Here is ”Tiffany Gets Her Boobs,” a precursor to my Bubba Goes for Broke novel, published under the pen name David Bawdy.
Tiffany Gets Her Boobs
by David Bawdy
Copyright 2011 by David Bawdy
Published by Pentucket Publishing
Cover illustration copyright ©
Tiffany already had a pair. Just not a pair that she, or anybody else, liked.
Mosquito bites, that’s what the girls in school had called them. They’d called her Tiffy Tiny Tits back then. The boys hadn’t called her at all.
Even now, Tiffany remained as flat-chested as ever and figured if you didn’t have boobs by the time you were eighteen, you weren’t going to get them.
At least not the old-fashioned way.
She dreamed of becoming a star and having everyone admire her for her beauty. A star like Marilyn Monroe, whose posters adorned Tiffany’s apartment walls; still a star almost fifty years after her death. But Tiffany knew that she could have an otherwise cute figure and the platinum blonde hair that bombshell stereotypes were made of, but stardom wasn’t going to happen as long as she had a chest more like Brad Pitt’s than Angelina Jolie’s.
Which was why she was mounting the steps to her brother Peter’s house, a tiny two-bedroom with peeling white paint and a rotting front porch that sagged and creaked beneath her and smelled of mold and mildew. Peter didn’t even own the house; he just lived there and in one of Boston’s poorest suburbs. But Tiffany wasn’t just a dreamer; she was a doer. And though the prospects seemed somewhere between slim and none, she figured the worst that could happen would be that he’d say no.
She put a smile on her face and rang the doorbell. Inside, an obnoxious loud buzz blared as if she’d just answered a question on Jeopardy. The tiny footfalls of a child sounded, followed by the louder steps of an adult.
A look of wary surprise crossed Peter’s face. “Tiffany?” He lifted his two-year-old daughter, red-haired with freckles, into his arms. “What brings you here?”
Tiffany had done her homework. She waved at the little girl. “How’s my little Rachel doing?”
Rachel shrunk away from her.
Tiffany smiled. “It’s your Aunt Tiffany.”
Rachel clung all the more fiercely to her father.
“She’s shy,” Peter said with a shrug. “Come on in.”
The front room was barely larger than an oversized closet, furnished with a threadbare rug, a tattered chair, and a food-stained couch that must have been salvaged off a street on trash pickup day. The room smelled of diapers and baby powder. A picture of Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane hung on the wall, concealing most of a dark stain on the faded wallpaper.
When Tiffany sat on the couch, a broken spring goosed her. She put her hands on her lap and forced a smile back onto her face. “So how’s the preaching business going?”
“It’s not a business,” Peter said.
“Sorry, bad choice of words,” she said, kicking herself for not preparing a script. “How are things going?”
Peter put Rachel on the floor. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “Listen, I’m not crazy about you and you’re not crazy about me. I wish you well and I pray for you often, but we’re two different animals and let’s not pretend otherwise. What brings you here?”
Tiffany drew in a deep breath. What had she been thinking? On a bad idea scale of one to ten, this was probably a thirteen.
“I was wondering if I could borrow some money,” she said.
Peter stared at her. “Are you nuts?” He gestured to first one wall and the other. “Does it look to you like we have any extra money? We can barely keep up with the medicine and diapers for Rachel.”
“I’d be able to pay you back really fast, I promise. If you could, like, take a cash advance on a credit card, I could pay you back with interest. It’ll pay for itself.”
“Do you know what my salary is?” Peter said, looking at her in disbelief. “There isn’t a credit card company foolish enough to give us a line of credit. And if there were, we’re not foolish enough to use it. We have to trust in the Lord, not Bank of America.” He shook his head. “What have you gotten yourself into? And what do you mean, ‘it’ll pay for itself’?”
A sour taste filled Tiffany’s mouth. This was just going to result in ridicule, just like she expected. She licked her lips.
“It’s for an operation.”
Peter’s eyebrows raised. “What’s the matter? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Tiffany said. “Nothing’s wrong with me.” Seeing the concern on his face, she said, “Honest. This is elective surgery so it isn’t covered by my health plan. That’s all.”
“Elective? What kind of elective?”
“If you can’t help me, you can’t help me. Let’s leave it at that.”
She got up to leave, but Peter reached out a hand to her.
“I can’t help. We’re broke. But I’m concerned. What kind of surgery?”
Tiffany smiled. “I need a boob job.”
The next day, Tiffany dressed in her most conservative attire, a black pinstriped, two-button business suit with matching pants, and headed for the Tri-County Credit Union in the Burlington Mall. She’d scolded herself after getting back to the apartment for subjecting herself to Peter’s scorn until she finally convinced herself that she’d had few other options. It wasn’t as though she was ever going to get in contact with Mother as long as she was with Creepy Charlie. So what if Peter humiliated her? She’d been getting humiliated one way or another all her life. Besides, what had it hurt other than her feelings for a couple hours? If nothing else, it had been a practice run for a more likely source of money.
Which was where the Tri-County Credit Union came in. Tiffany had her doubts—she was filled to overflowing with doubts—and felt more than a little sheepish about making such a brazen request, but didn’t corporations do this kind of thing all the time? Why not her?
Besides, Marilyn Monroe hadn’t become famous by hiding her light under a bushel, to use one of Peter’s phrases. No, Marilyn Monroe had let that sucker shine, let it shine, let it shine.
It was time for Tiffany LeBlanc to do some shining.
She entered the credit union, a black purse in one hand and a manila folder with her calculations in the other. The smells of the neighboring food court filled the air: Sbarro pizza, Taco Bell, d’Angelos subs, and of course, McDonalds. An older woman with graying hair sat behind the first desk and a dark-haired woman in her twenties sat behind the second. Tiffany recognized both of them from times she’d come in to cash her check. She walked past them to the man seated behind the third desk, one with a nameplate that said Arthur L. Cromwell, Loans.
A short bald man with a bushy mustache and a disturbing amount of nose hair, Cromwell pointed to the chair opposite his pristinely clean desk.
“What can I do for you?”
Tiffany felt her resolve falter. What if he laughed at her? She’d been laughed at all through school, first for being the only girl so poor she wore patches on her clothes and then for being Tiffy Tiny Tits and never going to dances or getting asked out.
If this man—good god, that really was an obscene amount of nose hair—laughed at her, she’d feel just about ready to die.
Tiffany steeled herself for whatever might come and said, “I’d like a loan.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Cromwell grinned, showing nicotine-stained teeth. “What type of loan?” He opened his drawer. “There’s a different form for each type.” He chuckled. “They keep the vice presidents busy creating new forms every day.” He chuckled some more at his superb wit.
“A medical loan,” she said. “I need a loan for an operation.”
“I see,” Cromwell said gravely. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He put both hands up a few inches off his desk in a defensive motion and said, “It’s none of my business, but I hope it’s nothing serious.”
Tiffany smiled and told him that it wasn’t. “It’s really more of a business loan, the way I look at it.”
Cromwell brightened. “That’s good. We don’t have a medical loan per se, but we certainly have business loans.” He chuckled. “Plenty of forms for that.” He grinned, inviting her to share his mirth.
She smiled back, trying not to look at the nose hairs. At the other desks, printers whirred and receipts were torn off and handed to customers.
“Like I said, I need an operation, one that isn’t covered by my insurance,” Tiffany said. “But it’ll pay for itself in almost no time. That’s why I’m saying it’s really a business loan.”
Confusion crossed Cromwell’s face. “I’m not sure I understand. What type of operation, if I may ask.”
Tiffany licked her lips and smiled. “A boob job.”
Cromwell’s jaw dropped. His eyes fell to her chest and then rocketed back up to her face. “Did I hear you correctly?”
Tiffany nodded. “I really want to be an actress. Or something like that. But…” She gestured toward her chest with both thumbs. “I think I need some help.”
Cromwell wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead. He gulped. “I’m not sure if there’s anything we can do for you. We’d be talking a personal loan and I’m not sure—”
“I keep my checking and savings account here,” Tiffany said. “And you do loans. I figured you loan money to good customers, right?” Tiffany didn’t believe her own bullshit, but she had to try. Marilyn might have had a few tough sales jobs herself.
Cromwell blinked. “Well, we do issue loans to good customers,” he said and chuckled nervously. “But it isn’t that easy. Tell me, what is your account number?”
Tiffany rattled off the digits and Cromwell typed them into his computer.
“You have a little over a thousand dollars in savings,” he said. “How much does a… um, a…” He glanced briefly down at her flat chest, apparently unable to say the word boob. He cleared his throat. “How much of a loan are you looking for?”
“Six thousand dollars.”
Beads of sweat formed again on Cromwell’s forehead. He wiped them away. “Do you have anything you could use as collateral? A car? A house? Stocks?”
Tiffany shook her head. “But you said you have personal loans.”
Cromwell pulled a chart out from his desk drawer. “What you’re talking about is an unsecured loan. That’s because you have no collateral.” He pointed to a line on the chart. “The most we can offer anyone like yourself would be a three thousand dollar personal loan, contingent on a good credit report and solid earnings potential.”
Tiffany pulled a sheet of paper out of her manila envelope. “Here’s where I can make the operation pay for itself.” She pointed to one row of figures. “This is how much I make working at The Gap.” She pointed to a second row of figures. “This is how much I could make, tips included, working at the Hooters on Route 1.”
Cromwell stared at her, seemingly unable to speak.
“I could pay the loan off with the difference in less than a year,” she said. “Probably less than six months.” She plunged on. “But I need six thousand dollars, not three thousand. Three would only get me one boob.”
Cromwell just blinked.
“Forget the personal loan,” Tiffany said, “I figure that this could be the safest business loan you ever give. It’s a guaranteed return. If you need me to, I could form a corporation. Tiffany’s Titties.” She looked hopefully at Cromwell. When she got nothing but a blank stare, she said, “Or if that’s too risqué for a corporation, how about, ‘Tiffany’s Boobs’?”
Cromwell finally broke out of his trance as a look dawning recognition crossed his face. He leaned forward.
“Tell me truth,” he said. “Where do you have the cameras?”
Tiffany tried every bank and credit union in the area, sometimes wearing the same conservative garb and other times wearing her more sexy clothes to accentuate her true potential. But she struck out each time, except for with the two wolves who eyed her up and down and talked about a special kind of collateral. She quickly got up and left both of those times.
Which left her back in her studio apartment, staring at the three posters of Marilyn hanging on the wall behind the sofa: one, a headshot of Marilyn holding a pinkie to her sultry lips; another of her sitting down on stone steps, her black dress hiked up to expose fishnet stockings; and of course her most famous shot of all, the one with her standing on a subway grate, holding down her billowing skirt.
What would Marilyn do? Tiffany had no idea.
She soon began to despair that she’d ever get her boobs. She could barely pay the rent as it was. She wouldn’t become the next Marilyn Monroe; she’d always be the one and only Tiffy Tiny Tits.
The idea came to her while drifting off to sleep on the couch with the TV on. She pulled the scratchy yellow blanket over herself, lay her head down on one of the couch’s lumpy pillows, then shot bolt upright when a story made reference to runners in the upcoming Boston Marathon raising money for charity.
That was it! She had it! A fundraiser. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?
She’d call it the Boob-a-thon.
She didn’t want to be too crass. A moderate amount of crassness was okay, even expected in someone seeking to become a Hooters girl, but she didn’t want to go overboard. Too much of anything, whether crassness or even boobs, was a bad idea.
Tiffany figured a good balance would be a 50-50 split. She’d disperse half the funds for breast augmentation and the other half for breast cancer research. It could be an ongoing fundraiser. After she got her boob job, other worthy candidates could apply.
And it really wouldn’t be taking money away from a worthy cause either. Horny guys—and weren’t all guys horny?—would donate with big boobs in mind, but be able to tell themselves they’d given to a worthy cause. It’d be like the guys of past generations who’d bought Playboy magazine and said they were doing it to read the articles. It might not pass muster as a tax-exempt charity, but that was a detail she could look at later.
She wouldn’t run twenty-six miles. She’d never be able to do that; hell, she doubted she could walk twenty-six miles. But she figured she could walk half of that. She’d walk the first thirteen miles of the Boston marathon course before the procedure and the other half after. Donors would have to trust her and pay up front. And she’d deliver.
The Fenway Park area buzzed with excitement. The New York Yankees were in town to take on the Red Sox. The smell of Italian Sausage, peppers, and onions was in the air. The greasy delicacy sizzled on the grill outside Gate B.
“Get your peanuts!” cried another vendor. “Get your red hot peanuts, pretzels, and Cracker Jacks.”
Tiffany stood thirty yards away on the corner of Brookline Avenue and Yawkey Way, handing out her specially made handbills.
BOOB-A-THON, they proclaimed along the top. Running down from the two B’s were the words Beautify and Boston. Along the bottom read, Fight Breast Cancer.
Tiffany held out the handbills, smiling and for the guys at least, trying to look cute, or at least as cute as she thought she could be pre-op. Most, however, passed right on by without taking the handbill, associating her with the kooks who were handing out political pamphlets or religious tracts that proclaimed, “Jesus Saves! Repent or burn in Hell!” Those in the sardine-packed crowd who took the handbills invariably tossed them to the ground five or six steps later.
In the twenty minutes before a tall, uniformed policeman told her to move along, she received seventeen propositions of varying levels of crudeness and a number of “accidental” hands brushing over her ass as they passed.
Glancing at the ground as she left, she saw the message to repent or go to hell and wondered if that message was for her. She probably deserved to burn in hell for what she was doing.
Tiffany came close to giving up until she realized she was going at the advertising the wrong way. Handbills? Forget it. How lame!
YouTube was the way to go. She tossed the first eleven attempts at a video in her PC’s Recycle Bin, but thought she had the right mix of sexy flirtatiousness in the twelfth one. She didn’t feel sexy, at least not yet. She was hoping that would come later. And she was no good at all with flirting, but this video at least had a shot.
She uploaded it and at first, nothing happened. Tiffany fell into a three-day funk, but emerged with one final last gasp attempt. After taking the subway into the city, she stopped at the first fraternity house on Commonwealth Avenue, one with a weathered brick exterior and a white wooden door.
She rang the doorbell and waited. No one came. She rang it again.
A pleasant-looking face with dripping wet hair poked out the door. “Yes?”
“Hi, my name is Tiffany,” she said, her heart pounding as it did each time she tried her sales pitch. Her mouth felt dry and her hands unsteady. But she continued with her script. “I’m the organizer and an active participant for the First Annual Boob-a-Thon.”
The boy looked about the shut the door until she got to the word boob. “What did you say?” he asked.
She described the fundraiser again.
“Can you come inside?” he asked.
Tiffany backed away. “No.” That was the one thing she’d told herself she’d never do. She wasn’t stepping foot alone inside any frat house no matter how good-looking the boy was who answered. “I have to stay out here. Sorry.”
He laughed. “Then give me a second.”
He took longer than two minutes. As Tiffany was about to leave, the boy opened the door and stepped out. About six feet tall and muscular. Green eyes, a nice smile, and a cast on his foot.
“Sorry, I was in the shower,” he said. He pointed to the cast. “It takes me time to get around. I’m usually the last guy to answer the door, but everyone else is away at the intramural lacrosse match.”
Tiffany smiled. “Sorry to bother you.”
“No,” he said, gesturing dismissively. “No bother. By the way, I’m Tyler and you said you were…”
When she explained the fundraiser, Tyler broke into a broad grin. “That’s outstanding!” He laughed and shook his head. “You’ve got real balls and I mean that as a compliment.” He ran his fingers through his wet hair. “This is perfect! Listen, I’ll have to talk to the rest of the guys, but I’m the Social Chairman so I’ve got a lot of pull. If you’re looking for a fraternity sponsor, you’ve got one. And I’ll send an email to the rest of our chapters nationally and to some other houses we’re close to. We’ll get you your… enhancement before you know it.”
Within a week, the youtube video went viral. Two months later, Tiffany completed the first thirteen miles of the challenge. A week later, she underwent the surgery.
Afterward, she looked at herself in the ceiling-to-floor mirror on the back of the bathroom door, posing at every angle and liking what she saw. She couldn’t wait for her first high school reunion. She’d look up everyone who’d taunted her and get the last laugh. Payback would be a very snippy bitch.
But it wouldn’t end there. This wasn’t about revenge for the past. This was for the future. She walked out to stand before the Marilyn Monroe posters on the wall, focusing on Marilyn and her billowing skirts above the subway grate.
“I’m going to be a star,” Tiffany said, pointing at Marilyn. “Just wait and see.”
If you liked this story, you’ll probably enjoy Tiffany’s exploits in the novel Bubba Goes for Broke. Read the first two chapters here.