The Mysterious Mystery of the Elusive P-O-O-P

Help us welcome S.J. Drum today.

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Romance Authors have accomplished a feat the likes of which the real world cannot ever hope to achieve. I’m writing, of course, about the complete and utter eradication of Poop.

Am I the only person who, while reading romances, thinks about poop?

A common occurrence of “the Elusive Poop” is a story in which the heroine is handcuffed to a cot for two weeks and there is no mention of where she did number two or what happened to it after the evil deed was done. Even if she was nearly starved, sometime in those fourteen days she had to take a deuce.

If this situation occurred in real life, would the hero stumble over a bucket full of feces while attempting to rescue the heroine? I think I might be so mortified by the thought of a sexy warrior witnessing the aftermath of tainted water and non-existent restroom facilities that I would be wishing against rescue …

While I completely appreciate the need for brushing aside the unpleasant details of human body functions, I still find myself wondering about them while reading. I too write romances. I have not, and do not, intend to ever include the subtle nuances of uncontrollable, stress-induced, ass-blasting diarrhea.

Still, I find myself contemplating the pooping situation in nearly every book I read. In historical romances, where the hero and heroine often travel together for days and days at a time, I ask you … When did they poop? Was there a discussion? “Och, Lass. Doona mind the sounds. Me needs to leave a growler in yon bushes …”

I also think about poop whenever anal sex is introduced into a story. While I admit that I’m not experienced in the ways of anal sex, I believe if I were approached with the proposition, poop would be my very first thought. Yet, no one seems concerned with this when the impromptu butt-loving is initiated.

Am I to believe that the untried, inexperienced heroine isn’t worried about what the hero will find when he dips his stick in her dark tunnel? Am I to believe that the perpetrator of this act, the hero, has not one single moment of hesitation when he wonders if there’s a double-decker knocking at the other side of his woman’s round door? Has this ever happened? Has a penis ever been denied entry to the Exclusive Anal Club by reason of “full occupancy”? I do not know. Perhaps someone could enlighten me.

Do not misunderstand, I have no wish to write a scene which includes such details nor do I want to read a scene that includes them. I’m merely pointing out the lack of poop in the fictional world of romance as an object of consideration. Am I alone in noticing? Do you question when, where, and how pooping is accomplished?

If only reality could be more like fiction. Without poop, the world would be a peaceful place, devoid of cart-filling, bank draining bundles of 4ply toilet-paper and smelly gas station restrooms. If life could eliminate poop, no wife would have to endure being asked, “So, you wanna do it?” Directly after hearing the harmonic sounds of her husband laying a log cabin in the thin-walled bathroom. Stomach cramps would never attack on a first date, rendering a woman incapable of a graceful exit. Without poop, all the adventurous lads and ladies out there could enjoy unplanned anal sex without fear of encountering the much lamented brown roadblock.

*Sigh* If only life were like fiction …

I’d like to thank Four Strong Women for inviting me to Guest Blog and also extend an invitation for everyone to stop by my personal blog, Supernaturally Challenged. If you like quirky rants about everything from publishing to parenting, you’ll love my blog.

I am currently working on an Urban Fantasy series, SURPRISINGLY SUPERNATURAL, under the name SJ Drum. I also have a Women’s Fiction novel set to be released through Eternal Press in February 2012 entitled A LIFE BEYOND YESTERDAY , written under the pen name Clara LaVeaux.

Bra Shopping with Men

Hi, my name is Janice Seagraves. I’m a romance author. I want to thank Faith for allowing me this opportunity to post on the 4SW blog.

The other day my daughter and I went bra shopping with my husband and her boyfriend in tow. For women readers, I’m sure you’re very familiar with bra shopping. Have you ever gone shopping with the man in your life?

Yeah, that’s an experience, isn’t it?

My hubby usually vacates the area, fast. He says he’ll shop for manly things like jockeys, while I’m occupied with my feminine stuff. This time he did the usual, and you could hear him peeling out as his shoes made black marks on the tile at J.C. Penny’s.

After raising an eyebrow at her father’s quick exit, my daughter asked what she could get.

I pointed out the sale sign. Buy one bra and get the second one for half off. “Get two.”

My daughter found two bras.

“Try them on.”

She sighed.

“You still might have changed since then. After all, you did just lose weight,” I told her.d. “But these are the same ones I got last time.”

Daughter returned from the changing room, only to put the bras back. “I got bigger.” She hung her head.

I stared at her a moment. My daughter is the only woman I know who can simultaneously lose weight and get bigger boobs. How is that even possible?

“Then find the next size,” I said as I continued the search for my bra size.

I glanced at daughter’s BF. He kept his face impassive, but his eyes danced.

“I’m surprised you’re not doing cartwheels right through the middle of this store,” I told him.

BF grinned. “Oh, I keep that sort of thing to myself. But my inner pervert is doing cartwheels and flips on the monkey bars.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” I s

hook my head. What is it with cup sizes and men?

I made my own selections and went to the changing room. After struggling with my new shirt, which I discovered too late was hard to get off, and found that I had grabbed the wrong size bra. “What the heck. What size am I?” I looked at the tag on my bra from home, 44DD.

Crap.

Redressing, I went back out and looked for a 44DD.

My daughter found the right size bra, tried it on, and came back, but I was still looking.

“These fit. Can I have panties too?” she asked.

“Sure, if there’s a sale.”

“There is.”

“Okay.” I kept looking.

My husband bought his jockeys and came strolling back...and I’m still looking.

I put back yet another bra I can’t wear. By this time I’d reached the end of the bra section and the end of my rope.

“This is so not fair. I find all kinds of 42DDs and even a few of the 42DDDs, but not one single 44DD,” I wailed. Yeah, I’m loud when I’m upset and I don’t care who knows it.

At that moment, a saleswoman showed up as if she sprung out of the floor. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

While I was telling her my problem, loudly, my husband started to smile.

The saleswoman lookd me straight in the eyes and asked, “Are you sure that’s your size? Have you tried a 42DD?”

I gritted my teeth. “I just had on a 42DD and my cup was running over like this.” I mimed my molded over breasts with both hands. I glanced at my hubby and my daughter’s BF. “Sorry guys. I didn’t mean to be so graphic.”

“Oh, no problem at all.” My husband grinned from ear to ear and bounced on the balls of his feet.

My daughter yelled him. “Dad, stop smiling. It’s scary.”

My daughter’s BF whispered, “Your dad’s a pervert.”

Meanwhile the saleslady asked me, “Have you ever tried an extender?”

“Huh?” I stare at her like she had just grown two heads. What good would that do?

“A lot of women wear an extender on their bras. It really helps them,” she plowed on.

Hands on hips, I leaned toward the smaller woman. “Look, lady, if you haven’t noticed I’m a large woman. I need a 44DD, anything smaller just won’t do.” Was the woman even looking at the size of my tits?

The woman didn’t even blink at my outburst. “But an extender would—”

I let out a dramatic sigh. God, I really hate pushy sales people. “No, extender. It just wouldn’t work.”

My daughter reaches past me. “Here’s one. 44DD right?” She handed me a black bra.

“Well, hell. I was standing right next to it.” In the space of a minute we found two more.

I looked one over. “Oh, this is a pretty bra. And it’ll give me lots of support, too.” You don’t always find support and prettiness in the same bra when you’re my size.

My husband looked even happier, if that’s possible. “Support is good.”

BF shook his head. “Dirty old man.”

I went to the changing room and tried on the bra. It fit. It was supportive and pretty. I imagined angels were rejoicing in heaven. Hallelujah.

And then my daughter thrust a bra through the door at me. “Look, I found another one.”

“Yay, now I get the sale rate. Buy one, second half off.” I danced a jig as the angels in heaven launch into another louder chorus—Halle-lu-jah!

At the cash register, while I made small talk with the cashier, my daughter’s BF sidled up to me and whispered in my ear, “I hate to tell you this, but your husband is doing perverted things to the bras.”

“What?” I jerked my head toward my husband. His cheesy grin was still in place as he strolled down the center aisle. “What did he do?”

“He felt up the bras. He told me that you compliment the bra, ‘Silky’, and when your woman was in them, you use both hands, ‘Nice’. BF mimed what my husband did.

“Oh, good grief. The man will be the death of me yet.” Good thing I don’t get embarrassed easy. My mother would have been mortified.

I paid for our things, and my daughter picked up the bag. My husband joined us, and we headed out.

As we passed a manikin wearing a bra-and-panty set that show half its white plastic ass, my husband whipped his hand out, slapping it on the butt.

My mouth dropped open. “What did you just do?”

“It was presenting.” He grinned back at me. “What else was I supposed to do?”

“Uh, not hit the dummy on the ass would have been my choice.”

BF said, “See, he’s a big pervert.”

My daughter muttered, “Maybe you should hit him, mom.”

“Wouldn’t do any good.” I shrugged. “What is it with men and bra shopping anyway?”

“It brings out the inner pervert,” BF said. “That’s my theory, anyway.”

“I think you might be right.” We followed my smug husband back into wilds of the shopping mall.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Janice Seagraves grew up in a small California town. Her home is a hundred year old haunted house (she’s not kidding), where she lives with her husband and daughter, four overly affectionate cats (yeah, they have more), and a pet pigeon that is in love with her husband (also not kidding).

The writing bug hit her late at around twenty. However her art always drew her away from the characters in her head. After being diagnosed with tendonitis she found doing artwork painful, but she could still type and at last she turned her full attention to writing.

Her first book, Windswept Shores, is available through Pink Petal books.

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Windswept Shores by Janice Seagraves
Cover Contest Winner
erotic contemporary romance
novel (approx 50K)
price $4.95
Cover Art by Pink Petal Books with assistance from Winterheart Design

BLURB:
The sole survivor of a plane crash, Megan is alone on a deserted island in the Bahamas until she finds a nearly-drowned man washed up on shore. Another survivor, this time from a boat wreck. With only meager survival skills between them, will they survive and can they find love?

Windswept Shores: http://pinkpetalbooks.com/Windswept-Shores-Janice-Seagraves.html

~*~*~

You can find Janice on her website: http://janiceseagraves.org/

And her blog: http://ladyjanice.blogspot.com/

Travel, tattoos and oops!

So, I figured today I'd have all kinds of rangy things to talk about concerning my first lone trip out of my native Canada. Things to bitch about the airline poised on the brink of strike that flew me here, too-heavy luggage charges, ( turns out I'm just a wimp, and the luggage, despite the books, is not all that heavy), and messed up hotel reservations.

Not so.

While I did spend roughly two hours in various line ups at the airport, the line were constantly moving and every one of a dozen or so airline staff who needed to check my ticket and look at my passport...again...wereall very nice and cheerful. Especially the woman at the xray/scanner thingy when she saw my studded belt, seventeen bangle bracelets, and big-ass, 14 hole Doc Martins. She got a giant kick out of that. -incidentally, note to self: wear the flats on the way home!!!!

The flight got off the ground ten minutes ahead of schedule. Yes. Ahead of schedule. And there were enough empty seats on the itsy-bitsy plane no one had to share. We landed about fifteen minutes early.

The hotel? Gorgeous. Staff is kind and helpful, and everyone at the retreat: Awesome.

Sorry. Not ranty. The worst thing that happened so far was getting lost on the way to the tattoo parlor. But so what. We made it eventually, and my wrist is only mildly throbbing this morning.

Now, I'm off to register and have fun. More a later.

Cats Don't Need Opposable Thumbs...

...and other common household mathematical facts.

Like, for instance, did you  know that a husband's intelligence seems to be directly and inversely related to his ability to run a laundry machine? Meaning that if you marry a rocket scientist, or brain surgeon, don't expect him to wash your skivvies any time soon. Not if you want them to still fit when he's done.... *sigh*

Also, the noise expelled by pre-teen girls increases exponentially to the number of girls in the room. So if one girl creates 10 decibels of noise, two girls create 100 and three girls create 1000. After that, you might better off send them to the mall or sound-proof the family room. *headache*

Next: A young boy who can correctly categorize a hundred Hot Wheels by type and color in the space of ten minutes, (and know if mom put one in the wrong drawer) or sort Lego pieces into minute trays of like-sized bits, has no ability whatsoever to sort laundry into piles of jeans, towels and sport socks. At. All.

The same young boy who can walk over ten kilometers, without tiring, to the movie theater to watch Kungfu Panda cannot manage to walk the ten feet to his bedroom at the end of a movie he watched in his parent's bed. He's too 'wiped out'. Go figure.

Fast facts: (curtesy of boy curiosity)

> One small capful of dish detergent makes much more than one large washer-ful of suds.
> Eighteen feet of beaded Christmas garland is not enough to wrap up three cats

> cats cannot walk on water (even if the water is completely covered in soap suds and you've managed to convince the cat the bubbles are solid)
> The freezer will not reach room temperature if you leave it open all night, but the cats will knock the ice-cube trays on the floor and/or eat the left-over meatloaf. (Out of a sealed tuperware dish from the top shelf of the fridge-high afore-mentioned open freezer. This being why they apparently don't need opposable thumbs, because the dish wasn't broken or damaged in any way. Just open. And empty.) And, you will have tones of fish to eat, fast.

And last, but certainly not least: A mother/wife can  lose her temper at speeds faster than light.

ETA: Two siblings who pick and poke and make each other cry daily can and will figure out the physics of how to knock over any playground bully who needs it in order to protect each other. (true story) How's that for weird and wonderful?

Now, I'm off on the drive to the airport hotel so in the morning, I can catch my plane to New Orleans and GayRomLit. my first writer's gathering. So, here is your homework: If the car is travelling at 120 km an hour and the airport is 337 km away, the plane travels at 900km/hr and New Orleans is 2056km away, and I start now, when will this writer arrive in New Orleans?

Answer: NOT BLOODY SOON ENOUGH!!!!!  Expect picspam in my next post!!!!

The White-Knuckled Ride

Please help us welcome Cassie Exline today.

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Hello to all. My name is Cassie Exline. I write tales of romance and mystery, always with a dash of humor. To those of you who don't know what I do for a living, I work full time for a weekly newspaper. In this day and age of the Internet, it's scary as to how long we'll last in the business. So far, we're hanging in there. The part of the USA I'm from prefers reading a real newspaper before using it to line the cat litter box. lol

Any seminar/lecture I can attend, I go. One never knows what will happen. My first seminar was great. On most loop groups, I'm more of a lurker but at that seminar, I raised my hand and participated. My heart almost jumped out of my chest, but at least I said something.

So recently when the chance came up to go to another seminar in our state capital, I was onboard. I'm not a big city driver but no worries, a coworker volunteered to drive all of us.

The seminar whooped my butt. It was a long day. Actually, truth be told, it was the coworker who drove who wore me down. I'm lucky to be alive, although I may take up drinking.

She's 20 and knows everything (remember that age?). She had a GPS and was going to blaze a trail to the seminar. Except she didn't know the address, which was on the forms we received. Thank god I was a Boy Scout in a previous life and had printed out directions and a map. She programmed in the address, turned the radio full blast and her mouth shifted into gear. That girl talked non-stop. Within minutes she had us barreling down the Interstate -- going the wrong direction.

We got her turned around and she tailgated in the right direction. Be still my heart. I thought my ticker was going to jump out of my chest. Keep in mind, our boss is riding with us in the backseat (the coward). I was riding shotgun, which had had one.

Barb (boss) kept asking, "Aren't we too close to that car?"

To which, Laura would say, "Oh, okay." She'd backed off for a split second and then we're in someone else's trunk.

Luck be a lady and we arrived, shakened and stirred. No open bar to be found, like who cared if it was only 8:45 in the morning! I survived and wanted to celebrate. Bartender!!

Sad to say, the seminar was boring. The speakers were hyping their own books. Yes, I said books! But when one male speaker started dropping the "f-bomb" I woke up. My boss was chewing nails. She has strict rules about behavior. We're not even allowed to smoke, technically she'd prefer if we never spoke, but she can't have everything. lol

But all good things must come to an end and for the return trip, I was the navigator. We were heading in the right direction. Several times that menace tried to get off the Interstate and take the wrong road. We're yelling, "NO!"

Fortunately the traffic was widely spaced so her chances were limited to ride someone's bumper until our exit from the Interstate mere miles from home base.

Even after we got to a small town, which is close to ours, a town she has traveled a lot, Laura tried to turn the wrong direction.

By now it was dusk. Five cars in front of us slowed and stopped, brake lights beamed bright red and we were zooming in for the crunch. At the last minute she slammed on the brakes and said, "Didn't see that. Maybe I should let some space and pay attention." Ya think?

That decision lasted for nano seconds. We were once more stalking a bumper. Never was I so glad to see the office and my car. I leaped out of her car and fought the urge to drop and kiss the pavement.

Did I learn anything from the seminar? Yes, never ever ride with Laura and "f-bombs" are a stimulant.

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Blurb:

An old college friend begs Sheryl to help find her missing cousin, Opal, who may have been kidnapped by a mysterious mountain man. When all leads are exhausted, Sheryl concocts a dangerous plan—she becomes bait for the kidnapper and alleged murderer.

But will she survive her plan? Or is this Sheryl's last mystery?

Buy.

~ ~ ~ ~

Cassie works for a small town newspaper along the east coast of the United States. Writing has been her passion. She writes romance to melt the heart and mysteries to chill the spine. Her stories have been published at Ruthie's Club, The Erotic Woman, Justus Roux, and Erotic Bookworm. Her three ebooks in the Sheryl Locke Holmes Series, Amber's Mysterious Death, Ruby's Deadly Secret, and Opal's Disappearance can be purchased at Wild Child Publishing. Next book in the Holmes series is Dragon's Pearl. Cassie also has a story, Fire & Ice, published in the anthology Coming Together: With Pride, available in ebook & print at Amazon and All Romance. She's a member of Erotica Author's Association, Erotica Readers & Writers Association and Desdmona's FishTank.

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Zip It...Zip It Good!

Some days, I wish I could zip another person's mouth, or, at the very least, remind them of the old adage If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all? Well, most people don't live by that, even if they should. I know I don't at times. I know I rant here and say some unkind things about people in general, although rarely one person in particular. So, I do try to be nice (it's a struggle some days), or if I am going to say something not so nice, I'll save it for the bedroom with Charlie where I know it won't go anywhere. Even still, things will slip out at times, but I am getting better at biting my tongue.

However, I am ever amazed at how people seemed to think I care about their opinion, especially when it disagrees with mine. (g) I mean, really, do they honestly think that they can change my mind by insulting me?

For instance, I know a few people whose political viewpoints are diametrically opposed to mine in many ways, yet they insist on talking to me about them. Why? Even if I try to meet them in the middle (and I don't always, because, well, they are wrong after all (grin)), they won't budge. It's their way or the highway.

Eh. That's fine. I feel the same. I'll just listen to them blather on while I search for my escape route. (grin)

People have opinions on everything. Frequently, those opinions diverge from mine. So, um, I spend a lot of time silent. (grin) Something you learned about me today: if I'm not trying to add anything to a conversation, it probably means I don't agree with you. (grin) Aren't you lucky I've held my tongue?

And doesn't it drive you nuts when someone argues with you? It's like running into a brick wall. I've had people spend more than an hour trying to convince me I am wrong, that I must agree with them, that I can't possibly mean what I said.

O.o

No matter how much I try to end the conversation politely, they won't stop. It's like diarrhea of the mouth. If they want to do that, do it somewhere else. I'm so not into it. And arguing with me will only make me more set in my ways, because I'm ornery that way. (grin) I don't like to be told what to do. (grin)

This did happen recently. It pissed me off, but I bit my tongue and bore it. Should it happen again, I'm not sure how polite I will be as I've been there already. Although I had lots of unkind thoughts running through my head, mixed with a good dollop of sarcasm. (grin)

Just because they disagree with me does not make them right. Maybe for them, but not for me.

But it reminded me that I can be just as obnoxious if I'm not careful. I'll certainly be more careful in the future...or not, if you've already irritated me, I may not listen to the angel on my shoulder. (grin)

Braving Breast Implants, or Things my Doctor Didn’t Tell Me

***Okay, put down the beverages before you read guest author Toni V. Sweeney's blog. You were warned, lol.***

I was one of those women who always envied anyone who had cleavage.) As a size 32AA, I had a right, I felt. When I was in college, there was a British Model named Twiggy, with the remarkable measurements of 21-21-21. Not to remarkable…so did I. Not that I was a famous model or was British or anything like that, but sharing Twiggy’s measurements was kind of a claim to fame. I was one of those poor, deprived girls whose dresses fit everywhere except at the top, whose lingerie drawer was filled with bras that didn’t fit unless they were filled with those abominably embarrassing foam rubber creations called falsies.

Even when I was a dancer, the falsie was a major part of my costume wardrobe. (jpg#1) Not the pasty, which was a teensy little nipple-covering, all sequined and glittered and hiding hardly anything, but a breast-shaped piece to fill the front of my costume and make my bottom and my top symmetrical. Sometimes, if I lost weight, I actually had to double-up and wear two—one inside the other—on each side! My mother, who was a stage mother par excellence and a Mommie Dearest in her own way, always made certain I wore a padded bra when I was measured for my costumes, bringing me up to a 34-A. Otherwise when they were completed and I went to try them on, they would be too large and loose at the top.

With the advent of Jane Russell, Marilyn Monroe, and Jayne Mansfield, all ladies whose acting talents generally were ignored in favor of their well-endowed upper stories, I felt even more slighted. But, I would sigh, what can I do? Big boobs just weren’t in my genetic material. In that day and time, in my neck of the woods, breast enhancement, which would’ve meant silicone injections, just wasn’t done by the ordinary woman in the street. And after the news story of one fatality occurring when the silicone was injected into a lung instead of a breast, I wasn’t certain I’d want to. (That may or may not have been an urban legend.)

Let’s fast-forward a couple of decades.

Now I’m sitting in a doctor’s office, wearing a paper gown and waiting for the awful news. I found a lump. Yup, it’s cancer. Do the biopsy. Have the radation therapy. Hug what’s left of that pitiful little knot and pretend everything’s A-OK. So I did that, but I was also thinking: Nowadays, people who have breast surgery can have breast reconstruction surgery also. Well, I’d had one…so why couldn’t I have the other?

Answer: I could. (Yay! Or not. Let’s proceed…)

So I began the reconstruction process and believe me, it was probably just as painful as the one the South went through right after the War Between the States!

The actual convalescence wasn’t so bad, other than the fact that I couldn’t use my right arm for a while and had to give up swimming. Giving up doing housework wasn’t so bad, however. Now I had the excuse, “I can’t sweep with one hand,” or “How can I wash dishes with just one hand?” or “I need someone to carry in the groceries for me.” Good way to get volunteers all around while I sat there looking helpless and invalid-ish.

It was what came after the convalescence, when the bandages were removed and the stitches came out, and I was dismissed from care. No one had prepared me for what going from 32AA to 38C was going to involve after I was once more pronounced able and fit. And that was the first thing I noticed.

Nothing fit any more.

All my clothes were suddenly too tight in the bosom. To be more precise, I couldn’t even get some of them on because I suddenly had so much up front. It was like trying to cram a Roman legionnary’s breastplate into a skin-tight leotard. Though the skirts of dresses fit, the tops didn’t, so I soon found myself buying new dresses and blouses. A whole new wardrobe. That wasn’t so bad. And bigger bras. But at least now, when I invested in something with a plunging neckline (and I suddenly find myself with a whole closetful of those), there was something there to see.

Then, another problem revealed itself.

No one had bothered to point out that when you have large breasts, they have a tendency to fall against each other when you roll over. I found that out the hard way. By doing it. And you know what? It hurt! There is nothing to describe the pain When Boobs Collide. I solved that problem with pillows. Now, there were three instead of two on the bed. One for me, two for the girls. It became a routine. If I went to turn over, no matter to left or right, I had to wake up, place one pillow under the outside of the breast to be laid on, tuck another between my boobies, then ve-e-r-r-y gentle…roll over. The pain gradually went away as I got accustomed to what I was carrying around up front but for a few months, I didn’t get much sleep.

The third problem also made itself known when I tried to sleep. I had trouble breathing. Whenever I lay flat on my back, I would soon start to do a Big Bad Wolf imitation, huffing and puffing and gasping the longer I lay that way. I tried to ignore it, convinced it would go away. When I went for a check-up, I asked surgeon about the weight of the implants. The average implant weighs 12 ounces, she said. Mine were probably closer to 16. So I had two extra pounds inside my chest wall, putting that much extra weight on my lungs.

Having now abandoned the pillows, I always sleep on my side nowadays.

Doing surgery on the breasts can also involve cutting nerves. At first I thought the numbness in my chest was simply from invasive shock. I soon found out it wasn’t. Even after six months, my entire chest had no feeling. I found this out in an embarrassing way…by wearing a tube top. With no sensation, I had no idea it had slid down around my waist until I passed by a mirror and happen to glance at it. My desensitized boobs were happily bouncing above what appeared to be a red elasticized cummerbund! Hasty grab. Pull it up. Swear from now on to never wear anything that doesn’t have straps.

At this date, ten years after surgery, I now have 50% sensation in my breasts. The day I had that surgery, I lost my second-best erogenous zone. Bummer!

The last problem is a more ridiculous one: Crumbs in the cleavage. I love potato chips, crackers, and all those crispy, crunchy things. BI (Before Implants), if I dropped a piece of chip or bit into a particularly crumbly cracker or cookie, or there was a slip betwixt the cup and the lip, I knew exactly where it was going to fall. Right into my lap. So I’d pick up the chip and finishing eating it, brush off the crumbs, or hope my napkin had caught the soup, coffee, sauce, whatever. AI (After Implants), where does everything fall? You guessed it. Right in the cleavage! I’ve fished out so many fragments of Pringles and Doritos (sometimes with salsa), peanuts, popcorn, pulled my blouse away from my body to shake out crumbs, and mopped up so much sphagetti sauce and other semi-liquids from between the Valley of the Dolls, I’m reminded of the famous “Hunt for the Dumpling” scene from Hello, Dolly! On occasion, if there’s no one else around, I actually tie a dish towel around my neck and let the food fall where it will!

Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t swap these babies for what I used to have, nor would I chose to go back to being a one-and-half boob wonder, nor do I wish to be 32AA again. I just wish someone had warned me about all this, so I could’ve been prepared. It would be nice to have a veteran of the Reconstruction Wars sit down with a would-be candidate and tell her what exactly is what.

I still have to go back for the final phase of reconstruction and I don’t even like the sound of it: nipple re-positioning.

I don’t even want to think what new and adventurous avenues that’s going to open up!


ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Toni V. Sweeney was born in the South but has lived the past two-score years in the mid-West and the sunny state of California. She’s the author of 30 novels, written in various genres depending on her mood when she sits before the computer. Approximately one-third of those were written before her surgery and the other two-thirds afterward (not that this is an incentive for creativity). Her current offerings are Runaway Brother by her pseudonym Icy Snow Blackstone (Class Act Books, http://www.classactbooks.com/Runaway-Brother-by-Icy-Snow-Blackstone-Trade_p_308.html) and Bride of the Beast under her own name (Smashwords, http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/88085) All joking aside, Toni urges all women to do self breast exams to help detect breast cancer.