked. Suddenly she hooked her index fingers into the low v of the bra and pulled them up and out towards the straps. “I’ll take that as a no.”
“It looks fantastic,” she cooed.
“It feels like a torture device,” I responded.
“Well, your current bra is far too loose. To be fair though, this one is a little too tight. Why don’t you take it off so you aren’t miserable, and I’ll go grab a selection of similar sizes for you to try.” She snatched the bra from my hand and left.
And there I stood. Just me and the girls. Hanging. All alone. With the weird disposable thongs provided for those trying on panties. Who knew? I crossed my arms and tried to fashion my own support. Seventeen hours later, Nicole returned.
“Are you excited?” she asked, blinking her lashes and bouncing her blond pony tail wildly. Clearly all she needed was a few moments away from my spirit sucking bra ignorance to recover her original level of excitement.
“I am giddy in anticipation,” I replied, arms wide to receive whatever minimal coverage she was willing to offer me.
“How about this purple lace number? I think this bra is just beautiful. It also come is chartreuse and we have matching panties.”
“Nicole, I’m kind of a basic t-shirt bra kinda gal. The most exciting color I own is baby pink.” I watched her face fall. For a moment, I worried where she might wipe her nose as she stared up at me between my boobs. “…and that’s why I’m so excited to try on some crazy purple demi number covered entirely in lace and bows!”
Nicole flashed her white teeth as her face exploded into a smile three times her size. Seconds later I was practicing my windshield wiper move and wondering how I could escape the dressing room without causing a scene.
Forty-five minutes later, I gathered the bizarre collection of lace and foam in my arms and headed to the register. It turns out I’m stacked, Interwebz. I’m rockin’ a 34 D – a far cry from the 36 B I’ve been wearing. Only in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the show room floor did I look at the prices. “Holy Mother of God,” I whispered to my girlfriend. “Is this what people really pay for bras? Do you have any idea how many bottles of wine I could buy instead of this bra?” I shook a turquoise lace number in her face as I estimated the total in my head. “Fuck me.”
“But how do your boobs feel?” she asked.
“Like the boobs of a fifteen year old girl,” I replied. She smiled mockingly and stroked her fire engine red purchase. I looked down at my boobs. “I’m sorry if I ever hurt you, ladies. I didn’t mean it.”
“Would you like to see the matching panties?” asked Nicole a.k.a. Bernie Madoff.
I sighed heavily remembering the elastic string hanging down my thigh, underneath my jeans. “I suppose.”
Back in the dressing room, I decided to forgo the disposable thong and try the lace boy shorts over top of my granny panties. After examining the polyester content and frightening profile, I decided I didn’t want to spend over $100 per pantie for guaranteed crotch rot. Somehow I still ended up with a ridiculous thong amongst the pile of my future purchases.
*rereads last paragraph*
Every frugal fiber of my being is screaming in protest. I’m fighting the urge to wrap those lace impostors of treasury bonds up in their purple scented tissue paper, throw myself at that bewitching blond’s feet, and beg her to refund my money. That’s why each and every bra I purchased still has all their tags attached – even though I’ve already worn all but two of them out of the house. It’s hard to evaluate the comfort level of a bra with a hard piece of card stock in your armpit. Also, my t-shirts lay awkwardly over the little booklets on how to care for your new bra that cling to the shoulder straps.
After all this trauma, I’m abandoning all plans to purchase panties. I’ll worry about those in another five years.