More Intimacy Than I was Counting on With my Breast Expert

But I digress.

The Breast Expert deftly whipped that measuring tape around my chest before my senoritas knew what hit 'em.

"You 34 double D," she said. (two Ds is bigger than one D)

I looked behind me to see who she was talking to. No one was there.

"Me?"

"Yes. You 34 double D."

"But that can't be right."

"I am breast expert."

"But I.."

"I AM BREAST EXPERT!!"

I worried she might kick me in the shins then practice an ancient martial arts neck grip that would kill me. I was feeling quite vulnerable thanks to that fucking Amityville Horror Hotel I was staying in.

(When I walked by, the fireplace whispered, "get out. get ouuuuuttttt!")

"It shall be as you say," I dead-panned, hoping the Breast Expert couldn't smell my fear.

"We take the Wacoal bras. You made for them. What color you like?"

"Mauve?"

"Mauve?" she queried, lip crinkling in distaste, "What color is that?"

"It's kind of a fleshy purple? Or a purpley flesh?"

She just stared. Trying to mask her disapproval. "I bring you ebony and ivory."

I considered serenading her with the Michael Jackson/Paul McCartney rendition of Ebony and Ivory when she yelled, "You go! Go find room! I be right there!"

I ran toward the dressing rooms. What else could I do? She was a force to be reckoned with. I found an empty dressing room, stripped to the waist and waited.

Time passed. All of the glaciers melted in the Arctic. Then a new Ice Age was born. Then Sandra Bullock re-entered the atmosphere in the Tian-gong space capsule and I sat in just my underwear with my boobs in my hands in a dressing room in the City Creek Center Macy's waiting for a diminutive Japanese Breast Expert to arrive with my booty or a Katana sword with which she'd end me.

(There seems to be a "death" motif running through this piece).

Eventually I heard what sounded like a small rodeo-calf slamming from side to side down the hallway of the dressing rooms leading to mine.

What the hell was all that racket? Was someone drunk and careening around out there? Was this a hostage situation? Should I get dressed? I didn't want to be taken naked.

Suddenly there was an efficient, professional rapping at my door. I peered through the slats to see my Breast Expert loaded down by a veritable mountain of bras. I let her in.

"I think these going to work very well for you."

She began hanging the bras on a little bar in the dressing room, displaying them for me like they were hookers in the windows of the Red Light District in Amsterdam.

She finished.

I waited for her to leave.

She didn't leave.

I waited a little longer, emitting a dry, anal retentive cough.

"I help you try these on."

"Oh, no, that won't be necessary."

"I'M BREAST EXPERT!"

How could one argue with that? You try arguing with that kind of pedigree. You can't do it, can you? Can you?? Plus I really thought she could take me if she wanted to. So...

I let the Breast Expert have her way with me.

Oh, yes. I tried the bralettes, the demi cups, the seamless, the seamfull, the underwires, the overwires, the mid-wires, the minimizers and maximizers and just plain misers.

Sweet Jesus they all fit so beautifully. Those 34 double Ds were gold.

How I hated the Breast Expert in that moment. Because the bras were no longer staples. They were no longer bread and butter and ground beef. No!! They were dessert.

They were the fucking Cherries Jubilee lit on fire!

There was no way I was getting out of this store for only 150$. I was totally screwed.

Or so I thought.

Just as the Breast Expert was strapping my ladies into the Superchic Full-Busted Underwire suddenly, apropos of nothing, her eyes rolled back in her head.

Her face turned a terrifying shade of pale and, with her hands still tightening the straps of my Wacoal, she began to fall backwards.

Without thinking I reached out and gently cupped the back of her neck with my right hand as she weakly clutched my double D cups breasts in both her hands to stop herself from falling.

There we were, the two of us, suspended in time, in a sort of bosomy pas de deux, reminiscent of Cheryl Burke and Rob Kardashian in Dancing With The Stars.

I stopped her fall and didn't let go of her until she'd regained her balance.

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