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A RACK OF MY OWN
BY MICHAEL FOWLER

My girlfriend has been very understanding throughout my alteration. She supported me in my initial decision and helped me keep my spirits up following the difficult surgical procedure and stands by me even now that my breasts are as feminine as hers, and Iíd say as appealing. Iím sure one reason she went along was that I was driving her insane by focusing on her nooglies all the time. ďYours are so great, Gwen,Ē I kept telling her, ďI have to see them this second.Ē A fanatic, I tell you, a hopeless fanatic. And I squeezed and lapped at her so much she must have felt like she was breastfeeding quintuplets every day, quintuplets with beards and teeth and claws. She complained of soreness a lot, and was thrilled when I told her I was thinking about getting some softballs of my own to abuse. ďGo for it,Ē she said. ďMaybe thatíll take some of the heat off mine.Ē

And Gwen came to visit me every day when I was all bandaged up in the recovery  room, my mind a turmoil of doubts about how I would look after I healed. Iíd chosen a nude picture of Gwen as my model for Dr. Casey, which flattered her I think, but still, you always  thought of the horror stories. Everyoneís heard about people who, for all their surgeonís best  intentions, come out with chests like two servings of lumpy mashed potatoes with dots of gravy at the center. I thought too of the freakishly endowed substitute teacher at my high school years ago, who all the kids called Ski Jump, after her startling profile. Would one of these be the new me? Would I turn out as Mr. Potato Scoops, or Sir Ski Jump? Gwen was there to reassure me that Dr. Casey had stuffed my new set with just the right amount of real fat from my real ass to make me look both natural and hot. That was the other part of me that was healing too, so I was in bad shape there for a while. 

When the bandages came off, I was plenty black and blue, but you could already see I was stacked like heaven. In a week or two I could have put on a wig and posed for Playboy, provided I kept up the regular depilatory treatments I needed to keep my chest smooth. I was a fairly hairy guy, and I wasnít thrilled with the idea of lathering up my mahatmas each day and shaving them with a safety razor. So I decided to go with hair removal cream, and found I needed a lot of it to keep my mams from looking like a female gorillaís. At first I put the cream just on the jugs, and was thrilled to see their snow-white beauty emerge from the hirsute forest that was the rest of my chest. It was Gwen who suggested that I remove the hair from my entire upper body, so I wouldnít resemble King Kong sporting Fay Wrayís fandangos. For a time I heeded her advice and spread the cream everywhere above my waist, but ultimately this was too much trouble, and the idea of extensive electrolysis terrified me. Besides, all I cared about was my na-nas. As long as they were smooth and silky and sensitive, I didnít mind if the rest of me resembled an old rug. I wasnít entering any nudist pageant after all. This was just for me, and whomever I happened to be sharing my bed with. Happily, that was an understanding soul like Gwen. And I was comforted in the thought that, even if Gwen up and left me someday, Iíll still have her rack to remember her by. 

When I lie in bed with Gwen now, I touch her and then me and make comparisons. Yep, Iím fondling four these days. She has marginally better nippletons, and my aureolas arenít that great. I prefer her, I think, but itís close. In my breast judgment, weíre both soft as butter and white as cream. And then with all my comparison testing, I find my greedy hands and mouth are on Gwen about as often now as they were before my change; if she was hoping for a break there, it hasnít come. It canít be much less, Iím thinking, than every minute of our time together, same as always. But Gwen says she gets a kick out of the new me, that Iím sort of like sleeping with a couple, a man and a woman both, and that allows her to work out certain fantasies. And Iím all for working out fantasies, believe me. Anything that helps Gwen enjoy the new me is to the good.

But mainly Iím for myself, when Gwen isnít around, so that not for one moment do I have to go without a nifty set to cherish. In the privacy of my own apartment I fondle Susie and Kate, as I call my new girls, to my heartís content, and talk to them in loving tones. I like to stand in front of the mirror with those rose-tipped sisters hanging over my hairy forearm that I place under them like a shelf.  Man, that makes me drool. Or watch them change shape as  lie down or get up and bend over. Theyíre big enough that I can suck on íem, or just peak down my own cleavage if thatís all I want. Sometimes I pretend theyíre Gwen, and sometimes theyíre only me. Iím cool either way. 

Since Iím not into being a public ninny, I wear a tamping-down undergarment to work, and no one but Gwen and I know my little secret. Everyone else thinks I had lung surgery. Sometimes I think itíd be fun if I took up an invitation from some of my pals at the office to go to the Y for some chest-flopping basketball and an eye-popping shower after, but Iím saving that for when Iím roaring drunk. Right now my babies and I are fine by ourselves. Thanks a bunch, doc, for slappiní íem on me. Theyíre worth every one of the million pennies I paid you, and so much more.

[Forever after at http://eyeshot.net/fowlerrack.html]
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