Did Tits

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The Honest Courtesan
Frank commentary from a semi-retired call girl
Some people think having large breasts makes a woman stupid. Actually, it’s quite the opposite: A woman having large breasts makes men stupid. – Rita Rudner
I can thank my mother for a small waist, but unfortunately the tits which came with it were equally small. And though lots of people of both sexes told me it didn’t matter, to me it did; I started wearing padded bras in high school and over the years tried every herbal supplement and exercise I heard of to make the damned lazy things get bigger. But it was no use; whenever I took a shower I would stand there looking in the mirror at what looked like two fried eggs stuck to my chest, and more often than not would sigh, try to convince myself that they really did look OK, or even scream “Grow, damn you! Why can’t you GROW?”
I eventually stopped shouting at them and resolved myself to the fact that as happy as I was with my figure in every other way, I was going to be stuck with these absurd little-girl titties until I could afford a boob job, which wasn’t going to happen on a librarian’s salary. A stripper’s income is far more generous, however, and eventually (after I had paid off all my outstanding bills) I realized that I had enough spare cash to finally buy the Holy Grail I had not-so-patiently awaited for some 15 years. So I looked through the plastic surgeons’ ads in the phone book and called a few board-certified ones for quotes; though I am thrifty to a fault I wasn’t just going to pick the cheapest one for something like this. I asked questions and consulted my gut, and the one I got the best feeling from actually was the least expensive of the really good ones; he achieved the savings by performing his surgeries at a surgery center on the Northshore rather than in a hospital in Greater New Orleans, which resulted in my saving over $1000 even though his own professional fees were comparable to those of the other surgeons.
So I plunked down my $3900, picked my size and scheduled my surgery for the following week; my friends all thought I was insane for choosing to go up SIX cup sizes, from not-even-A to DDD. But I ignored them; I had spent plenty of time padding up my bosom, then putting on tops and looking at myself critically in a mirror, and I knew it would look good and right. When the big day came Grace drove me across the Causeway before dawn (why do surgeons insist on operating so damned early?) and then went to breakfast with a friend; it was my idea, since there was little point in her waiting around until I woke up. Anesthesia does not agree with me; I was as sick as a dog all day long, but though I faded in and out of consciousness and periodically stumbled to the bathroom to throw up, I couldn’t help but be stupidly happy.
Even the pain (which wasn’t so bad except when I elected to breathe) couldn’t ruin my mood, and as the weeks went by that quickly lessened. My friends all admitted that they had been wrong, and that I had picked the perfect size for my figure; my new tits balanced my hips and bottom perfectly and made my waist look even narrower, and my clothes looked spectacular. I had never had so much confidence in my physical charms, and I’m sure it was projected to the men around me because I honestly feel as though I was more attractive to them during that year than at any time in my life before or since; I’ve always been described with words like “stunning”, but now people were using terms like “drop-dead gorgeous”. And I’m sure it was almost entirely due to the fact that I was at long last truly comfortable with my body.
I say “almost” because I must give credit where it is due; my plastic surgeon, Dr. S, is an absolute master of his art, and he felt that he had outdone himself in my case; he even asked if he could use my “before” and “after” pictures at a conference (I of course agreed). He gave them a beautiful, natural shape which IMHO has only improved over the past decade as gravity causes them to settle into a less globular form and the scars faded into total invisibility. Indeed, their appearance is so natural that I’ve actually had men take them for the home-grown variety. But I’m nothing if not honest, and whenever a man made such a statement I always corrected him. Nor would I lie when asked, though I must admit I had fun with the question; I answered “Are they real?” with, “Well, they certainly aren’t imaginary!” My reply to “Are they natural?” was “Well, they aren’t supernatural!” and my favorite permutation, “Are they yours?” was answered with, “They had better be, I sure paid enough for ‘em!”
Most men of course recognized them for implants for the simple reason that, as natural as they look, no woman over the age of 16 could possibly have big hooters which are as perky and firm as mine are. The dead giveaway is that when I lie on my back, they don’t droop to the sides as unaugmented mammaries do. But with rare exception, men don’t seem to care; artificial or not, they drew plenty of compliments. The most appreciative audience of all, though, were physicians; they not only enjoyed them as men, but also appreciated the surgical skill which crafted them. New Orleans has been called “the biggest small town in the world” with good reason; everybody knows everybody, especially in professional communities. So when I disrobed in front of a client who was a medical man, the first words out of his mouth were often “Who did your tits?” and of course I told him because I knew he might end up purchasing a boob job for his wife one day and I wanted to give Dr. S the advertising. Once I did a bachelor party for a doctor; the only non-physician in the room was his brother, and after I had finished my dance and show I was of course confronted with the inevitable question, followed by a number of the guests asking if they could examine them (for purely professional reasons, of course). I just agreed and rolled my eyes while being groped from both sides, and everyone laughed and complimented me on being such a good sport.
It wasn’t just men who appreciated them, though; wives in couple calls were often fascinated by them, as were strippers or other escorts whom I met in multi-girl calls. And at Mardi Gras of 2005 I had a particularly memorable encounter with a beautiful nurse. I was there on Bourbon Street with my husband and a friend of his who had never been to a Mardi Gras before, and as usual I was flashing my tits at every opportunity. I’m always amused by the bluenoses who simper about how awful it is that “women expose themselves for a set of plastic beads” on Fat Tuesday; it never occurs to these lemon-suckers that we flash our tits because it pleases us to, not to get the silly beads!
Anyhow, I had just put my top down after one such showing and a lovely woman walked up to me and said, “Excuse me, but when you flashed a minute ago my boyfriend missed it; would you mind showing them again so he can see?” Well, I wasn’t about to let such feminine coolness go unrewarded, so I of course repeated the performance. They both complimented me on them, and she asked if she could touch them; I agreed and the intake of breath from fifty male spectators was audible. Again she told me how beautiful they were, then came the classic question: “Who did them for you?” It turned out she was not only a nurse but worked at the very surgery center in which I had the operation, and when I told her my surgeon’s name she exclaimed, “Oh, I love him! He’s so nice, and I’ve always said if I ever had mine done I would want him to do them for me!”
“Well, I can definitely recommend him; you can see what good work he does,” I said. Now, picture this scene; here are two beautiful women standing in a crowded street in broad daylight, the first with her blouse pulled up while the second holds her tits and the two carry on a lively conversation oblivious to several dozen appreciative male onlookers. Only in New Orleans!
After a few minutes, she let go of my boobs and I dropped my top, and we hugged and kissed and I wished her and her man a happy Mardi Gras. And as we turned to go, my husband’s friend said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes I wish I were a woman.” We laughed and I assured him that I understood. Though neither prudes nor neofeminists comprehend or accept it, there is a power and joy in unashamed female sexuality that is like nothing else I know on Earth, and I thank Dr. S and his masterful technique for giving me the confidence to experience it.
I need a cigarette after reading this post…
After Katrina there was a lot of talk about rebuilding New Orleans and “cleaning it up”. They wanted to make it more “family friendly”. They basically wanted to sacrifice the only city of its kind in the country on the alter of social conformity and make it just like every other city.
Heaven forbid that a country of 300 million people should have a few square blocks where adults are free to be adults.
I remember that discussion well; it was one of the contributing factors to my leaving. But actually, that talk of making New Orleans more “family friendly” started while I was still stripping in 1999; the police chief even got it into his head to announce (without consulting the mayor or city council) that he was going to order the cops to arrest women who flashed at the next Mardi Gras (2000). As Fat Tuesday approached there was hullabaloo about it in the papers, but I had access to a, umm, “inside source” who told me that the business leaders of the city had more or less ordered the mayor to rein the police chief in, and Bourbon Street would be business as usual. I was there (in a sexy schoolgirl outfit with my brand-new titties) and I flashed to my heart’s content right in front of cops with nary a problem.
But since Katrina they really have been doing what they threatened, just very slowly. The old New Orleans is, I’m afraid, gone forever.
Is that the same outfit you wear to wal-mart and traumatize the kids with?
I really do need to get a copy of that video now!
Is that the same outfit you wear to wal-mart and traumatize the kids with?
LOL! Definitely not! I don’t usually show quite so much leg any more, and I generally try to avoid tops through which my nipples are easily visible.
It’s just that when I first got my boob job, Dr. S told me “Don’t wear a bra.” I asked for how long, and he replied, “Never.” He then explained that since my size increase was so dramatic, it would take many years for gravity to soften them and give them a more natural drop, and even if I lived to be a hundred I would never catch up with other big-titted women my age. So, being a good girl who minds her doctors, I have never since worn a bra unless I’m wearing a blouse or dress which absolutely demands it, or else riding over rough terrain in the jeep (the latter need appeared only two years ago).
And, yes, the boobs look very good and that is no small compliment coming from me. I occasionally do nude photography and usually reject anyone with implants simply because they rarely look natural. I finally booked a local model with fairly large implants and yet they were quite natural looking. Definitely among the best I’ve seen (not that I’m an expert).
She also happens to be the oldest woman I ever shot.
Oh, sweetie, the model in that pic isn’t me! That’s just a stock shot I found online. My own are just a little larger than that, and besides I’m a brunette.
But the girl in the picture does indeed have nice ones, IMHO.
The Rita Rudner quote reminds me of a quote attributed to Timothy Leary: “LSD is a drug that causes insanity in people who have not taken it.”
Women do have certain technological advantages over men. Lube is a lot cheaper than Viagra, and was invented a lot earlier. So far, men aren’t being asked, “who did your cock?”
You know, I’ve never so much as driven through or flown over New Orleans, and even I know that the beads are an excuse to flash, not payment. In fact, I have a pic of Supergirl and Mary Marvel at Mardi Gras. Kara is earning those beads.
…even I know that the beads are an excuse to flash, not payment.
Yes, but you have the advantage of not being a bluenosed retard.
In fact, I have a pic of Supergirl and Mary Marvel at Mardi Gras. Kara is earning those beads.
And you are going to send me this, right?
And yes, there are definite advantages to not being a bluenosed retard.
I was rather surprised at a post on the community section of Feministing where a woman was thinking of getting breast implants for rounder breasts (she had tube shapes). Normally you would assume a bunch of feminists would be against it, but it was apparent she wouldn’t get over it quite so easily. Most of the commenters stated something to the effect of “It’s your body do what you want with it!”
Like with anything you either have to fix the problem or learn to live with it. You have to balance the costs and risks of the solution with the costs and risks of the problem. There’s a lot to be said for being comfortable with your body as-is, though I guess in some cases it can actually be worth surgery.
Most feminists seem to take a love the sinner but hate the sin, or rather hate the society that demands we “sin”. Jessica Valenti writes about the problems around female beauty, but still wears make up.
Actually, Jessica Valenti would probably be a hypocrite to blame anyone who flashed their breasts at Mardi Gras. Thus in “Full Frontal Feminism” she instead simply tells you to stop and think about WHY you do this, to be self aware and aware of the issues around it. Which McNeil seems to have done.
I’ve always felt shape was far more important than size. I think I prefer average-sized boobies, and even small one can be unbelievably cute. They tend to be perkier and often pointy, and that’s so much more appealing than big balloons.
But if your high-tech version always holds its shape and never sags, as you say, then you may have found the magick formula– giant-size small boobies. You incredibly lucky lady.

Almost twelve years later, they’re still plenty perky; only in the past few years have they begun to settle into a more teardrop-like shape (as you can see in my picture on the “Offsite” page).
Size _per se_ has never mattered to me, but balance and overall harmony in a woman’s figure does. From the sound of it, that’s what you managed to achieve.
My two cents: One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,I HATE SILICON TITS
This I simply must know. Why, My Lady, do they not use air in large implants?
I can understand that smaller implants would feel odd, and, too, I can understand why they might want all silicon in implants such as yours which represent such a size increase that gravity will have trouble ever catching up. But air in a compartment surrounded by silicon gel would make very large breasts much more buoyant, youthful, and otherwise manageable.
As a retired courtesan, My Lady is likely the best – nay, the only – person on the planet capable of resolving this dilemma!
There are now adjustable implants, using salt water (which is what “saline solution” is). The valves are located in the armpits.
1) Air has no appreciable weight, which would make them feel totally unnatural. 2) Air expands and contracts with altitude, which would be extremely dangerous if a woman went too far above sea level.
Sailor Barsoom writes:
> There are now adjustable implants, using salt water (which is what
> “saline solution” is). The valves are located in the armpits.
Indeed yes, sir! These are even somewhat old by now; Polypropylene implants…
…serve a similar function, but are based on string theory and thus require the solution of a series of n-dimensional equations to properly implant.
My Lady writes:
> 1) Air has no appreciable weight, which would make them
> feel totally unnatural.
I fear My Lady may be in the habit of skimming over my posts rather than reading them carefully. The idea was not to create an air implant, but a silicone implant with a pocket of air which would offset the high density of silicone. Given that silicone has a density some 20% greater than water, and that water itself is more dense than breast tissue by around 10%, the weight of pure silicone implants should feel less natural.
> 2) Air expands and contracts with altitude, which would be
> extremely dangerous if a woman went too far above sea level.
Ah! It is true that air volumes increase with altitude, as this illustrious website shows:
However, people rarely go high enough for this to make a difference. Even airplanes are pressurized to 8000 feet (roughly 2500 meters) where air volumes increase 35% – humans risk altitude sickness at pressures lower than this. It should be a simple matter to create a compartment within the implant to withstand pressure imbalances and keep the implant the same size; the “baloon” could even have enough give to expand that 35%, since the total implant volume would increase by much less than – so long as the implant hadn’t been put in too recently and the surrounding tissues had time to adjust. In fact:
“The trend in new aircraft is to lower the cabin altitude: the Airbus A380 features 5,000 ft (1,500 m) when cruising at 43,000 feet (13,000 m), while the lowest currently flying is the Bombardier Global Express which features 4,500 ft (1,400 m) when cruising at 41,000 feet (12,000 m)”
At 5000 feet (roughly 1500 meters) air volumes increase by only 20%. Surely science that can produce spacecraft allowing man to walk on the moon can also produce air-filled implants allowing woman to make high quality in-flight pornography during those long interplanetary voyages.
“there is a power and joy in unashamed female sexuality that is like nothing else I know on Earth.”
And I *love* every example of it that I come across!!!
I have DDD natural ones and they get tons of compliments too. Id say natural ones FEEL better but theyre also droopier. But theyre loved anyway. Men are drawn to big boobs, perky, droopy, natural, bolt on, they just like boobs!
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