Boob Sayings And Quotes

Anyway, we have something for you.” “Is it another awkward anecdote about me breast-feeding?” “Oh my God, you were all about the boob,” my dad says. “I can’t believe you turned out to be gay.” “Hilarious, Dad.

When a woman grabs my braids and says "How cute!" I crab her breast and say "How cute!" She never touches me again!

A pissant is somebody who thinks he’s so damn smart, he can never keep his mouth shut. No matter what anybody says, he’s got to argue with it. You say you like something, and, by God, he’ll tell you why you’re wrong to like it. A pissant does his best to make you feel like a boob all the time. No matter what you say, he knows better.

Women are born with pain built in. It's our physical destiny. Period pains, sore boobs, child birth, you know. We carry it within ourselves throughout our lives. Men don't. They have to seek it out. “Women are born with pain built in,” she says. “It’s our physical destiny: period pains, sore boobs, childbirth, you know. We carry it within ourselves throughout our lives, men don’t. They have to seek it out, they invent all these gods and demons and things just so they can feel guilty about things, which is something we do very well on our own. And then they create wars so they can feel things and touch each other and when there aren’t any wars they can play rugby. We have it all going on in here inside.

Hey!" I yell. Everyone turns around and looks at us. I glance at Six and her eyes are wide. I inhale a deep breath, then turn back to the table. Specifically to Holder. "She fist bumped me,"I say, pointing at Six. "It's not my fault. She hates purses and she fist bumped me, then she made me push her on the damn merry-go-round. After that, she demanded to see where I had sex in the park, then she forced me to sneak into my own bedroom. She's weird and half the time I can't keep up with her, but she thinks I'm funny as hell. And Chunk asked me this morning if I wanted to love her someday, and I realized I've never hoped I could love someone more than I want to love her. So every single one of you who has an issue with us dating is going to have to get over it because..." I pause and turn toward Six. "Because you fist bumped me and I could care less who knows we're together. I'm not going anywhere and I don't want to go anywhere so stop thinking I'm into you because I'm not supposed to be into you." I lift my hands and tilt her face toward mine. "I'm into you because you're awesome. And because you let me accidentally touch your boob." She's smiling wider than I've ever seen her smile. "Daniel Wesley, where'd you learn those smooth moves?" I laugh. "Not moves, Six. Charisma.

She fist bumped me, I say, pointing at Six. It's not my fault. She hates purses and she fist bumped me, then made me push her on the damn merry-go-round... I'm into you because you're awesome. And because you let me accidentally touch your boob.

I don’t know!” he half yells, miserably. “Am I? Do you think I’m bi?” “I can’t tell you that, Alex!” she says. “That’s the whole point!” “Shit,” he says, dropping his head back on the cushions. “I need someone to just tell me. How did you know you were?” “I don’t know, man. I was in my junior year of high school, and I touched a boob. It wasn’t very profound. Nobody’s gonna write an Off-Broadway play about it.” “Really helpful.

I'm the idiot box. I'm the TV. I'm the all-seeing eye and the world of the cathode ray. I'm the boob tube. I'm the little shrine the family gathers to adore.' 'You're the television? Or someone in the television?' 'The TV's the altar. I'm what people are sacrificing to.' 'What do they sacrifice?' asked Shadow. 'Their time, mostly,' said Lucy. 'Sometimes each other.' She raised two fingers, blew imaginary gunsmoke from the tips. Then she winked, a big old I Love Lucy wink. 'You're a God?' said Shadow. Lucy smirked, and took a ladylike puff of her cigarette. 'You could say that,' she said.

It’s like how I notice some girls have big boobs or shiny hair or knobby knees. Those things are okay to say. But the word fat, the one that best describes me, makes lips frown and cheeks lose their color.

It’s my turn to feed him,” Gray says without looking up. “So bottled breast milk it is. He hates it. I know, little dude,” he says to the baby. “I love Mommy’s boobs too, but she needs to sleep.” From the far room, a muffled groan rings out. “Mother guilt has killed my sleep,” says Ivy’s disembodied voice. “And don’t discuss my boobs with my son, Cupcake.

And then I stand in front of God's Throne squinting up at His blazing glory and He says, 'You had your opportunities, boy. But did you listen? No. You went on heedlesly reading that garbagey magazine with pictures of naked girls in it. How juvenile! I gave geese more sense than that.' Please, God. I'm only fourteen years old. A teenager. Have mercy. Be loving. I was,' says God. 'For eons. And look at what it got me. You.' God turns in disgust, just the way Daddy does. 'Sorry, but I'm the Creator. I take it personally. There are slugs and bugs and night-crawlers I feel better about having created - I mean, there are sparrows - I've got my eye on one right now. Is that sparrow consumed with lust? No. He mates in the spring and that's the end of it. Consider the lilies. Do they think about lily tits all the time? No. They look not and they lust not, and yet I say unto you that you will never be half as attractive as they. Therefore, I say unto you, think not about peckers and boobs and all that nonsense and your Heavenly Father will see that you meet a good woman and marry her, just as I do for the sparrow and walleye - yea verily, even the night-crawler and the eelpout. But I've told you this over and over for nineteen centuries. And now, verily, it's too late. Time's up, buster. Lights out! Game's over!

He says he had to go help someone in a desperate situation. Who, exactly, he refuses to say. He doesn’t know when he’s going to be back, but suggests we put off the wedding for a few days. The rotter! How dare he just zoom off and not tell me where he’s going, or who he’s going to help, or what exactly he’s up to!” Yeah, how dare he go out and be all heroic and stuff when you want him here slobbering over your big boobs.

I will say that I still can't get over how women are shaped, and that I will go to my grave wanting to pet their butts and boobs.

She hears all the voices from when she was little, soothing, strengthening: Don’t be scared, not of monsters, not of witches, not of big dogs. And now, snapping loud from every direction: Be scared, you have to be scared, ordering like this is your one absolute duty. Be scared you’re fat, be scared your boobs are too big and be scared they’re too small. Be scared to walk on your own, specially anywhere quiet enough that you can hear yourself think. Be scared of wearing the wrong stuff, saying the wrong thing, having a stupid laugh, being uncool. Be scared of guys not fancying you; be scared of guys, they’re animals, rabid, can’t stop themselves. Be scared of girls, they’re all vicious, they’ll cut you down before you can cut them. Be scared of strangers. Be scared you won’t do well enough in your exams, be scared of getting in trouble. Be scared terrified petrified that everything you are is every kind of wrong. Good girl.

One of the main functions of a push-up bra is to lower the number of mothers who seem like mothers.

I’m putting all my drama on you again.” He hung his head. “Yeah, you are.” “I’m so sorry.” … “On the plus side, when you get worked up your tits start heaving up and down with each breath. Magnificent. Honestly, I can’t get enough of it.” Little lines appeared on his forehead as his hands demonstrated the apparently bouncy-boob-like motions in front of his chest. “I’m tempted just to say shit to get you started, I love it so much.” In the face of his broad grin, I had nothing.

I open my arms wide and let the wind flow over me. I love the universe and the universe loves me. That’s the one-two punch right there, wanting to love and wanting to be loved. Everything else is pure idiocy—shiny fancy outfits, Geech-green Cadillacs, sixty-dollar haircuts, schlock radio, celebrity-rehab idiots, and most of all, the atomic vampires with their de-soul-inators, and flag-draped coffins. Goodbye to all that, I say. And goodbye to Mr. Asterhole and the Red Death of algebra and to the likes of Geech and Keeeevin. Goodbye to Mom’s rented tan and my sister’s chargecard boobs. Goodbye to Dad for the second and last time. Goodbye to black spells and jagged hangovers, divorces, and Fort Worth nightmares. To high school and Bob Lewis and once-upon-a-time Ricky. Goodbye to the future and the past and, most of all, to Aimee and Cassidy and all the other girls who came and went and came and went. Goodbye. Goodbye. I can’t feel you anymore. The night is almost too beautifully pure for my soul to contain. I walk with my arms spread open under the big fat moon. Heroic “weeds rise up from the cracks in the sidewalk, and the colored lights of the Hawaiian Breeze ignite the broken glass in the gutter. Goodbye, I say, goodbye, as I disappear little by little into the middle of the middle of my own spectacular now

John and I have made this stuff our hobby, in the way that an especially attractive prisoner makes a hobby out of not getting raped. Jesus, that’s a terrible analogy. I apologize. What I’m saying is that it’s self-preservation. We didn’t choose this, we just have talents that makes us the equivalent of that new guy in the cell block who has a slim, hairless body and kind of looks like a woman from behind, and has an incredibly realistic tattoo of boobs on his back. He may have no desire at all to ever even touch a penis, but it’s going to happen, even if it’s just in the process of frantically slapping them away. Jesus, am I still talking about this? [John—please delete the above paragraph before it goes off to the publisher].

he doesn’t believe in using surgically altered . . . uh . . .” My face heated up. Murphy was probably my best friend, but she was still a girl, and a gentleman just doesn’t say some words in front of a lady. I held the phone with my shoulder and made a cupping motion in front of my chest with both hands. “You know.” “Boobs?” Murphy said brightly. “Jugs? Hooters? Ya-yas?” “I guess.” She continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “Melons? Torpedoes? Tits? Gazongas? Knockers? Ta-tas?” “Hell’s bells, Murph!

The word fat makes people uncomfortable. But when you see me, the first thing you notice is my body. And my body is fat. It’s like how I notice some girls have big boobs or shiny hair or knobby knees. Those things are okay to say. But the word fat, the one that best describes me, makes lips frown and cheeks lose their color. But that’s me. I’m fat. It’s not a cuss word. It’s not an insult. At least it’s not when I say it. So I always figure why not get it out of the way?

Hey, girls,” he says, talking to my boobs with a wicked grin curving his lips. “Missed ya.

I hate that word boobs. I wish people wouldn't say it, especially girls. It's like calling your own body stupid.

People go on and on about boobs and butts and teeny waists, but the clavicle is the true benchmark of female desirability. It is a fetish item. Without visible clavicles you might as well be a meatloaf in the sexual marketplace. And I don't mean Meatloaf the person, who has probably gotten laid lotsa times despite the fact that his clavicle is buried so deep as to be mere urban legend, because our culture does not have a creepy sexual fascination on the bones of meaty men. Only women. Show us your bones, they say. If only you were nothing but bones.

Damn, Q. if I had known you were gonna look like this, I might have let you feel my boobs all those times you tried.” He busted out laughing. “Who says I didn’t? You’re a pretty deep sleeper.

But opposites attract, as they say, and that's certainly true when it comes to Emma Marchetta and me. She's the beauty and I'm the brains. She loves all forms of reality television, would donate a kidney if it meant she could pash Andrew G, is constantly being invited out to parties and other schools' semi formals, and likes any movie featuring Lindsay Lohan. I, on the other hand, have shoulder-length blonde hair, too many freckles and - thanks to years of swimming the fifty-metre butterfly event - swimmer's shoulders and no boobs. In other words, I look like an ironing board with a blonde wig. - Cat

You make out with a boy because he’s cute, but he has no substance, no words to offer you. His mouth tastes like stale beer and false promises. When he touches your chin, you offer your mouth up like a flower to to be plucked, all covered in red lipstick to attract his eye. When he reaches his hand down your shirt, he stops, hand on boob, and squeezes, like you’re a fruit he’s trying to juice. He doesn’t touch anything but skin, does not feel what’s within. In the morning, he texts you only to say, “I think I left the rest of my beer at your place, but it’s cool, you can drink it. Last night was fun.” You kiss a girl because she’s new. Because she’s different and you’re twenty two, trying something else out because it’s all failed before. After spending six weekends together, you call her, only to be answered by a harsh beep informing you that her number has been disconnected. You learn that success doesn’t come through experimenting with your sexuality, and you’re left with a mouth full of ruin and more evidence that you are out of tune. You fall for a boy who is so nice, you don’t think he can do any harm. When he mentions marriage and murder in the same sentence, you say, “Okay, okay, okay.” When you make a joke he does not laugh, but tilts his head and asks you how many drinks you’ve had in such a loving tone that you sober up immediately. He leaves bullet in your blood and disappears, saying, “Who wants a girl that’s filled with holes?” You find out that a med student does. He spots you reading in a bar and compliments you on the dust spilling from your mouth. When you see his black doctor’s bag posed loyally at his side, you ask him if he’s got the tools to fix a mangled nervous system. He smiles at you, all teeth, and tells you to come with him. In the back of his car, he covers you in teethmarks and says, “There, now don’t you feel whole again.” But all the incisions do is let more cold air into your bones. You wonder how many times you will collapse into ruins before you give up on rebuilding. You wonder if maybe you’d have more luck living amongst your rubble instead of looking for someone to repair it. The next time someone promises to flood you with light to erase your dark, you insist them you’re fine the way you are. They tell you there’s hope, that they had holes in their chest too, that they know how to patch them up. When they offer you a bottle in exchange for your mouth, you tell them you’re not looking for a way out. No, thank you, you tell them. Even though you are filled with ruins and rubble, you are as much your light as you are your dark.

Also, the movie had the first breasts I had ever seen, although they were not what I had been led to believe that breasts looked like. They were like cow udders, and one of them was bigger than the other. (In retrospect, this may have been responsible for my complete lack of sexual development, which we've already talked about, I guess at least I wasn't going around saying things like, 'The best thing about your two boobs is that they are the same size.

I find the whole concept of being 'sexy' embarrasing and confusing. If it do an interview with photographs people desperately want to change me - dye my hair blonder, pluck my eyebrows, give me a fringe. Then there's the choice of clothes. I know everyone wants a picture of me in a mini-skirt. But that's not me. I feel uncomfortable. I'd never go out in a mini-skirt. It's nothing to do with protecting the Hermione image. I wouldn't do that. Personally, I don't actually think it's even that sexy. What's sexy about saying, 'I'm here with my boobs out and a short skirt, have a look at everything I've got?' My idea of sexy is that less is more. The less you reveal the more people can wonder.

Emma smacks the back of my head. “It’s just boobs. Even I have a pair. No reason to stare so hard. Put your eyes back in your head.” She grabs my hand, leading me toward the bar . . . and positions me with my back to the stage. “But you’ve never shown me yours. Take your shirt off, and I’ll stare at yours instead.” “You did not just say that.” “Yeah, I think I did.” “Men.” She rolls her eyes.

Oh, like, I thought we were already there with you being bi and everything,” she says. “Sorry, are we not? Did I skip ahead again? My bad. Hello, would you like to come out to me? I’m listening. Hi.” “I don’t know!” he half yells, miserably. “Am I? Do you think I’m bi?” “I can’t tell you that, Alex!” she says. “That’s the whole point!” “Shit,” he says, dropping his head back on the cushions. “I need someone to just tell me. How did you know you were?” “I don’t know, man. I was in my junior year of high school, and I touched a boob. It wasn’t very profound. Nobody’s gonna write an Off-Broadway play about it.” “Really helpful.” “Yup,” she says, chewing thoughtfully on a chip.

Please could I say one word?" was the question three times repeated before a rough head boobed out from the grotto of books in which Mac usually sat. "Did anyone speak?" he asked, blinking in the flood of sunshine that entered with Rose. "Only three times, thank you. Don't disturb yourself, I beg; for I merely want to say a word," answered Rose.

I do not propose to discuss my love life. I will say that I still can’t get over how women are shaped, and that I will go to my grave wanting to pet their butts and boobs. I will say, too, that lovemaking, if sincere, is one of the best ideas Satan put in the apple she gave to the serpent to give to Eve. The best idea in that apple, though, is making jazz.

You know what they say. Third boob’s the charm.

What did one saggy boob say to the other? We better perk up or somebody is going to think we’re nuts.

Sure, I'd love to meet your mom. That way I can see what your boobs will look like in 20 years. Did I just say that out loud?

Turns out many fats are very good for my hair, skin, and nails. And my boobs! My God, I had boobs again! ‘Where’ve you been girls?’ And they would probably say, ‘Hiding because you were a real bitch!

He pushes through a door and you can hear Lauren say, “What the hell, Alex? Did you—?” “It’s Hayden Fucking Holmes. Look, he’s on the FaceTime. Look!” “What?” Lauren twists the phone so she’s looking at the screen and . . . cue the screaming. “Oh my GOD!!! It’s Hayden Fucking Holmes!” There is nothing to really do but laugh, and laugh hard. Hayden and I sit there, our chests falling up and down, chuckling together as Lauren and Alex freak out. “I need to show him my boobs,” Lauren says. “Unzip my dress, Alex, undo my bra.” “On it,” he calls out, as if his wife showing Hayden her boobs is the most natural thing ever. Hayden looks at me and mouths, “He’s okay if she shows me her boobs?” I snort and roll my eyes. There really are no words to explain the insanity that is my brother and sister-in-law.

This movie has boobs. Is that going to make it awkward to watch with your neighbor?" "Oh, boobs. No, it's fine. I've seen those before." She grinned and reached out to pat his knee. "Good for you, Hill!

His hands came up to my cheeks, his mouth insistent on mine as he deepened the kiss. He had my lower lip between his teeth, giving a soft nibble while a whimper came from the back of my throat that didn't even sound like me. My nipples were tight and aching, rubbing his chest through the thin fabric of my bra. His hand slid under the fabric to cup my goosefleshed skin, his fingers rolling my nipple in a sensation so exquisite it almost hurt. "You have great boobs," he murmured against my neck. "Can I say that?" My bra was half-askew by now, one strap falling down my arm. "If my boobs are out, you're contractually obligated to say that.

Samantha, I found your treelike height erotic and I enjoyed your bleak dress sense more than I can say. All day, I wanted to tongue the little skull pin you wore on your boob. Yet I did not. You intimidated me because you were so . . .

Oh Lola's Boobs,' he says into my chest, 'I wish we knew each other better.' I crack up laughing. 'What's that you say?' he jokes, putting his ear to my right breast. 'You wish you could come out to play more often but Lola doesn't let you? Well, that's a shame.

When my tantrum, which is what I call my TV set, flashes boobs and smiles in my face, and says everybody but me is going to get laid tonight, and this is a national emergency, so I've got to rush out and buy a car or pills, or a folding gymnasium I can hide under my bed, I laugh like a hyena.

You’re a grumpy gills this morning,” she chirps, tucking into the fruit salad she paid about fifteen bucks for in the airport shop. “Early. Tired,” I grunt. “Poor baby,” she says sarcastically, giggling and pinching my cheek. “Want to sleep on my boobs on the plane?” “I obviously wanna sleep on your boobs,

You’re the only boy I’ve ever kissed kissed. And you were the first. First kiss, first boyfriend, first everything! You got so many of my firsts, and I didn’t get any from you.” Sheepishly he says, “Actually that’s not entirely true.” I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean?” “There was never any girl at the beach. I made the whole thing up.” “There was no Angelina with big boobs?” “I never said she had big boobs!” “Yes you did. You told Trevor that.” “Okay, fine! Geez. You’re missing the whole point, by the way.” “What’s the whole point, Peter?” He clears his throat. “That day in McClaren’s basement. You were my first kiss too.” Abruptly I stop laughing. “I was?” “Yeah.” I stare at him. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” “I don’t know. I guess I forgot. Also it’s embarrassing that I made up a girl. Don’t tell anybody!” I’m filled with a glowy kind of wonder. So I was Peter Kavinsky’s first kiss. How perfectly wonderful!

Thoughts are powerful, one thinking for something makes big changes... you try... Imagine this say "I want to fuck", then imaginate a girl. A woman which is 18 years old, blonde hair, white skin, big ass, big boobs, long legs, and likes to play with dicks... Think few times on such type of stuff and look the magic!

We all lie. We all guard secrets—sometimes terrible ones—a side to us so dark, so shameful, that we quickly avert our own eyes from the shadow we might glimpse in the mirror. Instead we lock our dark halves deep in the basement of our souls. And on the surface of our lives, we work industriously to shape the public story of our selves. We say, “Look, world, this is me.” We craft posts on social media . . . See this wonderful lunch I’m eating at this trendy restaurant with my besties, see my sexy shoes, my cute puppy, boyfriend, tight ass in a bikini. See my gloriously perfect life . . . see what a fucking fabulous time I’m having drunk and at this party with my boobs swelling out of my sparkly tank top. Just look at those hot guys draped all over me. Aren’t you jealous . . . And then you wait to see how many people LIKE this fabricated version of yourself, your mood hinging on the number of clicks. Comments. Who commented. But darkness has a way of seeping through the cracks. It seeks the light . . .

She works out naked?” Pontus asks, and gosh, there is a little color in his cheeks, which is kind of cute. And good. So, he has blood behind that pale skin of his. He’s obviously not a vampire then. “Of course, although you will probably find this weird. She puts on a sports bra for the running machine because she says she hates having her boobs flap around.

Teenage guys are not supposed to be concerned like this. They are supposed to tell fart jokes, and comment on girls' boobs, and not really pay attention when something is bothering a friend. It's really, really difficult when they convince you they can be something else entirely - a human being, one who truly cares, especially when they're less yours and more someone else's.

You don’t like my restaurant, Miss Connor?” “I couldn’t say since the waiting list to get in is six months long.” One side of his mouth curved up. “This is true.” His finger lingered, and I tried to swallow the nervous lump in my throat. “I think you can call me by my first name now, seeing as how you’re touching my boob. That puts us a little past formality, don’t you think?

There’s something different about her. I realize it’s her breasts—they’re huge. I see that she’s stuffed her bikini top with wet balls of sand. “What is that?” I say. “Scottie. Your suit.” She shields her eyes with her hand and looks down at her chest. “Beach boobs,” she says. “Take that out of there,” I say. “Alex. Why’d you let her do that?” Alex is on her stomach, with the straps of her top untied. She lifts her head toward Scottie. “I didn’t know. Take them out, stupid.” Sid lifts his head. “Honestly,” he says, “big boobs look kind of fatty.” “As Bebe says, boobs suck,” Alex says, “and Sid’s full of shit. He loves big boobs.” “Who’s Bebe?” Scottie lets the sand fall out of her top. “Character from South Park,” Sid says. “And I love small boobs, too, Alex. I’m an equal-opportunity employer.

Next time a man is looking at your tits, try this: Look them in the eyes, giggle lightly, and say—loudly—“It’s so funny that you’re trying to look at my boobs!” Now you’ve got everyone’s attention. Escalate your laugh into a deep, maniacal cackle. He’ll try to leave the area, but you block him with your laugh-scream and shout, “It’s so funny that you’re trying to see my titties, ’CAUSE YOU’RE NEVER GONNA SEE THEM. EVVVVVVEEEEEEERRRRRRR!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHA!!

The word fat makes people uncomfortable. But when you see me, the first thing you notice is my body. And my body is fat. It's like how I notice some girls have big boobs or shiny hair or knobby knees. Those things are okay to say. But the word fat, the one that best describes me, makes lips frown and cheeks lose their color. But that's me. I'm fat. It's not a cuss word. It's not an insult. At least it's not when I say it. So I always figure why not get it out of the way?

The word fat makes people uncomfortable. But when you see me, the first thing you notice is my body. And my body is fat. It's like how I notice some girls have big boobs or shiny hair or knobby knees. Those things are okay to say. But the word fat, the one that best describes me, makes lips frown and cheeks lose their colour. But that's me, I'm fat. It's not a cuss word. It's not an insult. At least it's not when I say it. So I always figure why not get it out of the way?

But there was one girl who had a big influence over me. Barbie. I worshipped Barbie. In fact, I would say Barbie was my twelve-inch plastic life coach. She had it all, a camper, a dune buggy, even a dream house. Part of why it was a dream house to me was that she was the only one who lived there. Her boyfriend, Ken, came to visit when she--er, I decided. She had a sports car and would bounce from job to job as she--er, I saw fit.Barbie owned zero floral baby-making dresses. I craved that indepence. And her weird-ass boobs? So what? She still reached the steering wheel of her royal blue sports car. Some people thought that the fact that her feet were fucked and she couldn't stand was a problem. But to me, it meant she was free. Free from standing at a stove, or a washing machine, or with a baby hanging off her hip. She has no hip. She has no hips. Plus, she didn't have to walk; she drove her convertible everywhere. God, I loved Barbie. She was free in every way I knew how to define freedom.

I say, 'Well, if you can't please everyone with your deeds and your art, please a few. To please many is bad.' Hannalore frowns. A note hits her in the forehead and drops to the floor. She bends at the knees to retrieve it, the perfect lady. The writing is large enough for me to read: SHOW US YOUR BOOBS! She holds up the note. 'Which of you appalling children threw this at me?' Pete Santorini, Ben Grossman, and Alex Nobody-Can-Pronounce-His-Last-Name laugh so hard that Alex chokes on his gum and Ben has to pound his back.

Chelsea, of course, was the first one to speak up. “Okay, am I the only one who noticed how gi-mungous Mimi Nichols’s dress makes her ass look? Of course, you can barely notice it since her freakishly giant boobs are practically hanging out the top of it.” Chelsea glanced at Jules and grinned. “No offense, of course,” she offered, raising her eyebrows at Jules’s chest. Claire giggled, and Jules wrinkled up her face in disgust at Chelsea’s teasing barb. “You’re just jealous,” she retorted, eyeing Chelsea’s chest in return. “Touche, Jules. Touche!” Chelsea admitted. Claire wanted so badly to join in on the catty conversation, but she was terrible at finding other people’s flaws . . . at least intentionally. Still, she gave it her best shot. “And what about Jennifer Cummings?” she asked accusingly, trying to mimic one of Chelsea’s cutting looks. They looked around at one another, wondering what it was that they weren’t getting. Chelsea was the only one brave enough to ask, “What about her, Claire?” “She does not even look kind of cute!” Claire stated, her face a mask of mock horror. They all stared at her, not sure what to say. And then once again, of course, it was Chelsea who broke the stunned silence. “I swear, Claire-bear, I am going to call your mom and tell her you need to start riding the short bus. You really need to start practicing your bitchy comments. What are you gonna do when we’re not here to get your back?” Claire rolled her eyes, too oblivious to be insulted, which was why she was the perfect friends for Chelsea, who was too insulting to be obvious. “Geez, Chels, I don’t even ride the bus.” Jules couldn’t help herself; despite her best efforts to hold on to her detached cool, she started laughing. And pretty soon they were all laughing, even Claire, who still didn’t realize what they were laughing at. “You guys are so mean!” Violet charged accusingly. “Can’t you just have fun and stop picking everyone part?” Chelsea looked disgusted. “You’ve gone soft, haven’t you? Jay has made you soft!” Violet rolled her eyes, smiling despite her best efforts. “Whatever. Everyone’s soft compared to you.” “Ouch!” Chelsea pretended to be wounded. But again, she just couldn’t pull it off.

One of the prostitutes, an Asian who can’t be over twenty, with boobs that can’t be real, with a sudden interest in him that can’t be sincere, approaches him as he walks back into the penthouse and slides the door shut. “Wie lautet dein name?” she asks. What is your name? He smiles. She is just flirting, playing a part. She doesn’t care what he tells her. But there are people who would pay anything, or do anything, to know the answer to her question. And just once, he’d like to let down his guard and answer the question truthfully. I am Suliman Cindoruk, he’d like to say. And I’m about to reboot the world.

I’m crossing our backyard to the Pearces’, trying to juggle the bag and the portable speakers and my phone, when I see John Ambrose McClaren standing in front of the tree house, staring up at it with his arms crossed. I’d know the back of his blond head anywhere. I freeze, suddenly nervous and unsure. I’d thought Peter or Chris would be here with me when he arrived, and that would smooth out any awkwardness. But no such luck. I put down all my stuff and move forward to tap him on the shoulder, but he turns around before I can. I take a step back. “Hi! Hey!” I say. “Hey!” He takes a long look at me. “Is it really you?” “It’s me.” “My pen pal the elusive Lara Jean Covey who shows up at Model UN and runs off without so much as a hello?” I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’m pretty sure I at least said hello.” Teasingly he says, “No, I’m pretty sure you didn’t.” He’s right: I didn’t. I was too flustered. Kind of like right now. It must be that distance between knowing someone when you were a kid and seeing them now that you’re both more grown-up, but still not all the way grown-up, and there are all these years and letters in between you, and you don’t know how to act. “Well--anyway. You look…taller.” He looks more than just taller. Now that I can take the time to really look at him, I notice more. With his fair hair and milky skin and rosy cheeks, he looks like he could be an English farmer’s son. But he’s slim, so maybe the sensitive farmer’s son who steals away to the barn to read. The thought makes me smile, and John gives me a curious look but doesn’t ask why. With a nod, he says, “You look…exactly the same.” Gulp. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? “I do?” I get up on my tiptoes. “I think I’ve grown at least an inch since eighth grade.” And my boobs are at least a little bigger. Not much. Not that I want John to notice--I’m just saying.

I want to go home,” I say. His arms tighten across my back. “We will,” he says. “You and me. In two days. But first I want to see everything.” “My boobs?” I joke. “Those too,” he says. “But I was thinking more like your boy band posters and embarrassing diaries.” “Joke’s on you,” I say. “The periodic table was my boy band poster.” He groans. “God, you’re such a nerd.” I lace my fingers against the back of his preternaturally warm neck. “But you still like me?” “You,” he says, “are my periodic table.” I laugh into his chest. “I don’t know what that means.” “It means when we get home,” he says, “I’m covering our walls in lewd posters of you.

In the elevator, he held silent, but she saw him twice look at her blouse. She could feel his gaze, damn it, deep inside herself. And she knew what he was looking at. Without the binding, her boobs were far too noticeable. The damned buttons gaped and the material strained. “Enjoying yourself?” she asked with a heavy dose of sarcasm. If anything, her jibe only made him intensify his study. He stood there, negligence personified, his hands clasped behind his back, his stance casual and relaxed. “I can see the outline of your nipples.” She nearly strangled on her fury. “Go to hell!” “What are you? C cup? Maybe even a D?” Oh, God, she did not want to stand here alone with him, closed up in such a small space with his heat and scent invading her lungs. “None of your damn business.” He lifted his hand in front of him, not to touch her, but to imagine it covering her right breast. His face screwed up while he pretended to heft her. “I’d say a full C.” A fine trembling started in her neck and went down her spine. She needed to stay composed to face off with Murray Coburn, but for whatever reason, this man wanted to demolish her control. “I say go kill yourself.” He cracked a smile. And what that smile did for him . . . She couldn’t deny that he was devastatingly handsome. Probably a cutthroat villain, but still gorgeous. That disheveled fair hair and those intense, oddly colored eyes . . . she shivered. He lifted a brow. “Cold?” “No.” She had to distract him. “So I didn’t catch your name.” “No one gave you my name.” “It’s a secret, then?” She tried to hunch her shoulders to make her chest less noticeable. “How strange.” “That doesn’t help,” he said of her posture, “and if you’re really interested?” He held out a hand. “Trace Miller.” She disdained touching him again. “Is that your real name or an alias?” With a grin, he retracted his proffered hand. “What do you think?” “I think you took my driver’s license.” He went still for a heartbeat, giving her a small measure of satisfaction. Lifting her hands in a “woo woo” way, she intoned,” I know all, see all.” Then she curled her lip. “And besides, you suck at stealth.

Here's my question: What age are you when you're in Heaven? I mean, if it's Heaven, you should be at your beauty-queen best, and I doubt that all the people who die of old age are wandering around toothless and bald. It opens up a whole additional realm of questions, too. If you hang yourself, do you walk around all gross and blue, with your tongue spitting out of your mouth? If you are killed in a war, do you spend eternity minus the leg that got blown up by a mine? I figure that maybe you get a choice. You fill out the application form that asks you if you want a star view or a cloud view, if you like chicken or fish or manna for dinner, what age you'd like to be seen as by everyone else. Like me, for example, I might pick seventeen, in the hopes I grow boobs by then, and even if I'm a pruny centegenarian by the time I die, in Heaven, I'd be young and pretty. Once at a dinner party I heard my father say that even though he was old old old, in his heart he was twenty-one. So maybe there is a place in your life you ear out like a rut, or even better, like the soft spot on the couch. And no matter what else happens to you, you come back to that. The problem, I suppose, is that everyone's different. What happens in Heaven when all these people are trying to find each other after so many years spent apart? Say that you die and start looking around for your husband, who died five years ago. what if you're picturing him at seventy, but he hit his groove at sixteen and is wandering around suave as can be? Or what if you're Kate, and you die at sixteen, but in Heaven you choose to look thirty-five, an age you never got to be here on Earth. How would anyone ever be able to find you?

Magazine and television advertisements have me subconsciously believing that a sexy airbrushed image can sell a lot more canned tomatoes than without this image. Who’s to say that a dolled up vagina can’t buy me love? Yet this is what we teach our daughters through these images. It’s the makeup, manicures, pedicures, closet full of clothes, the size of our boobs, the perfection of our skin and shininess of our hair – this is what secures us love. We teach our sons to love women who look a certain way. We teach our men to support this belief system, and it’s constantly reinforced by false advertisements. It’s like that one cheesy but lovable song we can’t stop playing. We may forget about it for a while, but the minute we hear it again, it’s on repeat a few hundred times. “How can we be lovers if we can’t be friends?” you may ask. This is a question for Michael Bolton and whoever wrote the lyrics to it.

What did you say?” he asked. “To who?” “Whom,” he said, and then he almost kicked himself. “To Miss MacIntyre, for example.” She studied his face for a second and then, with a hand on her hip, she said, “I said, ‘You’re damn skippy he’ll do a wedding—he needs the work!’ What do you think I said? I took her number and told her I’d have you call her back. The same to all of them. Except the nurse—I told her she was scraping the bottom of the barrel, going after your hot pants.” Then she smirked. “You’re a pain in the butt,” he said. “Yeah, so says the pot to the kettle. You thought I wasn’t smart enough to know how to answer an office phone. I’ve worked in offices!” “I know this,” he informed her. “Ah, you thought I got those jobs because I have—” He put up a hand to stop her. “I never thought a thing,” he said. “Boobs,” she finished insolently. Then she winked while she chewed vigorously on some gum. She cracked it for good measure.

She wraps her legs around my waist, and I walk us slowly down the hall. "Mmm, wait," she whines against my mouth. "I haven't showered. I'm so gross, and I don't..." She trails off as I turn into my bathroom, then set her down. She shuffles her bare feet against the gray stone tile, an inquisitive look on her face as she looks around the narrow space bathed in neutral hues. I push open the glass door and turn on the shower. Water cascades from the waterfall showered. "Oh," she says as she grins and bites her bottom lip. By the time we've helped each other out of our clothes, the water's warm. I help her in first, then step in. And then, under the hot stream of water, we resume our dirty kissing and grabbing. "Wait, wait." She presses a hand against my chest, then reaches for the shampoo bottle on the ledge. "I do need to get clean first." I laugh and follow her lead by shampooing my own hair and doing a quick rinse with body wash. She holds her hand out for the loofah, but I shake my head. "Let me?" A devilish smirk tugs at her perfect mouth. When she nods and licks her lips, I have to take a second. God, this woman. The way she's sweet and filthy all at once is enough to make me lose it right here. But I refuse. Not before she gets what I'm dying to give her. I work up a lather and run the loofah all over her body. I take my time, paying attention to every part of her. These beautifully curved hips, the fullness of her thighs, the gentle curve of her waist, her arms, her hands, the swell of her boobs. And then I lather up my hands and slowly work between her legs. She clutches both hands around my biceps, and her toes curl against the earthen-hued river rock that lines the shower floor. Her eyes go wide and pleading as she looks up at me. I lean down to kiss her. "Tell me what you want." "You. Just you. Please." With her breathy request, I'm ready to burst. Not yet, though. She reaches down to palm me, but I gently push her hand away. I want this to be one hundred percent about her. When she presses her mouth against my shoulder and her sounds go louder and more frantic, I work my hand faster. She's panting, pleading, shouting. When I feel the sting of her teeth against my skin, I grin. Fuck yeah, my girl is rough when she loses it and I love it. I love her. She explodes against my palm, the weight of her body shuddering against me. I've got her, though. I've always, always got you. When she starts to ease back down, she lets out a breathy laugh. "Oh my god." I nod down at her, which only makes her laugh harder. Then she glances down at what I'm sporting between my legs and flashes a naughty smirk. "Let's do something about that." Soon it's me at the mercy of her hands. My head spins at the pleasure she delivers so confidently, like she knows every single one of my buttons to push. When I lose it, I'm shuddering and grunting. For a few seconds, my vision's blurry. She's that incredible.

Julia says, eyebrows up, “Why?” Selena thinks about that. She hears all the voices from when she was little, soothing, strengthening: Don’t be scared, not of monsters, not of witches, not of big dogs. And now, snapping loud from every direction: Be scared, you have to be scared, ordering like this is your one absolute duty. Be scared you’re fat, be scared your boobs are too big and be scared they’re too small. Be scared to walk on your own, specially anywhere quiet enough that you can hear yourself think. Be scared of wearing the wrong stuff, saying the wrong thing, having a stupid laugh, being uncool. Be scared of guys not fancying you; be scared of guys, they’re animals, rabid, can’t stop themselves. Be scared of girls, they’re all vicious, they’ll cut you down before you can cut them. Be scared of strangers. Be scared you won’t do well enough in your exams, be scared of getting in trouble. Be scared terrified petrified that everything you are is every kind of wrong. Good girl.

We’re moving up in the line, and I realize I’m nervous, which is strange, because this is Peter. But he’s also a different Peter, and I’m a different Lara Jean, because this is a date, an actual date. Just to make conversation, I ask, “So, when you go to the movies are you more of a chocolate kind of candy or a gummy kind of candy?” “Neither. All I want is popcorn.” “Then we’re doomed! You’re neither, and I’m either or all of the above.” We get to the cashier and I start fishing around for my wallet. Peter laughs. “You think I’m going to make a girl pay on her first date?” He puffs out his chest and says to the cashier, “Can we have one medium popcorn with butter, and can you later the butter? And a Sour Patch Kids and a box of Milk Duds. And one small Cherry Coke.” “How did you know that was what I wanted?” “I pay a lot better attention than you think, Covey.” Peter slings his arm around my shoulders with a self-satisfied smirk, and he accidentally hits my right boob. “Ow!” He laughs an embarrassed laugh. “Whoops. Sorry. Are you okay?” I give him a hard elbow to the side, and he’s still laughing as we walk into the theater.

You look…exactly the same.” Gulp. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? “I do?” I get up on my tiptoes. “I think I’ve grown at least an inch since eighth grade.” And my boobs are at least a little bigger. Not much. Not that I want John to notice--I’m just saying. “No, you look…just like how I remembered you.” John Ambrose reaches out, and I think he’s trying to hug me but he’s only trying to take my bag from me, and there’s a brief but strange dance that mortifies me but he doesn’t seem to notice. “So thanks for inviting me.” “Thanks for coming.” “Do you want me to take this stuff up for you?” “Sure,” I say. John takes the bag from me and looks inside. “Oh, wow. All of our old snacks! Why don’t you climb up first and I’ll pass it to you.” So that’s what I do: I scramble up the ladder and he climbs up behind me. I’m crouched, arms outstretched, waiting for him to pass me the bag. But when he gets halfway up the ladder, he stops and looks up at me and says, “You still wear your hair in fancy braids.” I touch my side braid. Of all the things to remember about me. Back then, Margot was the one who braided my hair. “You think it looks fancy?” “Yeah. Like…expensive bread.” I burst out laughing. “Bread!” “Yeah. Or…Rapunzel.” I get down on my stomach, wriggle over to the edge, and pretend like I’m letting down my hair for him to climb. He climbs up to the top of the ladder and passes me the bag, which I take, and then he grins at me and gives my braid a tug. I’m still lying down but feel an electric charge like he’s zapped me. I’m suddenly feeling very anxious about the worlds that will be colliding, the past and the present, a pen pal and a boyfriend, all in this little tree house. Probably I should have thought this through a bit better. But I was so focused on the time capsule, and the snacks, and the idea of it--old friends coming back together to do what we said we’d do. And now here we are, in it. “Everything okay?” John asks, offering me his hand as I rise to my feet. I don’t take his hand; I don’t want another zap. “Everything’s great,” I say cheerily. “Hey, you never sent back my letter,” he says. “You broke an unbreakable vow.” I laugh awkwardly. I’d kind of been hoping he wouldn’t bring that up. “It was too embarrassing. The things I wrote. I couldn’t bear the thought of another person seeing it.” “But I already saw it,” he reminds me.

Peter sits down on the floor and takes off his coat and spreads it out like a blanket. “You can sit here.” I sit down, and he pulls me toward him by my ankles, reeling me in carefully like a big fish that might jump off the line. When we’re knees to knees, he kisses me: soft-lipped, we have all the time in the world kisses. I’m shaking, but not from the cold. I feel jittery heart-palpitations kind of nerves. Peter bends his head and starts kissing my neck, making his way down to my collarbone. I’m so keyed up, it doesn’t even tickle the way it normally does when someone touches my neck. His mouth is warm, and it feels nice. I fall back against my hands, and he moves over me. Is this it? Is this when it’s supposed to happen? On the floor of Carolyn Pearce’s tree house? When his hand moves under my blouse, but still over my bra, a panicky thought leaps into my head, one I haven’t thought before--Genevieve’s boobs are definitely bigger than mine. Will he be disappointed? Suddenly I blurt out, “I’m not ready to have sex with you.” His head jerks up in alarm. “God, Lara Jean! You scared me.” “Sorry. I just wanted to make that clear, in case it wasn’t.” “It was clear.” Peter flashes a hurt look at me and sits up, his back ramrod straight. “I’m not some caveman. Damn!” “I know,” I say. I sit up and fix my necklace so the heart is in front. “Just…I hope you weren’t thinking that because you gave me this beautiful necklace, that…” I stop talking because he’s glaring at me.

Oh,Ella. I wish you'd had a better time at the ball." "Fuhgeddaboudit," I muttered. Greaseball. Freddy. Freak. "It's not like she and I were ever going to be BFFs." "I wasn't just referring to Amanda." Of course he wasn't. "I'll try," I moaned into the crook of my elbow. "Oh, Lord.I'll try to carry on." "That sounds rather dramatic, even for you." "It's Styx," I told him. "After your time, before mine. I don't know all the words,but those work for the moment. And for the record, I'm being ironic, not dramatic." "If you say so." I ignored him. "I have had my last flutter over Alex Bainbridge. I mean it. Frankie was right.How many signs do I need that we are never, ever going to have...anything...before I get it? Obviously, it doesn't matter that we realte to the same schizo seventies songs. Or that we can discuss antique Japanese woodblock prints. Or that when he sits next to me, he kinda takes my breath away. You would think that would count for a lot,wouldn't you?" Edward gets the concept of rhetorical questions, so I went on. "I wouldn't even want to hazard a guess about what makes Amanda's pulse go all skittery, but I would bet anything it's not Alex. And he's still with her. He doesn't belong with her, but apparently he feels he belongs to her. Explain that,please." "Oh,Ella.We men are not always the best at looking beyond the...er..." "Boobs,Edward. You can say it. Amanda Alstead has boobs and blonda hair. Beyond that, I can't see a single thing that's special about her." "Because there isn't a single thing. Beyond the...er, obvious. You,on the other hand,are a creature of infinite charms. Shall I list them alphabetically or from the top down?" I scowled up at him. "Y'know, you are beginning to sound a little too much like Frankie and Sadie,my deluded Greek chorus." "yes,well,I rather thought that's what friends are for." "You're not supposed to be my friend," I muttered. "You're supposed to be my Prince Charming." "Ahem." Edward's sculpted lips compressed into a grim line. "Have you looked at me lately? I am supposed to be startling and even a bit scary." "Nope.Neither." I rested my chin on my forearm. "To me,you are perfect. You are loyal and reliable and completely lacking in surprises." "That is a good thing?" "Absolutely," I said. "It's an excellent thing.I don't want any more surprises, over." "Hardly an admirable goal,that." "Maybe not," I agreed, "but pleasant. Among all the other bizarreness tonight, I found something new to be afraid of. Evil girlfriends." "Now,Ella. You can't go on being afraid forever." "Oh,yes,I can. As far as Amanda Alstead is concerned, I can." Edward tilted his head and studied me for a moment. He looked annoyed. "Why do you insist on having these conversations with me when you ignore everything I have to say?" It was a pretty good question. "Fine." I sat up straight and folded my hands in my lap. Home Truth time. "Go ahead. On this night when we celebrate the mysteries of life and death..Say something profound, something startling." There was a long silence. Then, "Boo," Edward said. "Thank you,Mr. Willing." "Don't mention it, Miss Marino. I am yours to command.

While they fought for the privilege of carrying him on their shoulders along the steep escarpment by the cliffs, men and women became aware for the first time of the desolation of their streets, the dryness of their courtyards, the narrowness of their dreams as they faced the splendor and beauty of their drowned man. They let him go without an anchor so that he could come back if he wished and whenever he wished, and they all held their breath for the fraction of centuries the body took to fall into the abyss. They did not need to look at one another to realize that they were no longer all present, that they would never be. But they also knew that everything would be different from then on, that their houses would have wider doors, higher ceilings, and stronger floors so that Esteban's memory could go everywhere without bumping into beams and so that no one in the future would dare whisper the big boob finally died, too bad, the handsome fool has finally died, because they were going to paint their house fronts gay colors to make Esteban's memory eternal and they were going to break their backs digging for springs among the stones and planting flowers on the cliffs so that in future years at dawn the passengers on great liners would awaken, suffocated by the smell of gardens on the high seas, and the captain would have to come down from the bridge in his dress uniform, with his astrolabe, his pole star, and his row of war medals and, pointing to the promontory of roses on the horizon, he would say in fourteen languages, look there, where the wind is so peaceful now that it's gone to sleep beneath the beds, over there, where the sun's so bright that the sunflowers don't know which way to turn, yes, over there, that's Esteban's village.

Bruno, this is my friend Pippa. Pippa, my cousin Bruno.” Bruno. The in-with-the-wrong-crowd Bruno. Divinely and supernaturally gorgeous Bruno. And he just winked at me. Not good. He closes the distance between us in two long strides of his tight white pants and says “Piacere!”--which I remember from my phrase book means “pleased to meet you”--before taking ahold of my shoulders and kissing each of my cheeks. His lips are on my cheeks. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and want to die. It’s physically impossible for a face to be any redder. I try to say “Piacere!” back but only a squeaky noise escapes my lips. I raise my shirt just enough to hide behind and fake a coughing fit, waving with the other hand for him to leave the room. He laughs and mutters something in Italian as he walks off. Chiara closes the door. Way to make a great first impression on the sexy Italian. “What did you say to him?” I ask when I’ve recovered the ability to speak. “I told him that he should knock on doors that are closed. That you are American and do not lie on the beach with le tette out. You are private.” “Le tette? What’s that?” My face pinks again. “My boobs?” “Si.” She sprawls across the bottom bunk. “I think it is sweet. Leaves room for the imagination.” “Um…thanks.” I finish getting dressed. “What did he say?” She laughs. “He said, ‘She will one day.’” My nose scrunches at the thought of baring it all on a beach towel in a foreign country, with Bruno and other guys who look like Bruno watching. I shudder. “Doubtful. There are some parts of me the sun just wasn’t meant to see.” Chiara rolls to her side and looks at me. “So you have never been swimming without clothes on?” “Skinny-dipping?” I smile as I stow my dirty clothes into my suitcase. “Well, the moon can handle those parts of me just fine.

Don't ask me why trans women give too much, why we too extra, why we shake our boobs, why we wear our hair down toward the ground. Why we wear too much makeup. Cuz I don't know my expiration date, baby. So I gotta make a legacy that's gonna last long. I gotta give you something that's gonna make you remember me. Just in case they don't say my name, I say my name.

And you know, I really have to say this: If your baby isn't even in the room and you can't bear to come equipped with a blanket, kindly put your boob away in its rightful compartment. Don't leave it hanging out for ten to fifteen minutes at a barbecue like you're waiting for someone to hang a Christmas ornament on it.

It was absolutely ridiculous. And yet Georgia’s eyes got hot. Because he used to do the same thing after they’d fooled around in high school. When it was time to get dressed and take Georgia home to meet her curfew, he’d say good night to her boobs.

Anneke, I don't know what the FUCK just got into you, but if you want to have a job here, I suggest you go home now and think about what you want to say to us tomorrow to make us want to keep you." I look him dead in his beady little eyes and with a deep sense of calm, I unload, pretty as you please with honeyed tones. "You don't have to worry, Murph. I don't want to have a job here. I'm tired of the bullshit kowtowing to entitled crap-buckets like the Mannings. I'm tired of you and Mac never giving me my due or having my back. I'm tired of you feeding all the good stuff to your obsequious cousin Liam and leaving me all the shit. I'm tired of your endless series of talentless legs and boobs and hair extensions that you like wandering around here despite their general incompetence. I'm finished. I'm the best you had and the only one you should have trained to replace you in three years when you want to retire and still draw income. And you've never once done anything to show that you know it. So, since it's clear that you will always take the word of the client over someone who has been a valuable employee for nearly a decade, I am fucking done." I never raise my voice; the smile never leaves my face. I deliver this blow with as much grace as I can muster, throw my bag over my shoulder, grab the small box of my personal effects, and push past him before he can even close his gaping jaw. I head out of my office, feeling flushed and nervous, but also giddy. Liam is standing next to the front desk, chatting up Pinky Tuscadero Barbie. "That's a lot of yelling back there, Annamuk." He leers at me. "That time of the month?" The Barbie giggles. "Hey, Liam? A word to the wise. That fancy truck? Doesn't mean you don't HAVE a tiny little dick. It just means that you want the WHOLE WORLD to know it." And with that, I open the door wide, letting the frigid wind blow through, leaving them both gape-jawed in a tornado of papers.

What was there to say? “Sorry your mom has cancer”? “I hope she doesn’t lose a boob”?

When something unfortunate occurs, I tell myself it's the less-bad thing I bargained with the universe for in exchange for something worse not happening...Or let's say I'm trying on clothes and feel less than impressed with my pasty, flat-chested reflection in the dressing room mirror. I just tell myself that something terrible must have been about to happen in the alternate version of my life - like maybe some kittens were abut to be hit by a truck while the busty, even-skin-toned version of me was out jogging - and in my courageous way, I said, 'LORD, TAKE MY TAN AND MY BOOBS. JUST SAVE THE KITTENS.

Shockingly, she’s there, but it’s even more shocking that she’s pretty. She is pretty, sweeter, and cuter than me. Clear and white skin, pink lips. Every boys’ dream! I couldn’t stop gawking at her. Kellie has amazing big almost turquoise eyes that open wide and slight rosy cheekbones, like a model. And the best part of it all is her boobs look as big as mine. People are nudging and pushing us because she’s and, I am obstructing the entranceway, but we just stood there, anyways when we had that chat. Oh, I forgot to say that a girl was peeing behind a car when looking out. It kind of slipped my mind. It’s a cold night, those intents better have a snuggle buddy to stay warm, and a good sleeping bag. Maddie and Liv catch a glimpse of her walking by, and their mouths both drop open. ‘What the… hell… is that relay Karly little sister?’ Jenny and her boy turn to see what we’re both them staring at. I see Shy- looking to form the steps. Jenny goes ashen at first-she looks afraid, which is beyond strange, for her… because of her- the type to say you’re never too young to go down and get down. She loves to see young girls fall to their knees; I call it- ‘Fallen too You.’ It’s when you get up everything for a boy, like your dignity, pride, and justice.

It was the time of the change… no longer a little one, the time when, I was starting to see things happening, to me that I did not want to see. Like- passion pink braces on my unperfected overbite teeth along with ‘Pimples, periods, hips and boobs- oh my… I just want to cry or die.’ Moreover, I was utterly feeling all kinds of things that I didn’t want to feel. I was feeling too old for toys and wanted to feel up one of the older boys. I was an 8th grader, Yes, I was at that stage of my life… it feels strangely good and yet very weird too. ‘Oh yes- Live's through middle school all over again.’ All the days off. All the days on… all the days- I was turned off, to all of them. And yes, all the days, I was turned on! Yet, really can anyone stand to relive that day… I mean really! Let’s not forget I had to spend time with the family, on the brakes, then to come home and do all the pointless homework like advanced mathematics. When I got most of that crap done sitting in long study halls not able to move or say a sound, with period cramps, yeah- I know fun right! Kissing with open mouths, like breath sucking and tugs brushing Frenching. As well as thinking about what boy, I want to have sizzling, exhilarating, desiring sex with is all I thought about! Plus- when, where, and how! Yes, I have had some really bad kisses, make-outs, and hookups… who hasn’t? So much so, I barely survived through them the primary time it happened. Just like the world keeps going around, this was not my first go-around either. Frankly, I thought I would not have minded living through all that again. What I thought were the ultimate times of all. Like the time I made out with a girl in the hallway slammed upon her locker, she was touching me in all the right places, let us just say. Anyways her name is Jenny Stevenson. She is the type of girl that is a friend to try things with. Yes, I have been with a girl too. Mostly, I just wanted to see what being in a lesbian world feels like. It was okay, it feels just as good. Though, I knew boys were my thing. However, I am the type, I will try anything once, even sex-wise! Though I thought, my paramount triumphs were with Ray Raymond, and like when we first hooked up underneath the football stadium bleachers. I knew everyone could see us doing it with his pants down, and my bare butt sticking out and up, as the game was going on. Still, we were in the moment, we did not care. The PDA was half the fun of doing it, it was all about getting some. I remember being wasted too, with my friends like Jenny, Kenneth, and Madeline. Yet we just called her Maddie. Like- I said we got so drunk and high, that we went skinny dipping in like old man’s pool weather thirdly two degrees, and then made messed up looking snowman, and running around the street somewhat ass naked flashing whomever we would get to look at us.

Madilyn was not stupid, she was just a little sightless, and by the time she went to high school, she lost the glass and was not a bad-looking girl at all just shy. She was always tiny, at that time she had boobs and hips that would not quit. Yet she was still the one that got picked on. I do not think I had ever said more than two words to her. Though I think Maddie was hushed friends with her just, so she could get her homework done. Madilyn was the smarty- pants in our grade. Likewise, she was on the softball time too, with us yet she sits alone most of the time. Yet she did not seem too mined. One time, during our freshman, it came to one of the big parties and said that she was a virgin and did not drink. We all laughed at her. I remember Jenny- saying get down on your knees girl and see what it is like. And she did, and I got it all on my phone and posted it on my web page. Then Maddie said, to me we need to get that girl popped. Therefore, I found her a random scuzzy guy to go and do her. I had to yet I do not know why, but I feel as if that was so wrong now, yet I did it for my friends at the time. It was no different than what I went through really. If you were not given it all away by the time you were in training bras then there was something majorly wrong with you, or so the boys and some girls thought. I was the one that had her purity taken away, to some twenty-five-year-old loser. Like she was only fourteen! But like I said… I was a lot younger my first time, so maybe that makes it okay. What do you think? I remember, Madilyn doing the walk of shame, we all have been there. Yet like I said that was the fun of it, seeing all that taking place in front of everyone at the party. I am not going to go into detail, but you could see that she was ridden hard and put away wet. We all laughed at her after the fact, because she said it hurt and did not know what all that ‘stuff’ as she called it… was all over her face and body. ‘What do you think it is?’ said Jenny. ‘I- I DON’T know’ said Madilyn downright freaked out. Just so, you know I am not saying this to be gross or anything like that… No! This crap is what happens to us pre-teens and teens, I was one of them. Yet will I always be remembered for being one of them, just like that I am afraid so, I am afraid to live it all over?

I wish Fin didn’t have such a fondness for low-cut blouses. “Could you put those things away?” I say crossly, waving a hand at her boobs. “They’re almost in my salsa.” I grab the dish of salsa out from under her hovering breasts, take a tortilla chip from a basket in the center of the table, and dunk the chip into the sauce. Then I pop it into my mouth, enjoying the spicy, satisfying crunch. Fin smiles serenely at me. “I know this is hard for you to understand, B Cups, but the girls need air.” “What they need is scaffolding.

Babe, your boobs are perfect,” Marco says, giving her a little eyebrow wiggle. She squints her eyes at him. “I mean with the breastfeeding.

Trolls live among us. I’ve gotten anonymous comments from people saying they met me at a movie theater and I was a bitch. Or they served me at a restaurant and my boobs aren’t as big as they look in pictures. Or they sat next to me at a bar five years ago and here is a list of every single bite of food I consumed. People say it doesn’t matter what happens on the Internet, that it’s not real life. But thanks to Internet trolls, I’m perpetually reminded that the boundary between the civilized world and our worst selves is just an illusion. Trolls still waste my time and tax my mental health on a daily basis, but honestly, I don’t wish them any pain. Their pain is what got us here in the first place.

Now Tabitha Trudeau sits in the front row. I introduce her to Neel Shah (her new benefactor) and he immediately proposes a Cal Knit exhibit that will have, as its focus, the way boobs look in sweaters. “It’s very distinct,” he says. “The sexiest of all apparel. It’s true. We ran a focus group.” Tabitha frowns and knits her brows together. Neel goes on: “The exhibit could have classic movie scenes looping, and we could track down the actual sweaters they wore and hang them up…

People go on and on about boobs and butts and teeny waists, but the clavicle is the true benchmark of female desirability. It is a fetish item. Without visible clavicles you might as well be a meatloaf in the sexual marketplace. And I don’t mean Meatloaf the person, who has probably gotten laid lotsa times despite the fact that his clavicle is buried so deep as to be mere urban legend, because our culture does not have a creepy sexual fixation on the bones of meaty men. Only women. Show us your bones, they say. If only you were nothing but bones. America’s monomaniacal fixation on female thinness isn’t a distant abstraction, something to be pulled apart by academics in women’s studies classrooms or leveraged for traffic in shallow “body-positive” listicles (“Check Out These Eleven Fat Chicks Who You Somehow Still Kind of Want to Bang—Number Seven Is Almost Like a Regular Woman!”)—it is a constant, pervasive taint that warps every single woman’s life. And, by extension, it is in the amniotic fluid of every major cultural shift.

And then no one says anything for about twelve seconds, which is such a long time, so then I say, “I don’t have very big boobs.

She was better looking in real life. Her hair was shiner. Her lips were plumper. Her boobs were… boobier. She radiated sexy-farmgirl perfection in jean short-shorts and a gingham blouse tied just below her cleavage. She looked like a poster of herself—and, needless to say, also wildly out of place among all these lumpy, misshapen normal people. She was like a living Barbie doll. And as badly as I wanted that to be an insult… it just wasn’t.

I still hadn’t even told anyone that I was gay. At least not my family. People at school caught on after Bobby and I started dating, but still. I never got to have that moment… The one when you say it out loud, to someone. Anyone. When you’re finally able to speak the words, guess what, guys? I don’t care about boobs because I’m totally gay.

The fear of losing the only man she’ll ever love can lead a woman to do all kinds of insane things. And, if you put it in perspective, sending a photo of your boobs is light work compared to, say, being talked into prostitution or murder.

I always hear parents talking about how outraged they are because their kid saw a boob or something like that on TV. I never hear anyone say that they're outraged because a cartoon character in a commercial that aired during a children's television program told them it was healthy to eat a bowl of chocolate and marshmallows for breakfast. If I had kids, I'd be outraged about that.

I think we’re done,” she says. She smiles at me. “No, we’re not.” I step toward her. She takes a step back. “Yes, we are.” “No, we’re not.” I grab the edge of the shirt. “Drop the shirt,” I say. “I can do that part.” “I just spent two fucking hours painting your body, and you won’t grant me the privilege of painting your boobs?” I ask, trying to look as dejected as possible.

Shouldn’t you be at home letting that baby sleep or something?” Paul asks. He stalks over to the couch, flops down across from Logan, and stuffs a pillow into his lap. “That baby wakes up every two hours and can sleep just about anywhere,” Logan tells him. He glances toward the pillow Paul shoved in his lap and raises his brow. He smirks. “Did we interrupt something?” “No,” I say. Paul says, “Yes,” at the same time. Logan smirks and reaches for a can of nuts on the table. He puts his feet up and grins. “So, how was the contest?” he asks. He can barely chew around that smile. “I won!” I cry, holding my arms up. Logan and Emily both clap, but their little one startles in the car seat and lets out a cry. “Uh oh,” Logan says. “She’s awake.” “Which means she’ll want to eat,” Emily says. Logan picks her up and holds her until her face turns red and she’s screaming. “She’s definitely hungry,” Logan says, holding their daughter out to Emily. She reaches for her and turns to me. “Do you want to go in your room so I can feed her and we can talk? I still can’t get used to the whole boob-out-in-public thing.” I look at Paul, who throws up his hands and then swipes a frustrated palm down his face. Logan chuckles.

God, your boobs are huge!” I say. They are. Like fucking huge. Like melon sized but with a baby attached. She laughs. “I know, right?” she says. “They’re too big. Logan likes them, though.” She smiles. “He keeps wanting to play with them.” She grimaces. “But they hurt. I think I have enough milk to feed a small nation.” I agree; she could probably start her own dairy farm, but I’m afraid to say so.

Logan is wearing me out,” she admits quietly. “What do you mean?” I stand up and start to actually soap myself now that most of the paint is gone. “He’s working really hard to make it easy for me, but I wish he’d just leave and go to work and let me try to do some of it. He holds her. He gets up for every feeding and sits with us. He changes all the diapers.” I stick my head out of the curtain. “Not necessarily a bad thing.” “It’s like he thinks I can’t do it. I’m capable. I’m strong. I’m not going to break.” A tear tracks down her face. “Dammit.” She swipes it away. “I can’t stop crying lately.” “Pass me a towel,” I say. I wrap it around myself and step out. “I think you have a really good thing going on,” I tell her. “But you’re tired and your hormones are going crazy and your tits are huge.” I look at her boobs and shake my head, and she laughs. At least I can do that much for her; I can make her laugh. “It’s going to get easier.” “I miss our intimacy,” she admits. “It’s like he’s afraid to wrap around me because he doesn’t want to wake me up when I do finally get to sleep.” “Did you tell him?” “I don’t want to complain. He’s trying so hard.

What’s wrong?” I ask. His chest fills with air as he sighs. “I try to help her. I try to do everything for her. But she doesn’t seem to like it. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.” I wait for him to continue. “And her boobs are like—” he makes a grasping motion in the air “—like huge. And I want to touch them, but she says they hurt, so I try to sleep on the other side of the bed when we do sleep. I miss her. I want to toss my leg over her naked ass and sleep wrapped around her.” “Her boobs probably do hurt.” If I remember correctly from Kelly when she had Hayley, she said the same thing. But we didn’t live together, so I didn’t get immersed in it the way Logan is. “Rub her feet or something nice. Hell, pick anything else to rub.” His face lights up. “Not that,” I say with a laugh. He waves a hand in the air like he’s dismissing me. “That’s not even the part I miss. I can do without that.” I snort. “Don’t get me wrong. I like that as much as the next guy, but I don’t have to have it. It’s her I have to have.

I’m still going to marry you. I’m not going to let you get out of it.” I sit up. “I don’t think I said yes.” His gaze drops to my boobs, and he licks his lips. “You will.” I shake my head. He sits up and cups the side of my face. “You don’t want to be married or you don’t want to be married to me?” “It’s not—” I stop. I don’t know how to say what I want to say. “It’s not you.” He tosses the covers back. “Oh, don’t give me the it’s-not-you speech.” He mocks a female voice. “It’s not you, it’s me. I need some time to work on me right now. I need to focus on myself. I need you to get the fuck out of my life.” His voice goes back to normal. “If that’s how you feel, you should just say it.” “Don’t put words in my mouth.” I scramble naked across the bed trying to catch up with him, but he’s already at the door. He closes it behind him. I lay my head against it. The door opens a minute later, and his arm slides in. He’s holding a can of ginger ale and a pack of crackers. “Eat and drink these quickly so you won’t spend the morning puking.” “Are you still mad at me?” I ask as I take them from his hand. “Yes.” The door closes. Bile rises up my throat, so I take a quick sip of the ginger ale. This is usually how it goes in the morning as soon as my feet hit the floor. But the drink actually makes me feel better. Go figure. I sit on the edge of the bed and fall back, eating a cracker and trying to be still for a few minutes. The door opens again and only his voice comes in. “Glad it worked.” The door shuts with a click. I grin. I can’t help it. He’s taking care of me even though he’s mad at me. And that scares me even more than it would if he ignored me and treated me like every other man in the world. Like I don’t exist.

Mel was just here. She’s complaining about the food.” “Huh?” Jack answered. “Mel?” “Yeah. She says my food is making her fat.” Jack chuckled. “Oh, that. Yeah, she’s making noises about that. Don’t worry about it.” “She didn’t make it sound like I shouldn’t worry about it. She was pretty much loaded for bear.” “She had two babies in fourteen months, plus a hysterectomy. And—she doesn’t like to be reminded about this—she’s getting older in spite of herself. Women get a little thicker. You know.” “How do you know that?” “Four sisters,” Jack said. “It’s all women ever worry about—the size of their butts and boobs. And thighs—thighs come up a lot.” “She yelled at me,” he said, still kind of startled. Paul laughed and Jack just shook his head. “Did you tell her that?” Preacher asked. “About women getting thicker with age?” “Do I look like I have a death wish? Besides, I don’t think she’s getting fat—but my opinion about that doesn’t count for much.” “She wants salads. And fresh fruit.” “How hard is that?” Jack asked. “Not hard,” Preacher said with a shrug. “But I don’t stuff that pie down her neck every day.” A sputter of laughter escaped Paul, and Jack said, “You’re gonna want to watch that, Preach.” “She wants me to use less butter and cream, take a few calories out of my food. Jack, it isn’t going to taste as good that way. You can’t make sauces and gravies without cream, butter, fat, flour. People love that stuff, salmon in dill sauce, fettuccine Alfredo, stuffed trout, brisket and garlic mash. Stews with thick gravy. People come a long way for my food.” “Yeah, I know, Preach. You don’t have to change everything—but make Mel a little something, huh? A salad, a broiled chicken breast, fish without the cream sauce, that kind of thing. You know what to do. Right?” “Of course. You don’t think she wants everyone in this town on a diet? Because she says it’s not healthy, the way I cook.” “Nah. This is a phase, I think. But if you don’t want to hear any more about it, just give her lettuce.” He grinned. “And an apple instead of the pie.” Preacher shook his head. “See, I think no matter what she says, that’s going to make her pissy.” “She said it’s what she wants, right?” “Right.” “May the force be with you,” Jack said with a grin.

Face it, you’re model-gorgeous. Okay, so your eyes are bloodshot and you’ve got bags from crying all night. But all in all, you’ve got it goin’ on. Look in the mirror, Brit, and say out loud I’m the bomb.” “No.” “Come on. It’ll make you feel better. Look right in the mirror and yell my boobs rock!” “Nuh-uh.” “Can you at least admit you’ve got good hair?” I look at Sierra. “You talk to yourself in front of a mirror?” “I do. Wanna see?” She pushes me aside and moves up close to the mirror. “Not half-bad, Sierra,” she tells herself. “Doug is one lucky guy.” She turns to me. “See, it’s easy.” Instead of laughing, I start to cry. “Am I that ugly?

If my husband tells me one more time that he needs to rest because he “worked all day,” I will throw all of his clothes on the front lawn, kick his car into neutral and watch it roll away and I’ll sell all of his precious sports stuff on eBay for a dollar. And then I’ll kill him. He seriously doesn’t get it! Yes, he worked all day, but he worked with English speaking, potty trained, fully capable adults. He didn’t have to change their diapers, give them naps and clean their lunch from the wall. He didn’t have to count to 10 to calm himself, he didn’t have to watch Barney 303,243,243 times, and he didn’t have to pop his boob out 6 times to feed a hungry baby and I KNOW he didn’t have peanut butter and jelly crust for lunch. He DID get TWO 15-minute breaks to “stroll,” an hour break to hit the gym, and a 1 hour train ride home to read or nap. So maybe I don’t get a paycheck, maybe I stay in my sweatpants most of the day, maybe I only shower every 2 or 3 days, maybe I get to “play” with our kids all day … I still work a hell of a lot harder in one hour than he does all day. So take your paycheck, stick it in the bank and let me go get a freakin’ pedicure once a month without hearing you say “Maybe if you got a job … and had your own money.” Ouch.

What did you say to him?” I ask when I’ve recovered the ability to speak. “I told him that he should knock on doors that are closed. That you are American and do not lie on the beach with le tette out. You are private.” “Le tette? What’s that?” My face pinks again. “My boobs?” “Si.” She sprawls across the bottom bunk. “I think it is sweet. Leaves room for the imagination.” “Um…thanks.” I finish getting dressed. “What did he say?” She laughs. “He said, ‘She will one day.