Push Ups

“I just got a bra that’ll make my tits a whole cup bigger!” I sing into my iPhone, talking to The Boy, my boy. “It’s so boss!”

“How many times did you go to Starbucks today?” he asks.

“Only three,” I say. “Anyway, this bra will satisfy me until I break into my IRA to fund my future Botox addiction.” I watch my face in a mirror, and my brows wrinkle at a shadow of a crease I find framing my smile. “That’s really what my retirement stash is for, because the motherfucking Lord knows I’ll be in my death bed, working, wordsmithing dirty stories while giving you a blow job.”

“I’ve always admired your ambition.”

“What about my tits?” I push my boobs higher, though they’re already reaching for the sky in their satiny black Instant Shape bra, a gift from Dr. Rey’s–BKA Dr. 90210–publicist. I suck in my stomach so it curves inward, like my thoughts: though my breasts are inflated, my ego’s deflating as I remember the less swollen numbers of a dot-com I’m working on. I force myself from frowning, mindful of those wrinkles ’round my grin, and I wonder, “Why don’t they make a push-up bra for self-esteem, or a cincher for accomplishment?”

“Yeah, like you need one, you little cock sucker.”

“Thank you, pussy licker.” I smile, forgetting for a moment those parentheses lining my smirk. “I’ll be over in a couple hours, sir.” And I hang up, and I blink past typing hard and driving harder, and I’m in front of the super-sized door of The Boy’s home, The Castle I call it, the equivalent of a Trump woman: all hyper-groomed, unapologetically enhanced beauty. Against the tiled walls of his courtyard, a showcase fountain rains liquid sunshine, and the water falling onto the marble statue’s perfect chest reminds me of gold-streaked hair cascading into amplified cleavage. I eat up the fount’s beauty, while I phone The Boy: a doorbell is the only thing missing from a heavy door wearing diamond-cut glass. “Ding-dong, where’s my dong?”

He cracks open the door’s mini French windows, and I unhinge my leopard trench coat to flash my jet-black bra and panties. “Look how huge they are!” I say.

“Password correct.” The Boy stands in the entrance, covering the mouth of the door as it yawns open. “Your tits were great already.”

I slide in and out of his hug to check my figure sideways in his foyer’s mirror. “Good god, what good girls!” And then I lie for probably the fifth time in my twenty-some years: “I wore this bra just for you.”

“So why don’t you take it off just for me?” The Boy reaches behind my back.

“No, no, not yet! I–” He smothers my protests with his tongue, and finally my desire for pleasure grows beyond my vanity, and soon we’re naked in his bed, my carefully coiffed bob turned bedhead, my panties and bra wrinkled on the floor.

“Your tits are perfect,” says The Boy, his soft kiss punctuating his declaration.

I survey my two mini mountains, but my thoughts fast trail to how I should worry less about expanding my bra size and more about my business. “You’re right. They’re pretty fucking fine.”

“And see? I told you you didn’t need a goddamn push-up bra for your ego.”

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"Push Ups" keywords: Cover Story, Fashion, Jewelry, SEX .
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