The Giver and the Gifts

In fairness, though, the poet hadn't done much worse than the other men I've let into my life. My suitors might start amorously enough, glad to accept the gifts of my areolas, my nipples, and my breasts; they might be delighted, too, to fondle and caress and stroke and pinch my fabulous bottom. However, each, to the last, from the moment that my breasts first started to swell, or to "develop," as my older sister Susie insists upon saying, became awkward and embarrassed, even angry, when I offered them the gift of my other, less womanly charms. Repeatedly, Susie has warned me of this possibility, except that she refers to it more as a probability, or even, with some men, an inevitability. "Be prepared," she cautions. "Some men--maybe most--will be angry; some may be verbally abusive. A few--" and here, she shuddered--"may get physical."

Recalling the words to Madonna's "Material Girl," I thought, I'd like them to get physical. I'd enjoy making their bodies "talk." I'd love to make them scream with the pleasure I could give them, if only they'd give me the chance, if only they'd accept all of the gifts I have to give.

I was beginning to think it was as hopeless as Susie seems to believe. Then, I met Brad. The handsomest man in the world, Brad smiled at me one day, and my heart melted.

I was at Betty and Veronica's, a 1950's-style soda fountain adjacent to the local Beefy Buns hamburger joint, and Brad, its owner, was working the late shirt, covering for his nephew, who, at the last moment, had asked for the night off so he could enjoy a "hot date" with a local high school beauty (poor girl).

I'd ordered a sundae, with two scoops of vanilla ice cream. Brad, gazing at the massive display of cleavage I had on display that evening, smiled, his cheeks dimpling, as he said, in a tone that was flirtatious without being crude or vulgar, "Looks to me as if you already have two scoops of the sweetest vanilla ice cream anyone could want," meaning my breasts, of course.