The D’s and the B’s

Finally! I am fulfilling my implantation duties! I! am! the chosen one!

The latexed fingers of the surgeon squeezed the B-cup saline implant.

From the beginning. Ah, the necessities of breast implants. The elastomer shell with its clever self-sealing filling valve on the front. Or the back! It doesn’t matter which, as long as when they’re filled with that silicone gel or saline, they expand like angry blowfish. And this is appealing to a large amount of men. (…?)

Oh but the things that can go wrong. The perky shell next to its sad, deflated counterpart. The saline that frees itself, but just in one! And it always chooses the most inopportune time to do so. In an airplane, where all of a sudden the woman in first class has one double-D and one double-deflated breast. And as she asks the flight attendant for assistance, she explains whimsically, “Oh, I guess I’m not retaining water anymore! ha ha!” And the flight attendant ogles the single mound on the right side of the passenger’s chest, as though it took over the other one, and the left one were simply weeping in defeat, and the passenger chuckles, and harder when each time she does, saline blubs out from beneath her wilted left breast.

But then there are the sampler implants. The ones that never actually get used, but slosh around every day between the surgeons fingers, and find themselves beneath the cotton tee-shirts of the friends who came along for moral support but suddenly turn fifteen when they get their hands on the filled sacs, and instantly inflate to alpha cups since they already have their own massive implants.

There are the implants that are pre-filled, and the implants that lay desiccated, glommed together in a sterile heap.

But it is the B-cup implants that are most unfortunate, peering out from behind the gang of D’s. Those B’s see so many wonderfully too-small breasts, and so many tiny-framed reasonable women who come in adamantly stating they don’t want to go too big, but then the husbands who sit in the chairs next to them say, “Babe, if you’re gonna do this, might as well go all out.” And the woman, happy she can be angry with someone else if it turns out C is too big, agrees.

And so the B’s get teased, lifted, squished, and then beaten out by the C’s, and the D’s slither past when they beat out both. Oh, the D’s. The most sought after fake there is. How did they become so popular? Damn amoebas. The silicone crowd. The drawer slams shut, and the larger implants titter at the motionless smaller ones, like a jelloey old man who laughs silently while his shoulders shake.

Saline is more blobular than silicone.

The saline B, squished between two obese D’s, molds into an hourglass as the engulfing silicone masses hold their form.

Of course, there are the A’s as well. But they usually just rest in the back of the drawer, expecting to be ignored, like it’s their job to make sure no B’s get pushed around too much and wind up forgotten in the back.

Look! There are B’s here too! See? See? Aren’t they nice?

And the doc’s hand shoves past the B’s.