Franken Tits



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I got a boob job in October of 2013. I could spend a few moments here justifying what may sound like an act of self-indulgent vanity and decidedly anti-feminist conformity to the mainstream, but fuck you, my tits rock.

I’d like to blame my mistake on a painkiller-induced haze, but the truth is that I also continually schedule myself for appointments during my period, so I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when I realized I had scheduled a client long before the incisions and purple-black bruises covering my breasts had time to heal. Canceling was out of the question; this was a multi-hour appointment, and I needed the money.

Unsurprisingly, clients who spend thousands of dollars on a hooker generally want to see some boobs. My Frankentits and I needed to come up with a plan.

Did I mention that the surgery involved repositioning a nipple? Well, it did. Essentially, it was cut along almost the complete circumference, pulled to another spot, and sewn onto its new home.

I was lamenting the poor planning and lack of attention to detail that landed me in this shitshow when a hooker friend of mine put me in touch with a dancer friend of hers, and I spent the next twenty minutes scribbling down tips and tricks to cover scars, tattoos, bruises, stretch marks, acne, and various other forbidden marks and imperfections strippers routinely have to cover for work. I drove out to the mall and bought the expensive shit that was supposed to convincingly mask all manner of unsightly horrors—burn scars, bruises, birthmarks shaped like dicks—for up to 24 hours, even underwater.

This shit was serious. It covered the bruises completely, albeit with an unnaturally homogenous “flesh” color. Details, details. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel, the finish line, the money shot, whatever. This was progress, and I was eager to grasp whatever thin, glistening thread of hope I could find. I un-bandaged that sad little stitched-on nipple, and commenced the spackling.

It was a success…if you have a fetish for chicks with a crusty, dusty, rock-hard ring around one nipple that cracks and crumbles with every move she makes. For the rest of us, it was even more disturbing than the bare stitches.

On to Plan B! I consulted with my neighbor who managed a costume shop. She suggested liquid latex, so I bought a sizable bottle, came home, and anxiously spread a new layer of “skin” over my nipple-seam. It took several tries before I admitted to myself that it wasn’t going to work—that stuff gets tacky quick, and if you keep messing with it, you end up with a boogery mess. After cleaning bits of waterproof, soap-proof, bullet-proof makeup out of the thin gap of skin that, despite my abuse, resolutely and dutifully continued to perform the sisyphean task of depositing granular tissue to bridge the gap between nipple and breast, I consulted YouTube, where I found a plethora of tutorials on how to cover scars with latex. One method is as follows: spread a thin sheet of latex on a flat surface, a dish, for example. Let it get tacky, spread another layer on top, and another. Let dry. Next, affix the new, unscarred “skin” over the scar using fresh liquid latex as an adhesive. Simple enough, right?

Seven ring-shaped strips of discarded latex “skin” later, I decided I might as well just build myself a new nipple, slap it on over the real one, and hope he wasn’t a boob man.