My Exploding Breasts

I originally posted this on DopeyLaRue in, maybe, 2008-ish when I was still a worker bee for the man.  It was a reader favorite at the time, so I thought it would be a good "gettting to know all about you" post for this new url :-)

Did I ever tell you guys about the time my fake boob exploded during a staff meeting? NO?!!? How could I not have???? Well, ready everybody? Here we goooooooooo!

I am Flatty McFlatterton in the chestal region. I mean, seriously, when you are a 95 pound twig such as myself, large chesticles just aren't even a remote prayer...that is unless you pay for them. So I did. Not the $10,000 kind that require a highly trained professional to install or anything; mine are of the $30 chicken-cutlet variety from Frederick's of Hollywood. 'Coz ordinarily I kinda love being inverted, say, when working out or when running up or down stairs or when trying on a slinky top. It is just that, every so often, there comes an outfit which I feel could be enhanced, so to speak, with an extra cup size. You know, just to sort of balance everything out. And, of course, by "balance" I mean "tip the scales in favor of the top".

I think I had these babies for about a year, and had definitely gotten my money's worth out of them, when "the incident" occurred. You guys are already well aware of my monthly staff meetings at my day job because you read every line I ever write. So there I was at one such meeting, sitting directly across from the president, feigning interest in his every word on percentage increases of blah-did-di-blah-blah when I felt it - an odd sorta warm-ish, greasy, liquidy feeling spreading across my top. I looked up from doodling on my notepad to see all of my work homies [all male, of course, as that is my luck] stiffling laughter and glancing at my chest every other second.  Not wanting to be too obvious, but wanting very much to figure out wtf was going down, I stole a discreet look down and adjusted my top. And that is when I saw it. My very obvious deflated half-chest and a sopping wet shirt-full of silicone. THAT, my friends, is what I like to call "class".

*That title totally got your attention, didn't it? Yessssssss!