heatherbeck

And, the current playlist. Love this gal.

"Here Comes the Sun"… There's a little piano solo in the middle that was literally my ringtone for 2 years. Fucking love that song.

Potage Parmentier!

It's literally just potato-leek soup. But it's just so much fun to say, "Potaaaagge par-meeennn-teee-errrrhhh!!! Just one of those chilly days where a bisque sounds 👍🏻. Hit me up if you want the recipe!

(Ed. note: just here's the recipe! Thanks for the recommendation. 🙂

Two big old leeks, take off the roots and the dark green parts. Rinse that shit! Three medium-size potatoes, four cloves of garlic, but you've got to go with your heart on garlic, so go as crazy as you want. A good solid chicken stock, about a liter. Teaspoon salt; teaspoon of pepper if you're a wuss, but make it a tablespoon if you have the balls. Another teaspoon of thyme, a bayleaf, and take it out before you blend the shit out of it. Add in a whole cup of heavy cream at the end, because heavy cream is the shit. Then, top it off with a toasted chunk of bread, and a dusting of chives. I don't have chives. So I'm going with parsley.

I don't really go with measurements. I have a hard enough time measuring things. 😜✋🏻🏀🏀🤚🏻

Jump!

Oddly enough? I didn't even realize it was a haiku until I already wrote it. But just a snippet of Weekend Silliness, devoid of context. Hope you like it — needless to say, floppy leaps are things I... tend to keep to a minimum for obvious reasons. (😬Ouch!)

Five Year Anniversary

In the last couple of days, it slammed into me like a sack of bricks. I just lost track of time, and forgot the context.

Those of you who have been kind enough to read through all my of drivel, all the way back to post No. 1 here on the Patreon, have a pretty okay idea of how I ceased to be nNormal Everyday Heather, and instead, because Heather With The Boobs. If not, no worries, and no rush. In short? It was a one-night fling with a really nice, thoroughly decent acquaintance. I got knocked up briefly, had a miscarriage (it’s ok, don’t work about it), and in the mix, my hormones went absolutely batshit insane. Boobs, more boobs, and more boobs. As, I’ve at least tried my best, to explain here in one way or another.

But in talking with Just Alex the other day (the fella who did the super-meta drawing at the top of this post), it sunk in. That one-night stand? That was after a Halloween party. In 2014. It’s been five years.

If you’ve read a chunk of my stuff, you’ll know how this weird metamorphosis has affected me, and what the process has been like to overcome it, adapt, move on, actually enjoy life again. But anniversaries are strange things… something as simple as the passage around one’s native star encourages one to reflect, digest, take stock.

In this conversation the other night, Just Alex was showing me all sorts of illustrations he’d done over the years (stuff that I think a great many of you would give a solid thumbs up to). Some of it is large breast-oriented, but some of it heads outside of the box. I won’t get into specifics, but maybe later.

Thing is… five years ago, during that one-night stand. I had no idea what life as a non-normal-boobed person was like. I was just a 30-year-old woman with bills, a job, friends, a favorite place where I hit up brunch, a bar down the street, normal shit.

If you would have been some boyfriend who I brought back to my place in those days, and you would have confessed an obsession for large breasts? I would have said… “Uhm… Alright. Whatever.” If you and I would have hung out for a little while, and you would have said, “You know what? I have this obsession with this niche fetish called ‘breast expansion, it’s on the internet, look it up,’” I would have cocked my eyebrows, and said… “Uhhhh… Huh. Alright.” And then, we would have hung out for the night, and I would have reflected, and I, in all honesty, probably wouldn’t have picked up the phone the next time you called.

Then, life changed. I became one of these BE stories in real life (I did a post a little while back, some of you might recall, about how I dived into these pieces of fiction when I found myself at a loss for any useful info on Google, mid-growth). And I HATED it, for a while.

But then, I slowly started to adapt, especially in the last couple of years, and finally, I started to embrace it.

As I told Just Alex the other night, when he was sharing some pretty crazy pictures: Five years ago, I would have been pretty taken aback, and not in a good way, at the types of images he’s shown me. But, I’ve grown (in more ways than one!) I’ve adapted.

As my chest has gotten broader, so has my mind.

It doesn’t happen instantly. It takes interactions, conversations, people who are cool who say, “this is why I like this, and that’s (duh) why we started talking, but now that we are talking, I see beyond the boobs.” And that’s refreshing all by itself. As I’ve said before, I know more than anyone that I have big boobs (“Do you know how big your boobs are?!” “Yes.”)

But it tweaks the chemistry. In adapting to this, five years since the inception, I’ve become a different person than I would have been were it not for that one-night stand. Not just as far as tits are concerned. But worldview. Outlook. Empathy, understanding, and general chill has become so much more important to me than it was before, and it’s taken on a different context. As I’ve built more walls, others have (and I only realized this tremendously recently) come tumbling down like Jericho.

And so, with an open mind, when I look at Just Alex’s illustrations, I can almost chuckle at how odd it is that I actually dig them, especially when I compare present-day Heather to the heather of a half-decade ago. And then, that makes me chuckle even more at how funny it is that the Heather of five years ago would have ghosted a person with a giant boob fetish; while the Heather of today spends her time actually writing stories about the exact same topic.

We all grow. We all change. We can all look back on ourselves five years ago and say, “Shit… isn’t it weird that I used to think that?” Hindsight is 20/20. So as easy as it is to do that, it’s just as hard to look forward five years and say, “Thats the person I’m gonna be, that insanity will be a part of me.

So first, Happy Halloween. A night for altered perspectives, if nothing else.

And second… think about who you were five years ago tonight. Who were you, where did you live, what did you think? Did you think you would be sitting where you are, right now?

Then, time capsule yourself and predict where you might be in five more years. On a 10-scale, how sure are you of how much that’ll come true?

Isn’t it fun that life is unpredictable? And that, even if you hate it at the time, you can look back on the lower manifestations of unpredictability and say… “Shit. This is how I got here.”

That can’t be all bad. Might as well take the most terrifying night of the year to think about this stuff.

(And yes. Regarding the picture up top… this might be a startlingly accurate representation of how I spend a decent portion of my phone time… you would too, don't deny it. :-P)

Street Addresses and Shoeboxes

As I said only recently on quite a couple of occasions, my Spanish is getting better. Poco, a poco, a poco. Still, there are some phrases that are outside of my purview. Those idioms and pieces of slang that every language has.

In my case, I wonder what the Spanish translation for "Heather Beck" would be. If I only had one guess, I would say that it might be something akin to "Girl with the Giant Tits Who Doesn't Know How Mail Works."

I never set up a post office box in the United States. So I'm not entirely sure whether or not it's a particularly easy process. PO boxes seem almost like little shoebox-shaped dinosaurs. Some sort of carryover from the days of Blackberries and Blockbusters. After all, how much do we even rely on mail anymore? Amazon packages are great, but our bills, our postcards, those little nuggets of tri-folded paper we would get in plastic-windowed envelopes? I'm curious, how many of you actually check your mailbox on a daily basis? Back when it was still an essential thing, I know I didn't.

Long story short, the Spanish post is complicated. I live in a place that I don't own, and as a result, sometimes packages are in the hands of the post person, but they don't make it to mine, because I don't have the proper identification for the property. And then, if I address it to the house's rightful owner, they need to be here to receive it, which, unfortunately, my aunt is not.

So! I've found a workaround, which leads me back to the PO Box (or "apartado"). I finally got one!

Though... it was necessary for me to register the first line as a... company name? Mmm-kay.

Since Heather with the Beck (nee Boobs) is not (yet) a Fortune 500 company, I had to get clever on the spot, pen in hand. (Though I'm sure there are other slang terms en Español, I still felt awkward about writing "Boobs" on a document, even if only as minimally official as a post office document).

So! Abbreviations. It worked for Sterling, Cooper, Draper, Pryce. So how about HWTB? I like it. But... it lacks flair.

I'm re-reading Beowulf at the moment. So in the blank stare at the Correos... Grendel?

HWTB Grendel. Sounds like an accounting firm! Or a trendy marketing agency, the kind where the employees wear graphic tees and call eachother "dude."

So, with that, I have a terribly unofficial company name. And a number on a box, and from there, a city with a ZIP code. But it's enough! I even had a friend mail me an international letter to see if I would get it. I did; didn't even need to unlock my box. The guy at the post office recognized me (somewhat obviously), reached in before I was able to get to the counter, and was like, "here's your letter."

So with that, everybody. I have a street address. Kind of. It's a shoebox. As you all generally know, I'm not the type of person to really digs the whole Amazon wish list thing, but in lieu of that? Maybe there'll be a postcard you run across, or some oddity, or several gold ingots (pushing it?). If so, it might be kind of fun to make the wide, wide world a little smaller. Something to get that giddy thrill involved in actually (gasp!) buying a stamp. Anyway, it's all in good fun.

Without any further adieu, if you want to do the whole pen pal thing, hit me up and I'll share. :-)

The Girl in the High Tower - Chapter 4

(Author's note: For those of you who are enjoying this story, thanks a million! One note, amended for canon in Chapter 3: previously, Nadya's age was 19. But the more I began outlining this story, and started to see where it was going [especially with regard to Nadya's character arc], the more I just got this tinge in the back of my mind that said 19 was just too young. As a friend of mine said, "Those early 20s... so much happens in those years." So true. So, before going too much farther, I felt the need to amend. So: Nadya's age is now 24. Enjoy!)

Closing the curtains behind her, Nadya re-entered the solitude of her bedroom space. It was nearly dark in her room, the only illumination in the cavernous apartment emitting from periodic lights embedded in the ceiling along the length of her penthouse realm. 

Confirming that the edge of the curtain was indeed flush to the wall and that the drone could no longer see her, Nadya slowly rotated her body to face her bed. The distance back to her mattress was no more than 10 feet, but before making such a journey, she decided to give herself a moment. She had been standing in the window for a few minutes by the time Roger’s drone showed up and, fearing its arrival might be a sudden one, wanted to remain at the ready with her message. Even so, a period as brief as a few minutes still tended to strain Nadya’s capable musculature, so bending her knees slightly and leaning forward, she rested the bulk of her heft onto the cool hardwood floor. Slouching further, and taking to one knee, then two, she rested her colossal breasts on the floor completely, pressing her body into their soft yielding flesh before arching her back to loosen up her tense muscles.

Finally, she allowed herself to breathe a heavy sigh. Still holding her black journal in one hand, she rested her arms atop the slope of her chest, and felt a giddy smirk spread across her face. He came, she thought. He really came to see me…

(preliminary sketch by @hefty_cuties)

There had been so many nights… So many nights where she had worried that nobody would ever come to see her again. Not anybody who didn’t have to. The pain of isolation, and the longing for company had gotten so severe that she would go whole nights without sleeping. Even back home, she recalled with a bitter twinge, the visitors and well-wishers had evaporated years before, and while she deeply loved her family, she had longed for something else. Someone else. Someone new.

Absently, with movement so fluid it bordered on reflex, she reached a hand to a bulge of flesh that met the floor. Scooping her hand underneath, she tightened her arm and rocked her body to the side, settling her dominating breasts and relieving a small stretching pinch that occurred normally during the countless times that she had defaulted to this resting position before. But still, her mind stayed. 

She didn’t know why she trusted this man. As far as she had known, he was a solitary face in the street, and then, a person on the other end of a remote control. But it was something about his eyes, she thought. She had only seen him for a moment, through sunglasses, all those weeks before. But she noticed his eyes, and little else. There was a look of shock there, of course; one she had more-than become used to in years of occasional outings, doctors appointments, family events... This shock upon seeing her and what she had become, she hated to think, had been universal in her life: in children, it would be accompanied by pointing fingers and eager questions; to the parents, it would be accompanied by the drawn face of pity; in women, disgust was an emotion Nadya had seen countless times, as if her body was an affront; men would follow her, camera phones in hand; teenagers would chuckle under their breath or shout demeaning names before erupting into laughter; the few who felt even somewhat close to Nadya would sometimes be overwhelmed by curiosity and would insist on feeling her to confirm the reality of what she was; doctors would scowl with concern; she would even see her own mother, in presumed privacy, putting on an overly cheerful demeanor like a mask, not knowing that Nadya could hear her crying through the thin walls of their old house. In each one of these interactions, she wasn’t a woman attached to an impossible pair of breasts; she was a pair of impossible breasts attached to a woman. 

But this man, this Roger. Her trained observation of human reaction allowed her to see a faint glimmer of something she rarely received from those who saw her. So rare in fact, that she didn’t have a name for it. Kindness? Empathy? Compassion? She couldn’t tell. But the way it made her feel… it was like he was seeing her.

She breathed deeply, again. Zoya was asleep, she assumed, but if she awoke and found Nadya like this, she would insist on helping her up, tucking her back into bed, telling her some story about the old country while she did so… Nadya didn’t want that right now. She wanted this moment, to herself, for her. 

Angling her sapphire eyes back toward her bed, she decided she would make the sojourn and tuck herself in for the night. She relished this opportunity, in fact, and constantly reminded herself to not take her independence for granted. She couldn’t be sure for how much longer she would be self-sufficient enough for a task even as simple as this one… but that’s not something Nadya liked to think about very much. Maybe she would get better before she had to think about that more than she already did.

Planting her feet, one by one, her knees pressed deeply into the small mountains of flesh lain before her as she assumed a squatting position. Like a professional weightlifter, this preparatory stance was one she had perfected: feet apart, back straight, shoulders up, head back, arms bracing, breathe in, breathe out. And in one slow motion, she rose above the floor, the muscles in her toned thighs and firm, flaring ass clearly showing their tension through her creamy skin. The higher she rose, the greater the weight she endured, until finally, she felt the bottoms of her distended breasts break their contact with the wooden floor. 

Doing the best she could to keep her stability, she pressed her arms into the gentle, curving slope that ran from her ribs to her ankles. Her arms simply weren’t long enough to brace the fullest part of her corpulent endowments, but with a steady pace, she took a step, pressing her thigh and calf into its respective breast, and in the process, causing it to protrude past its sister for a moment before the same movement was repeated by the other leg. It was an exhausting science, but one Nadya had perfected: too slow, and she would wear herself out and have to take a break again; to fast, and she could lose her balance and topple forward onto the floor, the shock of which could cause painful pulling on her resilient, but ultimately delicate skin. 

After a moment, she reached the edge of her bed, and tossed her journal toward her nightstand. She had long ago decided to eschew a traditional bed frame, opting instead for something that looked out of place in the vast luxurious space in which she lived — a simple, large mattress with usually disheveled sheets. Reaching her arm out, she made contact with the hand bar that was suspended over the bed by a heavy chain from the ceiling and pulled it toward her. Gripping it firmly with both hands, and gritting her jaw as she held the support device just under her chin, she took one step onto the soft mattress. And then, another. Still holding on tightly, she rotated her body, again, back toward the obscured window. And like completing a pull-up, she slowly descended her body onto the bed, taking a moment before touching down to use one of her legs to shove her breast as far as she could to the side before resting her most prominent features altogether. Straightening her arms, she lowered herself downwards, backwards, farther, until her back made contact with the Egyptian cotton sheets. She let go of the metal bar, which swung erratically above her.

Resting her arms, again, atop the mounds of flesh that straddled her on each side, Nadya breathed to signal the end of her workout. Closing her eyes, she took mental stock. Shit, she thought. She had neglected to move her bedsheet out of the way so she could drape it onto herself once she lay down. Now, this blanket was pinned underneath her, and she knew already that there was no way she was going to get it out. Sensing a slight chill in the air that she knew would only intensify as the night went on, she reached for a small electronic tablet that was kept on her nightstand. It had taken Nadya a while to figure out how to use such a device, but it was no big problem to adjust the smart-penthouse’s thermostat a few degrees warmer. This computer, she had been disappointed to discover, could not connect to the internet — but no worries. That’s what her secret phone was for. 

Ever paranoid about losing her phone, that one device that connected her to the outside world — and now, to Roger! — she leaned to retrieve the hope chest that was concealed behind some books on the bottom shelf of her nightstand. Under pieces of paper, a scant few photographs from her life, mementos from home, trinkets she prized, safely hidden, there it was, turned off and with a full battery, thanks to the matching charger that came with the home’s tablet device. She returned the box to the shelf, stacked books in front again, and as she resettled, her mind shifted to tomorrow: to the routine she had developed during her time there.

She would wake up… Zoya would arrive with the first rays of the sun, bearing a breakfast of eggs, toast, sausages, coffee, and… Ugh, Nadya thought. Her least favorite part of the morning… that terrible medicine that she would have to drink every drop of. At first, the flavor wasn’t so bad. But Nadya was beginning to grow weary of vanilla. 

And then, a few hours in front of the television… some time spent in her library area, reading a book in Russian, or maybe English so she could learn more of this difficult language — finally, she had a reason to use it! She had been self-conscious of everything she had typed earlier, and she hoped that Roger didn’t think she was being rude or abrupt, or worse, that she wasn’t smart. Yes, she thought… she would need to practice for her new friend. And then, there was that set of paints that she had requested Zoya to purchase. Nadya didn’t fancy herself the best artist in the world, but she had been eager to paint a scene of the city out her window: something about that, she thought, would make her feel closer to it all. 

At some point, medicine again... She would make dinner tomorrow night. One of her cookbooks featured a recipe for smoked salmon that she had been eager to try. She would have to tell Zoya to pick some up at the store when she went out on her shopping rounds.

But, she knew she would be counting down the hours until bedtime. She had taken a chance on this night, using her phone while Zoya was preparing herself for bed. So she hoped that later tomorrow, when she was sure the house was quiet for the night, that Roger would be waiting on the other end of their Instagram discussion. Maybe she would take some time to lay in the sun, on the terrace, and maybe she would be able to see Roger’s drone piloting around the sky above her home? She giggled at the thought.

Her joy was short-lived, however, as she recalled the one scheduled event of her month: how could she forget? Her treatment was tomorrow. Ugh... Out with dinner, and out with an early bedtime. Nadya huffed. She wasn’t looking forward to this appointment. 

Nadya closed her eyes, trying to ignore the recollections from her first session, one month ago... had it been that long? Still, the memories poured in, and she felt a tinge of apprehension.

Nadya knew she would cringe when Zoya wheeled the isolation tank from the storage room into the living area, perching it on the ground next to the specially made, crescent-shaped dining room table. Zoya would tell Nadya that she needed to be bathed, after which Nadya would probably wait on the couch watching television until Dr. Mishkin arrived. She had nothing against Dr. Mishkin. She had only met him a few times, but he was a kind man, was Russian as well, and she was entertained by his gregarious stories of growing up in St. Petersberg. She admired his wit, and appreciated his genuineness… and after all — he was only there to help her, and she had to remind herself that it was very fortunate indeed that she didn’t need to go to a hospital every month — that her treatment could come to her. Fortunate also, that she had been so privileged to receive this treatment at all! Ultimately, she preferred it that way.

But that tank… she saw it in her mind’s eye. A white cylinder just a little taller than she was. And, about a third of the way down, an oval-shaped porthole that, as she had been told, was cut specifically to mold around the area where her breasts met her body. Claustrophobia and Nadya were old adversaries, and she nearly cried after hearing for the first time, more than a month ago, that she would have to spend four hours inside this pitch-dark, soundproof place.

She had been told that it was necessary, and she could understand the reason well enough. This treatment, while promising to be effective, was dangerous. And even if her body was exposed to it just a little, she could be seriously hurt or become ill. Only her breasts could remain in the outside air, awash in the chemicals, the radiation; the rest of her had to remain safely inside the white cylinder.

Zoya had been kind. Seeing her angst, she went to a local store and purchased a special headset and earphones that would allow Nadya to be distracted and entertained while the treatment took place. “You can watch your favorite show,” Zoya had said, “and ignore the unpleasantness.”

It helped. She still felt a little anxious the first time, just one month ago, when Zoya and Dr. Mishkin hefted her breasts, one by one, onto the crescent-shaped table. Nadya stood in the cut-out section while her nurse and her Doctor meticulously positioned them on the surface before her, making sure to pay great attention to her comfort. 

Once in place, Dr. Mishkin gave her one more explanation of what would be involved. “Are you comfortable, Nadya? Good. Now as we discussed, this will take about four hours. I know you might be uncomfortable, but I must assure you this is completely safe. You might feel some pressure and sensations now and again, but nothing unpleasant or painful. The important thing to remember is that this procedure must run its course. It cannot be stopped at any time. Do you understand, Nadya?”

She remembered nodding her head, and giving a weak smile.

“Good! And I hear you have some movies to watch! The time will just fly by!”

He asked Zoya to wheel the open half cylinder to where Nadya was standing. As she did so, Nadya stepped backwards and upwards until she stood alone in the space, giving an involuntary shiver. She had recently seen a movie where one of the characters was put into an iron maiden, and while she knew that this device was meant to help her — not torture her — she couldn’t ignore the uncanny similarity. Irrational she knew, but the image wouldn’t escape her mind.

“OK, Nadya, it is nearly time to begin. Are you ready?” Dr. Mishkin seemed jovial, even enthusiastic.

Again, Nadya weakly nodded, glancing past his face for a moment to the light of a setting sun outside the windows. To the wider world on the other side of the glass. She felt a welling in her throat.  

“Fine. Zoya, will you help me with the panels, please?”

Carefully, Zoya supplied a panel that occupied another quarter of wallspace to the capsule, being careful to fit her half of the oval cutout flush to Nadya’s ribs, and under one of her breasts. Nadya didn’t want to see the other panel going on, and be confronted with the fact that she was in silent darkness. Putting on her headset and earphones and confirming that the small unit was playing a loop of The Simpsons episodes, she nodded her head one last time, feeling the vibration of the other panel being put into place, and feeling the firmness of the cut-out opening wrapping around the base of her breasts completely. 

Dr. Mishkin had been correct. As she watched the misadventures of the people of Springfield — in English! — she noticed that the treatment wasn’t unpleasant. Some pressure, some sensations, and a couple of pinches around her distant nipple that took her out of her numb meditation, but only for a second. Her mind would wander. She had seen pictures of the intricate equipment that would be used on her, and would occasionally wonder if it would be safe; if it would make her better; if it would work. She tried to keep her natural optimism in tact. Occasionally, she would even be taken off guard: forgetting for a moment that she was enclosed in this isolated space, she would reflexively lift an arm to rest it on the expanse of flesh that was usually in front of her and become mildly taken aback as the back of her hand made contact with the solid wall of the unit. She would return to her show, always a little warmed over how much Marge reminded her of her own mother. 

Not unpleasant… She just didn’t like it very much — standing for four straight hours, even with the weight of her breasts supported on the table outside the cylinder, was a task in an of itself. But by the time it was over, there was Dr. Mishkin, smiling, saying that he was very pleased with how the process had gone, and that he had high hopes for the future.

Lying in her bed, still in the afterglow of her brief interaction with Roger’s drone outside of her window, she had to remind herself that it was okay. Her treatment tomorrow would be the same as the first, and she had survived that intact. It, too, would be over soon enough, and after the simple exhaustion of standing for four hours, she would be ready to go to bed, she was sure. 

And with any luck? She would still be able to say hello to her new friend on her secret phone before she fell asleep. 

The Girl in the High Tower - Chapter 3

Roger winced when the drone made touchdown — not the most graceful of landings, and for a moment, he was concerned that the small craft had come in too hot and that he might have broken the thing. But the most cursory of inspections revealed that the machine still worked. And with that, Roger powered down the unit, picked it up, and ran across the roof to the stairwell. 

His apartment door never felt so far away as it did at this moment. And with each step closer, his mind spun faster and faster with anticipation. If he would have had his phone with him on the roof, he would have already logged into his long-dormant Instagram account. 

Instagram, right? That had to be the one. Roger didn’t keep up with social media too much, so for all he knew, there could be any number of apps that used similar handles. But it seemed like the most likely option. 

In one movement, Roger opened his front door, speed walked into his apartment, deposited the drone clumsily on his kitchen counter, and spent 30 agonizing seconds scouring his living room for his phone before finally finding it lodged in the sofa cushion. With laserlike focus, sweaty hands, and a magnified impatience, he opened his Instagram app and logged in. 

A small flutter of notifications: random likes, a few new followers, a notification that there were some new direct messages. But Roger’s thumb tapped the search icon.

And then, it froze. What was the username she had written on the journal? There was a 9… Followed by “Nadya.” Totally sounded like a Russian name, which confirmed answers to some of his questions. And the first word… What was it?

Roger couldn’t stand the thought of opening the camera on his drone, retrieving the SD card, plugging it into his computer, and fast-forwarding to the correct set of frames — that could take minutes!

He tried a couple of options. “@nadyakotka99? No results found. @nadya99kosca? Nothing. But there was a 99 in it… and he knew Nadya was a name… but what was that second word? His fingers were frenetic. Reverse it? @koska99nadya? No… @nadya99koska? Or was there a “shh” noise in that second word? @nadya99koshca? No results found. 

Roger was on the verge of referring to the video… until the last entry yielded a result: @nadya99koshka. A matching username that was accompanied by an illustration of a red bird. Clicking on the icon led to a page — a private account with 0 posts, 0 followers, and 29 following. Roger wasn’t the most savvy social media guy in the world, but he could tell the signs of a bot account. It was such an unremarkable profile, that he considered confirming the username before wasting any more time sending a follow request and a hastily worded message into the ethers, especially if it was just going to be a waste of time... Until he noticed the brief block of text in the bio line: 

“Nadya 

Just girl in high tower”

It was her. It had to be. Before his brain had a chance to register, his thumb flicked to the Follow button; as if to tease his impatience, the button was replaced by a white box: Requested.

Pacing back and forth in his apartment, Roger flicked the screen downward, again and again, refreshing her profile page. Was she going to be on right away? Later? Was she just messing with him? The last option didn’t make sense… He recalled her face… The expression of mild desperation and… almost loneliness. She wanted to talk. To him. Even though all she knew about him was that he was a man insane enough to launch a drone with a camera to spy on her? What did that say about her? What did it say about him…

Roger was on the verge of putting the phone down. This could go on all night, he thought, and she still might not show. As he resolved himself to the idea of taking a shower and returning in a few minutes, he gave the screen one more flick. The white box returned to blue: Following. And her follower count now read “1.” How on earth could he be the only one following a woman like this?

Before Roger could press the message button, he say a small red dot that indicated a new message. It was from her. Roger felt a pulse rush through the skin on his neck. He felt dry for a moment. A tightness formed in his stomach as he opened her message:

And with that, the green active light on her profile blinked off, and Nadya was gone. It took Roger a moment to realize that 45 minutes had passed, and that he had been standing in the same spot the entire time. Stumbling for a moment, he lurched over to the sofa, and flopped onto it, eyes staring through the ceiling.

What the fuck, Roger thought. As had been the case so far in his limited experiences with the mysterious girl (Nadya, as he now knew her), every answer he received just yielded more questions. 

He massaged his closed eyes with his fingertips as he tried to piece together the conversation that had just taken place. All in all, it went well — better than he could possibly have hoped. God knows he had never expected his stealthy nighttime flight to result in a near-hour-long text conversation.

So… he thought, using his mentally catalogued collection of gigantomastia cases as a frame of reference.

Presumably, he worked his way down the mental rabbit hole. She was a normal girl from a small town in Russia. Then, at some point is school, she began to develop, probably earlier and faster than the other girls. School girls are the same the world over, so they were mean to her, and made fun of her pretty relentlessly.

Then, at some point, her condition became too severe and she had to drop out of school. Probably lived at home, and from the sound of it, a pretty isolated life without a lot of the comforts. And over time, her condition became more severe, and her breasts grew unchecked. And grew, and grew… Roger felt a tightness in his pants. 

Roger knew Russia wasn’t a third world country or anything. But he had seen enough videos of what can happen to a woman’s body if it’s left to its own devices without access to the type of medical care so commonly available in his native country. 

But then… what? How did she get from her small village to the big city a continent and an ocean away? It must have had to do with this mysterious man she mentioned. His rules… “I will send you to the United States, and put you up in a multi-million-dollar apartment, and your every need will be tended to while you receive treatment for this condition… Oh, and you have to stay in your apartment, and avoid all contact with the outside world, or people will laugh at you, and you don’t want people to laugh at you, do you?” 

It didn’t add up. Not in the slightest. First of all (and Roger considered himself somewhat of an expert on the subject, if his countless hours spent scouring the internet was any indication), there was no “treatment” Roger knew of for gigantomastia… aside from surgery, of course, but that could be done in her own country… It just didn’t make sense.

There was one line that stuck out for Roger… the one about “other women with her same kind of disability, and how this treatment worked for them?” What other women? He was sure Russian wasn’t overflowing with women who had breasts on par with the size of their own bodies. Was that just what she was told?

And he was helping to take care of her family back home? And how it wasn’t safe for him? Was there a threat in there that she was passing along? And the fact that her only method of communication was a secret phone that only she knew about? 

It did make sense, Roger thought. A naive woman who lacked the experiences that made a normal life, desperate for anyone to talk to — anyone different, and the only criteria is that they not… laugh at her. Is that what she had been led to believe her whole life? That she was some kind of freak who would be ridiculed to tears the moment she stepped out into public?

It all just seemed so… lonely. He felt a deep pang of sadness for this woman… there she was, alone, with only a nursemaid to watch over her like a hawk, likely shipped here by some eccentric billionaire. Her family paid off, and her contact with the outside world effectively non-existent, there she lay, in her bed, right now, he thought. A trophy. The crown jewel in some King of the Universe’s collection. It seemed obvious enough to him… but she seemed to believe otherwise? Was she… gullible? Desperate? Both?

Roger didn’t foul her for her lack of comprehension for the English language. He couldn’t imagine how she learned what she did know… television, maybe? He knew a few people who learned the language that way… And goodness knew, in her state, watching endless hours of television was probably the only thing she really did regularly. 

But behind the simplistic verbiage, there was an underlying simplicity to the woman herself. A naivitay. She struck him as observant, smart even, though understandably defensive… But there was a reason he asked her age; for a moment, he was horrified to think that the maturity of her body belied her, and that she was much younger than he had initially assumed. He shuddered to think of the version of himself who had been obsessing over a child this whole time. But thankfully, his initial observation was confirmed. Twenty-four, going on 25. 

But even so… he wondered if she had stopped, emotionally, at some point, whenever it was that she dropped out of school. How long had she been isolated in such a way? What had this solitude done to her? It was hard to say. 

He felt the same enormous, abstract attraction to her that he felt for weeks now. But after their conversation, that attraction was tempered by something else… affection? This dire male urge to be protective over something rare and vulnerable? He couldn’t tell. But it was something.

He looked at his phone; just a little past 8. She had gotten off the phone quickly, and he would be stressing that he would never talk to her again, were it not for her cryptic last sentence: to “fly again at 2300.” If he was correct, that would mean that he would be standing on the roof of his building, again, in less than three short hours. Hours that would pass like torture. 

Roger was tired. Exhausted even. And though he normally kept a later bedtime, 8 pm seemed much later than it was. But he wouldn’t dare nap. He’d hate to be late.

###

The drone hummed along the same path it had taken earlier in the evening: up the towering side of the neighboring structure; across the roof; and pivoting backward, descending over the bright streetlights below. 10:59 p.m.

From a distant vantage point, the view of Nadya’s apartment was different than it was before. Roger squinted his eyes to make out the darkened details of the building’s top floor, hoping that the camera would compensate for the darkness of the windows once he moved closer, out of frame from the ambient light of the skyline. 

It did, once he moved closer, perhaps only 10 feet away from the side of the structure. He started again at the same end of the apartment he had before; the terrace with the elevated pool. Dark, of course. As the drone slowly made its way to the right, edging along the bank of windows, the view was repetitive. The darkness of the apartment was obscured beyond a thin, running sheet of curtains which had been drawn since his last visit. Window after window, the view was the same. Glass with curtain, metal beam; glass with curtain, metal beam. 

He was afraid he had misunderstood. 2300… what else could it mean? Figure of speech? Address? A riddle or something? As the drone panned to the right, he was worried that the building would end, and that he would be greeted with a view of the skyline, once more.

But then… a change in the pattern. The vision wasn’t crystal clear, and for a moment, he had to process the overall shape of what he was looking at. He knew what that shape was. He just wasn’t equipped to believe it. The drone edged closer, until it was on level with the window, just a few feet away, the pane of glass occupying the entire frame.

Roger’s heart froze. 

Standing between the curtains and the glass, it was her. Standing upright and staring straight at him. Her auburn hair was gathered in a long, loose braid that snaked down her shoulder, and as much as there was for Roger to take in, the first element that struck him were her eyes. Large, blinking nervously, but with a confidence that told him that she wanted to make this contact, and only hoped that she was doing a good job in the attempt. She bit her lower lip a little, and aside from a few micro expressions in her face, stood perfectly still. It was almost as if she was presenting herself to him: “Here I am. This is me.”

Her hands lay on her upper chest, resting lightly at the top of the flaring curve that emanated from her torso. She clutched a book… possibly the same black journal she had used to communicate earlier? Her fingers lightly finessed the surface of the book, a reflection of the same confident nervousness he had seen in her eyes. 

She wore a robin’s egg blue nightgown with white lace around the neck, sleeves, and lower hem — a garment that would have been outrageously oversized on just about anyone, but on her, it failed to completely cover the areas of her body he knew she wanted to preserve, for modesty’s sake. Extending beyond the bottom hem of the flowing sleep dress, two half moons of flesh were exposed, each capped with a wide patch of darker skin that pointed only slightly toward the bottom of the window. 

Her feet were impossible to see in the shadows. But he could tell that if she had been fully visible, her breasts would have hung on level with her ankles. He imagined for a moment that if she would hunch over, even a little, that they would easily make contact with the floor. But for the moment, her impossible back muscles sustained them, giving the impression that this head, and those slender arms, were hovering atop a pair of immense pale teardrops that flared, inexplicably, downwards and sideways, obscuring her body completely.

It may have been a few seconds; it may have been minutes. Roger was lost. Until she released one of her hands from her book and lifted her palm toward the drone that hummed in the night sky. The universal symbol for “hello.”

Glancing down at her book, she opened it to a page she had bookmarked, and pressed a pair of pages to the window, returning her gaze solidly to the red light on the drone’s camera. 

Roger read the words on the page, and his heart swelled at the capital letters:

I WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND TO

He could have suspended this machine in the air all night, and have been utterly content. But before another moment could pass, she closed the book, returned it to her chest, and once more, raised her palm. The universal symbol for “good bye.”

Shuffling to the side, with deliberate care and attention to the balancing act of each step, she edged toward the side of the window. With one movement, she fluttered the curtain around to the front of her body, still never removing her eyes from the red light. And with that, again, Nadya was gone. 

And then there were 8.

If you haven't heard of him, Google Ralph Steadman. He's an 80-something Britiah dude who worked a lot with Hunter S. Thompson back in the day, but was a pretty talented political cartoonist in his own right.

He didn't isolate himself to a single style, but he is certainly most known for this ink splatter aesthetic.

I've loved his work for years, but didn't know a lot about the guy himself. I was expecting him to be this dark, brooding, weird fellow. Turns out, he seems like the nicest guy ever. Quick to crack a joke, strolls around his studio strumming on a ukulele, has a wife, kids, dogs, a cute little English house in Kent.

I probably watched almost every YouTube video where he's been interviewed. And a couple of times, the question comes up: "Ralph, your illustrations are so dark. But you don't seem like a very dark person." And, matter-of-factly, he doles out some iteration of the same answer: "All the darkness just comes out onto the paper."

That struck me a little while back. I had a bottle of India ink lying around for whatever reason, so I took a piece of printer paper, and started splattering. And then, I drew around splattering. Extracting something real and organic out of what began as chaos.

And boy. I felt better. The valve had been turned, and some of the steam got out. So I invested more supplies, as per a couple of posts back. And last night, I said have a space that couldn't really be ruined by any random chunks of pigment, and started splattering.

Here are the 8. Each one born of chaos. And over the next days, and Weeks, I'll use these splotches as the base point. Creativity lies in the limitations, so the theme? "Self Representation." What will they end up looking like? What other colors will I use, if any? Heck, what orientation will I decide to go with when I start on each one? I have not the foggiest idea. That's part of the fun of it.

Then? I'm thinking they'll end up on Etsy. 🙂 I literally have NO clue if anyone will actually want to buy the damned things, but they'll be there. Maybe something will strike a chord. Isn't that what art is all about?

In the meanwhile, I'll keep you updated as to the progress. But it's nice to have a visual outlet.

Freak Hair

No picture with this one, because it wouldn't be appropriate. 🤢

But, have any of you ever heard of a "freak hair?"

It's that one errant follicle on your body that lies dormant for a while, until one day, you wake you to find one super long, thin, fine hair is just, all of a sudden, there.

We're all mammals. And as a result, we all have a base-layer of body hair, carried over from our distant ancestors in the trees.

That's normal. I'm talking about the one that surprises you. The one you knew wasn't there yeaterday, and all of a sudden, you're all like "where did this long-ass ganky hair come from?!"

I found one of those today. Right on my left boob, about three inches above my nipple. I know my boob skin has been kinda stretched out lately, so I can't blame a follicle or two for freaking out. But damn, son. Tweezers, pinch, alas.

By the way, here's a random fun fact about the lady folk, suited perfectly for your next trivia night: Almost all of us have a few hairs around our nipples. Like chest hairs, with the length, girth and color. But only a few, and right around the perimeter of the nip. We hate talking about them, always pluck those fuckers indiscriminately, and move on with our lives. But they're there.

Kinda weird, right? But hand to god, totally a thing. I thought I was the only one, until I was about... 28? Crazy stuff.

Celebration

...of the lifting of my Instagram "shadowban" wherein this picture was removed for violating terms of service. Yes, nipples are baaaad, m'kay?

Aaaanddd...

Speaking of which, since a lot of you recently expressed a want to see more day-to-day randomness... the I-don't-care-if-it-gets-ruined Official Painting Shirt of Heather Beck.

With any luck, it'll be in the Smithsonian one day, next to Elvis's jumpsuit and Mr. Rogers' cardigan.

Gettin' Ready to Paint.

I need a visual outlet. So, I finally procured a set of inks and some super-basic supplies to putt out my inner Ralph Steadman.

Landscapes? Bowls of fruit? Nah. I'm thinking of something a little more in the vein of "self portrait."

The only concern? I literally have no idea if I'm in any way good at this stuff. So I suppose I'll just do it with no expectations and see what happens? It's worked out before.

Hope you'll enjoy whatever the hell comes from it. 😁

Should I Just...

I feel like I need to make a statement every time I post something here, sometimes. But if I don't, and I just want to say hello, is that okay, too? Random thoughts, stupid missives, things that just pop to mind?

It's just, I look at this patreon sometimes, and say, ah! I want to post this thing! And then I don't, because I don't have the complete package...

No need to respond, unless you've got strong feelings one way or the other. But the more I think about it, the more I think I might use this as a consistent forum for discourse? It does beat the hell out of letting days turn into weeks, without anything... something I would like to tend to.

By the way, extraordinary sketches by the incomparable @hefty_cuties

Thank you for sticking with me. Especially to those of you who have been here for a while. You know who you are, and I don't take you for granted. I appreciate it. I really, really do.

All I can say is that there is far more to come.

Re-Inventing the Bra

So, one of my faithful patrons (you know who you are) got in touch a little while back with an idea. He's got some serious engineering skills, and after one of my recent bra-related kvech-fests, he threw it out there, blueprints included!

See, as I've said before (in super-short), the physics of traditional bras — straps, bands, underwires — break down once you're solidly out of the D range. And in my case... yeah. I fall way out of that category. 

But his notion seemed downright revolutionary. And dear lord... maybe like something I could even wear for a whole day without wanting to flip my shit. Here's are the high points.

This bad boy is primed to be the workhorse of the bra world. Full coverage, molded plastic cup bottoms, a rigid, rib-hugging wide band that goes underneath my breasts and wraps around to actually provide support via a reinforced, solid-paneled back, THICK straps, zero-to-60 in 3.5 seconds, and all customized to my lopsided, bigger on the right-side boobs. All carefully calibrated and balanced.

I'm not the most mathematically minded person in the world, but this benefactor implies that some carefully documented measurements will be enough to get the job done. (Reflected metrically, because science!) 

So, we shall see. Certainly not a process one wants to rush, and I'm sure there's going to be some trial and error along the way. And that's cool. Because if successful, I know one fella who's going to have a couple of patents to file to the benefit of all the gigantomastic women of the world. I'm more than happy to be the guinea pig on that front. 

This isn't a fun post. But, hey. Me.

Some of you I know. Some of you, I am meeting for the first time.

My name is Heather. I drink. A lot.

My admitting this isn't the result of something happening to me. I didn't get into dire straits. I didn't stumble out of a bar and get mugged 30 seconds after. I didn't drive a car, get pulled over, and get a DUI. I didn't have a fight with a friend. I didn't forget where I put my keys until the next day, and still couldn't find them. I didn't fall on the way back to my front door and realize that the blood is where it shouldn't be. I didn't wander around, leaning on shoulders, until I figured everything out. I didn't vomit in a Walmart, and I didn't try to steal a Stop Sign.

I just took a moment to take stock. And, I realized. I drink. Way too much.

I know that all of you following me are over 18. You should be, because themz be the rules. And then, some of you are between the ages of 18 and 25.

Man, what a great age. I remember my first real hangover. It wasn't too long after I turned 25. But that's the age. If you're reading this, and you're under 25, you have no idea what I mean. Before I turned 25, I could go to sleep 3 o'clock in the morning, and wake up at about 7:30 the next day. In the office, at work, no-one the wiser. 

Then, once that day hits. Oh, man. You're screwed. There even comes a point, not too many years down the road, when the hangover doesn't just get ya'. It lasts two days. That's what happens after 25. You are here-to-fore, fore warned. Just binge on old episodes of Veronica Mars, make sure it's your day off, and you'll be ok. The thing is, you come to a point where the hangover doesn't just last the next day... Eventually, it comes to define you.

Eventually, you come home, have a drink, have a few drinks, because it helps. And then, you start to work for yourself (you're your own boss, chica, because you know the difference between you're and your). And that's cool, but you've got a lot of shit in your plate, and everybody says that working for yourself should be the best thing in the world. But you still know that you have bills to pay (and how do taxes even work?!). And even though you don't have to formally acknowledge the existence of a literal boss, you come to a much more desperate realization. The boss, is, in fact, yourself.

So, eventually, your home-bar becomes pretty elaborate, like any-given-scene in Mad Men. You assemble not only the main liquors, but also the ancillary ones. The periodic bottle of Disorono, and Kahlúa, and whatever version of menthe comes across your desk. But there are still the same boozes that make you happy. For some, it's wine; for some, it's beer; for some, it's vodka; for some, it's those wonderful amber-colored liquids... scotch, Bourbon, Tequila, you name it. We've all got our choice.

Eventually, you get to a point where these substances lull you to sleep. You're okay with their company, because they serve a purpose. In a way, they're pleasant company. Those good friends, who cuddle you, and warm you up, and make you feel better about what's going on.

But man, does it get you after a while. Some of us don't realize until it's far too late, that this stuff has a way of getting us. It starts as a friend, but it turns into an abusive relationship. When we are 29, it lulls us to sleep. But when we are 35, it keeps us awake. And even more cruelly it forces us to think about the things that we don't want to think about. Have you ever had those nights, when your eyes just stay open? When you're just staring straight ahead, daring your alarm clock to turn back a few hours? But then, there it is. The elusive Museum of Four in the Morning. And you stay awake, and you don't sleep, and there you are.

4 o'clock in the morning. That's the elusive thing. There's a poet named "Rives," whom I encourage you to Google, and pull up his videos in YouTube. He's a great guy. He has a couple of YouTube videos about the idea of what 4 o'clock in the morning means. The next time you're up at 4 o'clock in the morning, check them out.

I've gotten to the point where I realized that I don't like the person I am anymore at 4 o'clock in the morning. I remember a time when being awake at 4 a.m. wasn't just the result of insomnia. In the recent past, I have had the opportunity to wean off alcohol for a little while. It was the liver thing. I'm fine now, but it was a thing.

It was the first time I hadn't drunk for a week in Lord knows how long. And do you know what happened? I did amazing things. I painted a mural on the wall. Just because why the hell not. I wasn't up to my usual quota of mL per diem, and my mind was clear.

But then, back to the usual knee-jerk. When you measure booze in fingers, that can't be healthy. That's not healthy. It isn't healthy. Eventually, my liver or kidneys will take the most of the beating, and I'll die. If I keep that shit up. We've all see "House M.D."

I don't want that to happen. I like life. I don't want to die. And, I also don't want to feel the way that I feel when I drink too much. I get grumpy. Agitated. Sad. Anxious. The more I've been been thinking about it, the more I have been reminiscing about that person I was when I had that liver thing, and didn't drink for a week. I liked that version of me. I did a lot of stuff. I learned how to fucking knit. It was actually pretty fucking cool.

The first step to solving something is to admit to you have a problem. So, that's what I'm doing. 

My name is Heather, and I'm (probably) an alcoholic.

I mean no offense to anybody in Alcoholics Anonymous. It's a fine program, and the people who are involved in it are noble people, who are on the right path. You know your own strait, and you know where it will lead you. Keep on keeping on.

For me... right now, I'm not going to shut down my drinking altogether. That's my choice. I admit that I have a problem, and part of that problem is that I drink every day. I still like drinking, and so far, it hasn't caused me any horrible repercussions. So, I'm going to drink on the weekends. And on Wednesdays. But that's it. Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays... nope. The will starts somewhere.

I realize that some of you out there reading this might have substance abuse issues. If you do, I get you. I'm not prescribing my methodology to you as any sort of cure. For each of us, it's different. It's tricky. And it doesn't make a lot of sense. But, the point of this whole thing is to express who I am, and the thoughts that come out of my head.

This is one of those posts where I will welcome you to share your thoughts. This Patreon account is a safe place, and I try to make it that way (dispel the haters). So if you have any thoughts, or if there's anything you would like to share, or not like to share, that's cool.

Whatever the case, substance abuse is tricky. And it's not fun... That version of you who doesn't quite "work out," and you don't know who you really are. It's weird, right? Like a bizarro universe version of yourself, who you get to observe.

My name is Heather. I'm (in all likelihood) an alcoholic. But I'm taking steps in the right direction. I'll be fine. 

And I hope you are, too. You deserve to be.

Girl in the High Tower - Chapter 2

(Edit... Now includes a illustrations by the great @hefty_cuties . In a way, I would like to say that the story inspired his incredible sketches, but also, this sketch inspired the story. Isn't collaboration great? Thanks, @hefty_cuties :-) )

###

The roof of Roger’s building wasn’t hard to access. There should have been a lock on the door leading out onto the barren top terrace of his building, but the latch had been frozen open years ago, in his estimation, long before he had moved in. He didn’t make it up here too much, though on occasion, he had known it to serve as a late-night gathering space where neighbors who wanted to smoke a joint in peace tended to gather in the shadows of mammoth air conditioning units, safely away from the foot traffic of the streets below. 

Carrying the drone under his arm, Roger craned his neck upward toward the towering megastructure that had only recently finished construction. A smattering of long rectangles of light indicated the few units that were either inhabited, or in which people were home — it was still too early for anyone to be asleep — but the line of illuminated squares he was searching for were not in view; the apartment that had so occupied his mind was on the other side of the building, 

The blueprints he had managed to obtain (and had since committed to memory) explained more: the mysterious woman with the unquestionably enormous breasts lived on the top level of the building, in a sprawling penthouse that occupied one half of the entire floor. Though he had never seen this unit with his own eyes, he knew enough about it to (at least) know where the windows were, and to know that a large corner of the apartment was occupied by a large terrace, complete with swimming pool. 

Before jumping on the drone idea, he had managed to sneak his way into one of the top floors of a nearby building (a pair of binoculars in his messenger bag). But it was no use. The new structure was by far the tallest for blocks around. And even when the coast was clear and he had pulled out his binoculars for a moment, he felt a pang of a ruined experiment: what he assumed was the pool was surrounded by a solid wall; the view through the windows, 30 stories above, yielded only a sliver of ceiling.

He remembered how his disappointment quickly morphed into an even greater curiosity: of course she wouldn’t be living across the street from another window. This woman valued her privacy, after all, and who would want to live their whole life with the curtains drawn so prying eyes from an office across the street didn’t start spreading rumors and hosting viewing parties? Better to just be above everybody else.

But how did she afford this place? Roger seldom followed the news, but he knew the phrase “Russian oligarch” was not typically a synonym for “peasant farmer.” Was this his wife? Where was he? (Google had been very little help.) Did she live alone, save for the stern woman who shooed him off when he had posed as a flower courier? Roger couldn’t imagine that she really ever left the apartment. Was she a weird kind of prisoner? Though he had seen nothing on this excursion, he was still, somehow, left with more questions than answers. 

But that’s what you’re for, he thought, as he gently set the drone on the rooftop. Powering on the machine and the matching remote control unit, he did a mental checklist. Battery, check; camera, check; memory card, check. Pre-flight complete, as he flicked on the screen on the remote control unit. The camera showed him a snippet of his shoe. Hitting the “record” button, he spooled the fans, lifting the unit only a few feet off the ground. Like riding a bicycle, the controls came back to him quickly — the last thing he needed was to smash his new toy into the side of the building — and gingerly, carefully, he sent it sailing off into the night sky. 

Roger had been mapping out the course in his mind over the last week, and so far, the drone was obeying: straight up until safely over the rooftop of the neighboring skyscraper; across the roof; angle the camera straight down to scope out the pool area; and finally, hope that the extra money he spent was worth it, and that the signal would hold as it swooped the machine over the other side of the building, on level with the bank of windows that spread across the entire facade. 

So far, so good.  It didn’t take much searching to spot the lights in the elevated pool that ran along the length of the outdoor terrace. The night obscured much of the view, but from the best roger could tell, the outdoor space was all but devoid of life. No surprise there. 

Focusing intently on the screen, Roger ensured that the drone had cleared the building before pivoting the camera lens horizontally, aiming it back at the building. His heart jumped into his throat as he saw the bank of windows that spanned the entirety of the top floor illuminated. Slowly, carefully, he lowered the camera just above what he assumed was the middle of the avenue below. Foot by foot, he kept a paranoid eye on the signal bar, terrified that the connection between the drone and the remote control would suddenly cut out, leaving his drone to begin a slow descent into the street below. But the signal held strong… even as he inched the drone closer to the window just adjacent to the walled-in terrace.

The view inside was unobstructed, with hardly a sign of… anything. It took Roger a moment, judging from the tiny image on the screen in front of him, to figure out what was odd about this space. But then it hit him. There were no walls. 

On the end of the apartment he was viewing, next to the wide sliding door that led outside to the terrace, a long kitchen opposed by a standalone island, clean and uncluttered. Slowly easing the drone along the length of the apartment, new spaces came into view, each unobstructed by barriers of any sort. A dining table with what appeared to be a large, semi-circular notch cut out of it. A living area in the center of the room, adorned by an oversized couch and a large screen television suspended from the ceiling in the middle of the room. A long wall of bookshelves next to a chair that appeared to come out of a science fiction movie. Finally, a few alcoves that didn’t come into full view — maybe that explained where the bathroom was? 

For only an instant, Roger took notice of an additional feature in the odd, elephantine space — this minimalist luxury warehouse at the top of the world: a grey track of steel that ran in a circuit along the ceiling.

Again, more questions. An apartment this size, Roger estimated, should have been large enough to easily accommodate 5 bedrooms with space to spare. But this was constructed intentionally differently. Unfinished, but somehow complete, to serve a very specific purpose. Roger checked again to make sure the camera was still recording — he would have to watch this video later, in order to find…

Ten feet from the window Roger’s drone positioned itself in front of, the first sign of life in the otherwise empty apartment. It was a vision that caused Roger to consciously manage his hands from running the drone wildly off course, but he held it together, even though he didn’t know how long he had been holding his breath. 

The same tall, stern woman who he had encountered at the front door days before was dutifully hovering over a low-lying California King-sized bed, conversing with an auburn-haired woman who was positioned in the center, reclining into at least a dozen overstuffed pillows. 

It was her. Instead of being tied into a ponytail, as he had seen her on the street, her hair was splayed loosely, draping over a shoulder. Without her sunglasses, he saw more of her youthful face. Her narrow eyes seemed to convey a curiosity as her pouty lips moved in conversation with her… nurse or maid? Nursemaid? 

Beginning just under her armpits, and terminating at the foot of the large bed, a sheer white sheet covered her body. But even obscured, it was impossible to ignore exactly what the sheet was covering. To either side of this mysterious, beautiful woman’s body, large mounds sloped gracefully and rested with a weight that seemed almost certain, seeming to reach nearly the same latitude as what Roger could only assume were her toes. 

The drone rose a few feet, offering a slightly more arial view. The nurse took a position sitting on the edge of the bed, casually talking to the auburn-haired, impossibly proportioned woman as she gently lay a hand on the scarcely covered right-hand tit. A few light pats caused the flesh to gently yield, sending out a scarcely noticeable ripple as the soft flesh reacted. 

The girl pointed to the bottom of her left breast, far out of reach of her own arm, to a place where the bedsheet had apparently been pinned down by incredible girth. Standing and crossing to the other side the the bed, the nurse freed the light sheet, and which a quick whip, raised it from the surface of the bed, allowing it to rest evenly, again, across the woman’s impossible body. And for the briefest of instants, Roger could swear that the high angle allowed him a quick view — something that he justified could only be a shadowed nipple, mere inches from a foot.

Roger felt lightheaded, and was only reminded to breathe by a tightening in his pants. 

The woman motioned a thank you to the nurse. Smiling weakly, she made a motion to an area elsewhere in the cavernous apartment, and momentarily, the nurse left the space. 

This was the first time Roger had seen the woman alone, in her element. He felt like a trespasser — it had been a feeling lingering somewhere inside since the moment the drone left the ground — and was still somewhat convinced that this person, prone and pinned to her luxurious bed, would be able to see him if she only glanced up. Roger was fairly certain that this wouldn’t be easy: with the lights on inside the apartment, the drone ought to be fairly incognito, though he felt a part of him was standing outside the window, peeking in. And in a way, this was true, even if he had only sent an electronic surrogate. 

Alone for the first time (at least in his experience) he managed to tear his attention away from this woman’s breasts, and take a closer look at her face. She stared ahead, and other than letting out a small yawn, seemed… sad? Maybe it was boredom? She didn’t seem unhappy per se. But there was a tone of loneliness in her eyes. As if, even before drifting off to sleep, she already knew that tomorrow promised the same lack of excitement that today proffered, and the day before, and the day before…

Roger had meant to zoom in the camera. But in his distraction, he had inched the drone itself closer and closer to the window. He didn’t realize his folly until it was too late — the drone stuttered and faltered, having been impeded on its course by the barrier of the window. His eyes shot open in dread as he saw, in all the vibrations as the machine attempted to right itself, that the noise has been loud enough to draw the attention of the auburn-haired woman. The Doritos bag all over again, dammit, he thought, letting out an audible, exasperated grunt. 

Maybe she still couldn’t see! Maybe she would just think that it was a bird, or something. But he wasn’t stupid. If she couldn’t hear the drone through the thick window, her continued gaze reminded him that the drone did contain a couple of obnoxious red lights that had almost certainly given him away. 

His thumb was primed to set the drone skyward, out of harm’s way. It wasn’t like she would be able to trace him down, or even be able to do anything about this intrusion, but it was precisely that intrusion — the fact that his presence was now known — that caused a feeling of guilt to well inside of his chest. In all of his obsession, he had neglected one very important thing: that this girl was just trying to live her life in peace. A peace he had barged in on. Maybe he was insane. Or had been driven insane. But now, for the first time, he thought, this might be a bad idea. Maybe it would be best if this was… over. 

His thumb rested on the joystick as he said a mental goodbye to the alluring, impossible woman, spread out in all her glory, on a bed high in the sky, less than a block from where he slept at night. But just before the small robotic vehicle was set to fly out of sight, he noticed her expression change, from one of startled, unexpected fright, to one of urgency, shaking her open palms in front of her and, with a single finger, motioning what she knew was a camera to “wait just a moment.” 

Pivoting her upper body to the right-hand nightstand, she leaned to the best of her ability, clearly fighting against the superior tug of her left breast, and picked up a medium-sized journal. Wrenching it open to the first blank pages she could find, she clicked open an attached pen and scrawled quickly, darting her eyes upward to detect if the drone was still there. 

When she had finished, she whipped the notebook to face the window, presenting a hastily-drawn scrawl that read: 

@NADYA99KOSHKA

Roger was confused. If he were honest with himself, he was half expecting the message to read “FUCK YOU!” But… Was she… She was sending him a message? A way to get in touch? There’s this creeper with a drone hovering just outside of her window, and she’s offering a way for him to… contact her? 

She whipped her head to the side — her nurse must have been returning, because she closed the book and quickly hid it under the sheets, presumably in the vastness of space between her torso and her left breast.

Sure enough, the nurse returned a moment later with a cup of tea, and the mystery woman ignored the drone. Roger was still sure she was going to point out its presence to her helper, but the nurse returned to sitting at the bedside, resting her hand again on one maddening boob, and their conversation returned to normal.

It wasn’t until the nurse turned her attention to elsewhere in the apartment that the woman looked again at the drone, the same urgent expression as before, but with a sense of pleading underscoring her eyes. She made a shooing motion with her hand, just slight enough for Roger to get the message. It was time to leave her alone and get out of there. 

To Be Continued...

ASMR (Headphones Recommended)

A little while back, I was mindlessly wandering around YouTube, and at some point, I stumbled across this thing called ASMR. At first, I disregarded it pretty quickly, because it seemed like the kinda weird evolution the internet would take. For those of you who aren’t familiar, these videos (which can have, like, 10 million views) generally feature a woman in full makeup, sitting in a dark room with a couple of microphones in front of her, making a whole bunch of weird noises with plastic wrap, tweezers, her mouth, finger tapping, breathy whispers… In other words, one of those super-modern hyper-narcissistic online tropes that would be really difficult to explain to someone if you were to jump in a time machine and travel back to the 1970s.

But at some point, I decided to watch one of these videos in their entirety. It was entertaining at the time (in a bizarro universe makeup tutorial-meets-trainwreck way), but over the next couple of days, I strangely found my mind returning to the video. So, one night, as I was lying in bed, I watched another one. This time, I put in some earbuds, turned the brightness down, and just listened.

I have trouble sleeping sometimes. Sometimes this difficulty is caused by hopelessly trying to find that perfect position (if anyone can tell me a different position than back, sides, stomach, I’m all ears). Though the usual reason is that my head is spinning about any number of things. I’m one of those people who paid their $2.99 for a white noise app, if that gives you an idea, and sometimes the sound of rain on a tin roof and distantly crashing thunder helps. Sometimes, it doesn’t.

And sometimes, I have to tell ya. ASMR can do the trick. 

I can see why, I suppose. ASMR (short for “autonomous sensory meridian response”) comes across as a form of meditation — getting your brain to focus on something that’s neither predictable, nor just pure silence. Some people call it “brain massaging,” and while I haven’t really experienced this particular aspect of it myself, devotees swear they can feel a gentle tickling feeling running down the length of their spine, which sounds relaxing enough. 

Done well, I would think, an ASMR session can also feel like a story being told. There are seldom any words — a lot of times, a video will begin with a brief, barely whispered introduction — but instead, a series of scratching noises, clicks, pops, crinkles… all of which seem to form a sort of narrative. Which, actually… it’s kinda cool.

I don’t consider myself a “devotee.’ Not yet, anyway. I’m generally kind of wary of trends in the first place, and for a little while there, ASMR seemed like some quirky, obnoxious flavor-of-the-week millennials are hooked on now, and are doomed to be made fun of for. Like Keto diets, avocado toast, or really wide-brimmed hats. So that might be part of the reason that I’m so hesitant to be an adopter.

But! It has helped me get some solid shut-eye, so what the hell. Keep an open mind, right?

I decided to take a random video off my phone. Blurry as fuck, pretty short, in slow-motion — one of those clips that was destined for the trash can. But then I thought… what the hell. Why not take a stab at making a mini-ASMR video to see what you fine folks think of it? 

Any who knows? Maybe I’m just really late to the game, and will discover that there are a lot of you who are already into this. I’d love to hear your thoughts… Is this the kind of thing you would like to see more of on this Patreon? Long-form, relaxing videos (I’m thinking of using funky lighting, keeping things a little abstract) accompanied by my own interpretation of ASMR? If so, let me know.

In the meantime, enjoy this taste. I didn’t really know I was good at mouth clicking. Huh. Wonder what other kinds of noises I can make.

Fuck Symmetry.

In my long and illustrious history of being self-conscious about any number of things, there's one that's been creeping up on me the more time goes by. 

Don't get me wrong. I know there is literally no such thing as a perfect body. Body positivity campaigns the world over rightfully tell us to be proud of the skin we're in, and we all should be, dammit. It's just a little hard to do sometimes when Hollywood tells us that the truly virtuous among us have a little thing called "symmetry." Give "facial symmetry" a Google sometime and scroll through the images section, and you'll discover that actors and actresses are more likely to have symmetrical faces, while the normal schmoes like you and I are a little more... lopsided. 

I think this is a good thing. Asymmetry gives character. My right eye, for instance, is lower than my left. My nose levels out a little lower on my right hand side. In conducting research for this essay, a close examination in the mirror determined that my right ear is a little lower than my left. I think differences like this are pretty cool. They make us unique, and that's a good thing. 

Same goes for a more purely female perspective. With the exception of one out of every jillion, I highly doubt that you're going to find a pair of boobs that are perfectly symmetrical. One of them might be a little saggier than the other, or the nipple might poke in a weird direction. Or, plainly, one of them is just bigger. 

So, keeping up with the trend of my right side just being lower overall than my left... well, just look at the picture. They're a little smushed, but you kind of get a general idea. And that's the way it's been for a long time — my right boob has always out-paced my left. If, before I grew, my right one was bigger, it wasn't really noticeable (not in a way that affected how I shop for bras, and stuff like that). But now? Yeah. There's a difference. 

I don't think my right boob is still growing or anything terrifying like that. But the more time that goes by since my most recent (and still, hopefully, last) spirt, my skin is getting used to the situation, and my boobs are "settling." I'm not entirely sure how that bodes for later in life — there is a non-zero chance that I'll be some batty old cat lady with tits that hang down to her knees — but for the time being, I'm making do.

After all, I'm not naive. When attention is inevitably drawn to my chest, the first thought is usually something more akin to "Damn, they're big," and not so much to "Damn, her right one is bigger." And bras and usual day-to-day wear balance out the difference. 

It's just... I don't know. It's just that, as more time passes, I'm internally less self-conscious about the sheer size of the girls, and am transferring that angst to the fact that they're lopsided. I guess that's a good thing? That the overall craziness that is my body isn't really the point of attention for me anymore, and instead, that it's something that falls more into the column of "cosmetic thing that really only I notice." 

Actually, to be honest, it does help to put that down on paper. I think we all have a tendency to go a little hard on ourselves sometimes, and when you kinda verbalize it, you realize how silly it actually sounds, and that you're wasting all this psychic energy nitpicking when things could be way worse. It's human nature to be self-critical, which I'm sure has some kind of evolutionary root. Weird, huh?

So, that's on my list of goals: to get myself to a place where I'm not so skeevish over the fact that one of my boobs is gigantic-er than the other one. It's an odd item on a list of goals, but there's a moral in there somewhere. 

And that moral is "Fuck Symmetry." Love yourself, dear reader. As Mr. Rogers always said, "You're perfect just the way you are, so roll with that shit."

NASA (Again)

A lot of you folks will recognize this video, which oddly enough, was (I think) my "greatest hit" on Instagram (last time I checked, I think it had like, 150,000 views or something, which is a little baffling? But, you know. Boobs.). So I apologize for the redundancy.

Thing is, when I logged into Instagram recently, I was given a big full-page message that informed me that this video (which has been up for more than a year, and was one of my first postings) had been taken down because it violated Instagram's Terms of Service. Seriously? The only thing I can figure is that "underboob" falls under "nipples." I've ranted in the past. I shan't do it again.

I haven't even tried to contest it, because you know what? Instagram don't deserve mah boobies! You know who does deserve mah boobies? You guys. So I'm not gonna re-post it over there, because they can just eat so many grapes that they get a stomach ache (OHHH, Aw, No she didn't!!!1!!). 

But I will post it here, where it shall live in infamy, for all of you. 

And I post it on a historic day. Yeah, I know the moon landing was 4 days ago, and I missed that (moon)shot. But! Today is the 50th anniversary of the day when the last part of Kennedy's Rice University speech was fulfilled: "...and return them safely to the earth," when the capsule splashed down safely in the ocean. 

Did you know that the astronauts had to be kept in quarantine after they returned, just in case they brought back any weird space bugs with them? Also, did you know that there are — scattered across the moon's surface to this day — bags of astronaut poop? And, that scientists want to study that astronaut poop for science reasons, but nobody has any idea of how to get close enough to retrieve them without unsettling sites of long-term historic interest? (Ain't no wind on the moon, so the footprints and buggy tracks are still there, undisturbed). 

And, so it remains intact (like a much-less-important version of footprints and buggy tracks), here's the caption that went along with the original post before it was removed by the Almighty Algorithm:

"Right now, less than a half a penny of each tax dollar we spend goes to NASA. Not only does investment in space exploration yield a substantial return on investment in the form of economic growth, but some of the modern era's great achievements have been made possible because of the space program: LEDs, artificial limbs, temporary artificial hearts, anti-icing systems, vast improvements in highway safety, advancements in chemical detection, video enhancing systems, landmine removal, firefighter gear, Posturepedic mattresses, enhanced nutrition for children, free drying technology, cordless vacuums, solar energy panels, pollution remediation, water purification, food safety, gyroscopes, weather monitoring. Also, a global network of intercommunicating satellites, meaning that the device you're reading this on right now isn't just a fancy thousand-dollar brick. Space exploration is a novelty for the super-rich, nor is it a purely academic exercise. Investing in our national space program yields real results, in countless ways, for people across the world, and continues creating jobs for decades after the initial investment. Plus, it inspires people, dammit, and we need more of that these days. Write your congressperson, and le's jack this up to a penny per dollar."

I think I wrote that after watching an episode of Real Time with Bill Maher. I generally like the dude — he's laid back, smokes weed like a chimney, and even though he solidly falls into the group of "Grumpy Liberal Baby Boomer," he hits the nail on the head most of the time. Still, he's (as I'm sure many of you might be, and that's cool, no judgement here) fervently anti-space exploration because "we have problems here that need to be fixed!". I just can't get on board with that argument. We can fix problems here as well, and the space program can help, ya' grumbly ol' goon. 

If, by any chance Bill is one of my subscribers... Hi Bill! Can you hook a girl up on some primo kush? That'd be super-cool. 

Petrichor

Back in the 1960s, a couple of hippies were stumbling around the Mojave Desert (Technically, they were grad students, but they were grad students in the ‘60s, so I guess they technically had to be hippies, right?). 

Anyway, they were stoned enough to want to figure out the answer to a question we all have probably asked at one point or another: “Dude, like, what’s that crazy smell that happens when it hasn’t rained for a long time, and then it rains, and then, there’s that smell? You know? Dude? Also, why do we even have fingers?”

The smell, in case you haven’t experienced it, is hard to describe. It’s about 40% like a musty stone basement in an old manor home; 30% like a waterfall; 20% like leather; and 10% like smoke. It’s lovely, and not really like any other smell. It fills you up. But, invariably, it’s always gone in only a few minutes. This scent is impossible to recreate (thanks, science), and it only happens in certain places, and under certain circumstances, so who knows. Maybe part of its allure and mystery is the fact that it’s one of those rare things in life. 

So, the hippies went out and experimented. And they found out that, over time, especially in an arid environment where it hasn’t rained in a while, all sorts of pollen, resin, sap, and other little particles that float through the air eventually settle down in a fine layer, they dry out, and they just chill there. And then, when it rains, the water reanimates all these aggregate bits of terrestrial flotsam and jetsam, and the smell to explodes into the air. So that’s where it comes from.

When you discover something, you get to name it. So I assume they lit up an epic doob (a real fatty; some primo kush), and started thinking. The name they came up with?

Petrichor. 

Isn’t that nice? Petrichor. Ooof. From the Greek petri meaning stone, and chor, meaning blood. Stoneblood.  

As I’m typing this, that smell is lingering in the air, a bit longer than it usually tends to. I’m not sure about the rest of you (though I’ve heard I’m not alone), but it’s been hot here. Dry. Yellow. Arid. One of those deep penetrating kinds of heat where a fan only serves to blow hot air at you. 

As for myself, I’ve been feeling like one of those women in a baroque painting who’s solidly in the process of dying a painful death. Only instead of twisted expression being caused by the wrath of an unforgiving and cruel God, it’s only my body’s natural inclination to keep physical exertion at an absolute minimum. Cold water? Essential. Brain functions? Limited. The show on loop? Parks and Recreation. The air in the room? Circulation, and nothing more. An epic bottle of Gold Bond? Always close by. 

This last one is important. While you’re going to find gals out there with pictures waaay more provocative than the ones I post, you should all be thoroughly grateful that I spare you visual evidence of some of the more unpleasant elements of my life: I’ve already endured one miserable underboob rash this summer, and I am NOT going through that bullshit again. (That’s some horror movie shit, there.)

But today is good. There’s wind! And it’s a cool wind! And it brought rain! And not that kind of rain that stops after five minutes, rendering the atmosphere both hot and humid, but a cooling rain! The kind of rain that doesn’t make you want to die anymore! Much like the various tiny particles of stuff scattered across the countryside, Heather, too, has reanimated. 

And so. A part of my mind has finally been freed up to focus on some of the more fun aspects of living in this part of the world. It’s festival season right now, and there are little shindigs left and right, even in this far-removed part of the world. One of them is a costume soiree that I’ve been invited to, and frankly… I’ve always sucked at costumes. I mean, Halloween, sure… I can feel my way around that. If worse comes to worse, I can just go as creepy nun! But a summer fiesta? Where do you begin? 

Not to get too collegiate, but the basic idea I’m running with right now is… Toga? Is that too cliche? Am I just going to look insane/like I put no thought into it/positively absurd for obvious reasons? Am I just too old for this shit? (Not going to lie, it’s literally a bedsheet). I mean, it’s going to be a pretty informal thing, small-ish, and I know most of the people there already (pretty chill, mostly ladies), so at least I’ll have a little clique with which to hang and get sloppy on sangria. (Though will the sangria stain when I inevitably spill it on myself? Does that matter? It’s just a bedsheet.) And then, the million-dollar question: does it make my boobs look too big? (Be objective.) Should I wear a bra? (I mean, I’ll definitely wear something underneath, because duh and nipples, but I’m just balancing different types of support.) Overall, is it trying too hard? Am I thinking too much about this?

I really cannot tell if it’s the sluttiest option, or the most conservative.

The party is next weekend, and if it gets the thumbs up, I’ll invest in a rope for the waist and maybe a green wreath for my head, or something (The Goddess Petrichor! Full circle!). I welcome other ideas when it comes to relatively home-made summer-themed costume ideas.

AABBA

When I was in college, there was this Irish pub. The owner was just a cool dude. And sometimes, he would get up on stage with his guitar and sing a bunch of dirty limericks, Irish folk tunes, good solid drinking music.

My best friend, and a couple of casual acquaintances, would usually hang out there on Thursdays or Fridays. The owner liked us, and thought it would be a cool if a bunch of girls were to get up on stage and start singing the dirtiest limericks ever, to this sing-songy tune. (C, G, G7, C, C7, F, C, A, D, G, C, for those of you out there who are ukulistically inclined.) He said if we came by, and helped him entertain the crowd, then beers are on the house.

Free beer? Broke ass girl in college? Say no more. (This was about a decade before the boobs, but feel free to imagine the super busty drunk cursing girl on the stage rhyming about things like menstruation, murder, incest, necrophilia, and good old-fashioned boinking. The boobs certainly would've added to the act.)

It's been years since I've practiced my old limerick skills. There was a time when a group of us could go on for about an hour and a half (that was our longest sesh), and never have to repeat a limerick more than once. But as time progresses, I fear that they're escaping my mind. Best to preserve them.

So in the last few days, I've taken some time to commit the ones that I still remember to paper. I like to rank them on a 10 scale. They all have names… Percy is a two; Jill is a five; Jenn is a seven; Dave is an eight; Mable is a nine...

And then there's Glenngarriage. That's the only 10 I've ever stumbled across.

That's the last one you would dare do. That's one where every single fucking word is just so repulsive, so gross, so just fucking nasty. That's the one that you close with, because the audience would erupt with disgusted noises, then you all take your bow, drink some more beer, and call it a night.

I'll share my favorite first. It's the one about Dave.

#

"There once was a fella named Dave

who kept a dead whore in a cave.

And though he'd admit

she smelled just like shit,

just think of the money he saved."

#

Love that one. It… It tells a story.

Another one that I love so much, is the one about Jenn. Traditionally, it's about Jenn. But if there's a Jenn, or Glenn, or a Gwen, or a Ben, or Ken in the audience, and this person was having a birthday or something, it was always fun to pick them out of the audience and screw with them. But traditionally, it goes…

#

"There once was a lady named Jenn

who was fucked in the ass by many men.

She would take dicks as large

as the size of a barge

and now bears use her ass as a den."

#

Great visuals, utterly eccentric, and dirty as hell. It was always fun to read this one in a slow, overly dramatic, drawn-out way, like you were some member of the Kings Players.

Which brings us to the 10. The limerick for which I have never found an equal.

In case you are weak of stomach, here is your official disclaimer to not read on.

#

#

#

#

#

#

#

#

#

"There once was a lad from Glengarriage:

the fruit of a lascivious marriage.

He sucked off his mother,

and buggered his brother,

and ate up his sisters' miscarriage."

#

I warned you. Yes chaps, I'm afraid yours truly has a messed up, dirty mind sometimes. But is far as early 20s rebellions go, I think I got off pretty easy.

My only regret is that I've never had a dirty limerick written about me. Someday.

But in the meanwhile? Free beer.

Haters Gonna Hate (a.k.a. An Unsolicited Music Review That 'Rolling Stone' Didn't Wanna Pick Up?) or, My Favorite Album.

I realized something somewhat recently.

Something that interfered... at the crux of my lust for individuality, and at my want to find something greater than what I could contribute (at this point):

At the intersection of what is popular, and what I can adapt for myself as an individual.

I want to make this clear. I have an almost *fervent* hatred for that which is popular culture. I always have, since my earliest conscious days, when I eschewed bell-bottomed jeans (yay, early 2000s), no boots-with-the-fur, because apple bottoms weren't a part of it.

I hate the very idea that something attractive can be perverted into something that is so outrageously profitable, simply because it resonates so well. Pop culture? Be damned.

That being said. I think her most recent video (the one that went viral because businesses and rainbows, and profit, like the gnomes in South Park) is a pandering piece of waahmp-waahmp. "Reputation" was... ugh, dare I say it?

I will. Derivative.

But... dammit, man. "1989."

You are each entitled to your perceptions. That's totally cool. I will certainly not foul you for any of that.

But damn. People who are asleep, I've seen them wake up. I have seen people who have been trying to figure out where they stand, since someone left them, stand up. I have seen people pull proverbial knives out of their chest, and move on. And I've watched that moment when some lyric hit them, like a sucker-punch to the cheek, out of the blue, and put everything into context. Bravery, or sacrifice, or loss, or perspective. It's not a life-altering thing. And it shouldn't be! But it's a weird moment of realization. When something actually touches you. And then, your bearing is no longer 320°… But it's 325°. And then you end up somewhere different then you would have before.

I know the effect that the cheapness of popular culture can have on our perceptions. I really do. And I'm not going to say that Taylor Swift occupies some magical place outside of this zeitgeist.

What I will say is that, at some point, you'll be sitting somewhere...

Maybe you will have experienced the greatest happiness of your life, or the greatest sadness. Maybe you'll have found true love, or the depths of disparity... or both! You could be lying in the grass, gazing at the stars as if they were your last hope, or hovering your maw three inches above a plate of hashbrowns at Waffle House.

But you will, in the background, at some instance, hear a song from "1989." And it will change you.

When that happens, just let it happen. That's what art is supposed to do. Don't be a dick about how she is just some consumerist pawn, or how she is selling ham-fistedness to the masses, and dear sweet Jesus, don't get political about it.

Just hug it. And listen. And take in what the meaning should be, for you, in that moment.

I've never been prescriptive, so you all know there's no rush.

But that's how it'll happen. And that's how it'll go.

###

(An exceptional piece of art by the amazing @pinup_graphix (on IG), again, because the guy is on a roll /on fire!)

Yellow (Well, White) Submarine

I adore working with artists. I always have (even back in the days before I was a boob-ed glam-ish model-esque type of person on Internets. (Got to work with photographers, designers, illustrators, etc., back in the times when I had a real job, working at a magazine with... people).

Artists see the world in a different way. They're nit-picky about things that are worth being nit-picky about, that the rest of us wouldn't take the time to nitpick over. (Like recreating the intricate design of one of my fave dresses.)

And so, I wonder. Are we each artists? We all have our pursuits. I love writing. You might be a huge fan of recreating anime, or fixing old radios, or tinkering with your car, or sewing, of fixing shoes, or collecting something like wine, or old lamps, or Hummel figurines. 

There's art to all of that, I think. There has to be — a representation of our own unique sense of expression that exists outside of the face we present to the world. 

Not to sound TOO much like a stoner... but... You ever think it's kind of weird? Like, we know who WE are, as in ourselves. But to other people, we're something just a little different. To our parents, we're always the child; to our significant other, we're a source of emotional support, sexual adoration, or stress (or sometimes, all of them!); to our friends, we're that person to go out for cocktails with; and in some cases, we might be villains to people we don't even know, or the white whale.

That's the mystery of human consciousness... Each of us is the protagonist in our own story, but we're a supporting character in everyone else's, with the nuances and drive that person has established for us. Nobody in the world sees you, as you see yourself (woooaah, man). 

That's what spewed out of my brain as I decided to post this lovely piece of work by the incredibly talented @pinup_graphix (that's his IG handle). He has a much more-established IG page (and is super-talented there), but he likes to keep his pinup work separate, so I'll keep it on the DL here, too. I'm pleased to say that I'm the gal who cajoled him to put his naughty work out there (and even then, it's all actually really tasteful, which speaks to his character, I think), on a separate account. The world needs to know when someone with talent takes it upon themselves to post digital oils of busty girls (especially you fellas, I think), so here's me, letting you know. 

He and I got to talking about the Beatles for a moment while this piece was being created, hence the style of the illustration (and the inclusion of said Submarine).

And now, that song is stuck in your head. 

Maybe for Brunch?

Have been going on a clothing purge. Finding the pieces that are, at this point, too worn out to be acceptable. 

It's a shame that I have to part with this top. It was a reliable old thing, and oddly enough, it fit my shape really really well. Granted, I would usually wear a blouse or something underneath because hey — it's not like I could get away just going as-presented-above if I were to head to a Sunday service. Not that I'm the most church-going of gals, but you get the idea.

On the other hand, show me a congregation where most of the women are flaunting a foot of cleavage, and I think I could find you a long list of converts to fill up the collection plate...

Eine Kleine Housework

I've gotten to the point where I'm a dynamo with dishes. But every now and then, an accident happens and some... flooding occurs. Nobody's perfect. 

Still, the drudgery is alleviated somewhat by re-runs of one of my guilty pleasure favorite TV show.  Some of you might be the cool kids who always got picked first for kickball, and may not recognise the theme song over the end credits. Some of you, however, might be raging nerds, and will get a pang of joy at hearing the mysterious un-official anthem of Great Britain. 

If you're the latter, may I ask... Who's your Doctor? (I'm a Tennant girl, myself... Ahhh...) 

Maybe it's because "Wibbly Wobbly" is a phrase I'm all too familiar with...

A Cup by Any Other Name

There’s been some confusion, I’ve found (at least in the countless inbox messages on IG, asking “so, what bra size are you?”). So, it’s time for a little public service announcement. Gentlemen, listen up: your advanced knowledge of bra dynamics might earn you some bonus points with a lady one day; and ladies… listen up, too! You ever hear that statistic that says something like 75% of women are wearing the wrong size bra? I wouldn’t doubt it.

Back in my small-boobed days (I was only a C, give or take, depending on where I went shopping), and I’m pretty sure I had it all off. I have maybe one professional measuring at a real lingerie shop through all of my 20s, and since boobs do change shape, size, etc. over time, it’s not too hard to have a great bra when you’re 22, that is just a mess by the time you’re 27 (if it lasts that long). 

Truth is, most women go with a) what’s comfy, b) what’s cheapest, and c) what’s available. It fits here, it fits there, it keeps the girls from jumping around too much, you can bend over without falling out? That’s all the criteria you really need. Then, you just don’t have to think about it.

Long gone, however, are the days when I could just swing by a Victoria’s Secret when one of my faithful brassieres had to meet its maker (read: became too disgusting to not feel like a hot mess in). WalMart, nope. VS? Hell nope (though they always labeled their bras a size up to make their customers feel bustier, God bless’em). There’s a place based out of the UK called Bravissimo that I’ve gotten a couple from in the past, but I never could stick with them… I outgrew them pretty quickly during my spurtin’ days, but I assume they would have been nice if my breasts would have stayed the same size for more than a month or so? They didn’t. :-/

So, that left one option. The physics of bras, you see, tend to break down anyway once you hit a certain size. Once you’re out of the G-J range, you find yourself lost in some uncharted territory. Straps are never wide enough, the band hikes up in the back, and you find yourself trading comfort for something that will just fucking hold them in place so they’re not flopping around like goddam jackrabbits. (That last part is key.)

I tracked it down on Amazon. There’s a company called Goddess that I’ve never seen in a store. Presumably, some Chinese firm got it in their head that there might be SOME market for bras that are exceptionally huge (or maybe a decimal point got out of place, and they started up the machine? Maybe they had it in mind that some stupid Americans would want a bra this size that they could give as a gag gift, or incorporate into their Halloween costume?). Anyway, the largest this company sells is an N cup. Still pretty huge! But not quite enough for your ol’ pal Heather. I had to get fancy… using the power of subtraction! (Insert Bill Nye voice: “Science!”)

Here’s how it works. The number in a bra size is the band, and that’s determined by taking a measuring tape and measuring your rib cage, under your boobs. So if you’re 36 inches around, you’re a 36. The letter is the cup size. It goes up one letter with each extra inch around you are at your fullest point (usually the nipple). So if you’re a 36 underbust, but a 41 when you measure over the boobs, you’re a DD. A, B, C, D… DD. (Or E, for your Brits out there.) 36DD.

You can play with these numbers. There are oodles of women out there who might be a 36DD, but who found a 38 that looked pretty, so they bought that. Their boobs still fit into the cups, which might be a C, and they get to feel ok that they’ve still got their perky little C cups, even though that’s just a trick of the light.

This is the way it goes for a lot of women. It’s easier to find a cute C cup bra than it is to find a DD. Ladies love cute bras (we all do, really), so if the one that’s 38 fits, then let’s go for it. So when most women get a professional measure, they typically find their band is smaller than they thought it was, and that their cup size is considerably bigger. She walked into the store a C cup; she walked out a DD. And that’s OK, because the best bras are the ones that fit perfectly, so suck it up, and live the good life, where nothing is digging in at an awkward angle, and so you don’t feel like a prisoner in a straight jacket by the end of the day.

So let’s take this mix-and-match principal, and drag it out to its very extremes. But before we do, keep in mind something that has taken a little getting used to, for me anyway. Remember that “measure around the fullest part” thing I mentioned earlier? That would put the tape around my boobs, which kinda rest on top of my belly (which, I’m terrified to say, isn’t the very embodiment of Ft. Lauderdale swimsuit during Spring Break flatness). So that jacks with the numbers, too, because now I have a band that’s somewhere around my mid-back, so do measure around my ribs, or around my mid back? Oi, vey. 

But, for the sake of argument, Let’s go around my ribs. That’s 38 inches on a good day. The part where my actual boobs are widest? That’s gonna clock in (again, on a good day) at around 58 inches. It’s different every time, because I don’t have one of those cool three-way mirrors you find at the stories I used to be able to shop at, but that’s the average. 

38. Then, the 20th letter of the alphabet. That’s the letter (go ahead and count using your fingers and toes) T. 

There was a time when I used to advertise, on this Patreon and on my IG, that I was a 44N. Not untrue, because that’s what the stupid bra says! But in reality, if there was anybody out there who wanted to get me a cool Christmas gift, and has the $$$ to spend cajoling some Chinese assembly line to pick up the task, that real number — the one that I honestly, actually kinda dream of, and that is essentially the equivalent of what the very few custom bras I’ve gotten made, is a 38T.

Yes. 38T. It freaks me out a little as well. Like the number 4 jillion, or the sound a howler monkey makes. 

And so, with you hundreds of lovelies out there, I imagine there has to be one person, maybe more, with an engineering background. To you, I make this promise. Ask me for whatever measurements you need. Length, width, height, slope, angle, grade, yaw, pitch, whatever, and you’ve got it. I can’t offer the sum you might get from an X-prize, but I’m sure we can figure out a way to make it worth your while. We can even hook it up with the patent office.

Together, let’s make a Better Bra for the Heathers of the world. We’re out there, and we’re waiting.

It's a thing I'm doing now.

Bonus points to the first person who can tell me which book this pic is the plot to.

Don't worry. More "fun" stuff is comin'. Tgis is a fun little teaser in the mean-whilst.

4 Delicious Flavors

I was, until recently, one of the insufferable anachronistics with a flip phone. It took me a while to finally give in and embrace the whole smartphone thing, so I'll hope you'll forgive me for having the same fascination and level of amusement for photo editing on a phone that most of y'all did back in 2012 or so.

I've been fooling with this app called Photo Lab. Take pics, make them look artsy with crazy filters. It's fun. Because the interpretations change completely.

In the top-left, that's me stoned while watching a documentary.

Top-right, a screenshot from the next Bioshock game.

Bottom-left, midcentury deco-revival smoldering temptress painting.

Bottom-right, the Japanese ghost child who haunts your dreams because you watched that old videotape.

Though this picture does remind me that I've put on a few extra pounds over the winter. 😬🙄😒😔🤤 Not where you're thinking — the girls are still behaving — but in the past, whenever I would put on a little weight, I tended to go a little pear-shaped.

The good thing about huge breasts is that they do distract from other body parts... I'd have to put on a LOT of weight before someone says, "You know, Heather... the girl with the ass." Plus, the boobs make me look perpetually chubby-at-least anyway, so I've gotten used to it.

Ingred Bergman said her favorite movie to make was the one where she played a nun. She wore a habit the whole time, and she was thrilled about being able to eat anything she wanted without having to worry about her waistline.

I can get on board with that.

"Heather and the Farm" - Chapter 3

This chapter was so much fun to write — apparently, Paploman (@paplomancomics , patreon.com/paploman) thought so too, and decided to do three images to go along with it!

I hope you enjoy where this is all going. :-)

Tina and Me

Some of you might recall that a little while back, I said I had been passed along a bootleg PDF of a book. It was written in the 1980s, and is attributed to a woman named Tina Small; an obscure blonde, exceptionally British mini-icon who did a lot of photosets back in the film days, a couple of absurd softcore porn/sci-fi movies, made a couple of books, and seemingly, faded into oblivion. 

I’ve chatted with a number of you about Tina Small, so I guess she’s pretty popular with the boob lovers out there. Though I gather she’s a bit of a divisive subject. As for me, I don’t know an awful lot about how marketing for soft-fetish porn was conducted in the print industry back in the 1980s, but my argument rests in the fact that she has to be real. It just seems like an awful lot of work to write a memoir-style book and and profit, unless you didn’t really care if you break even. The woman had a story to tell, and she told it. She just didn’t have the internet (jeez, can you imagine?).

So, that leaves this book, Big Girls Don’t Cry. Which I will review, because I honestly really enjoyed this thing.

A lot of what she wrote really resonated with me. She and I are about the same size, boob-wise. She developed a lot earlier than I did. But she and I have encountered a lot of the same kinds of people, and have had a lot of the same experiences and reactions. The book was a one-hit reminder that the world sees women with breasts this size differently, and this gal knows it too. That’s why it was fun watching Tina let loose in this story, from time to time... It reminds me of learning the same thing. 

The story is pretty chronological once she introduces herself. Having to go to a specialist doctor in London; falling in love with a blind man who lives close by; shitty experiences with bosses; working in the countryside, and befriending a rich Saudi man… It’s a pretty crazy story, yo. I guess all of our stories are pretty crazy if we isolate the most memorable things. And in the case of this book, Tina is laying out her whole story.

I’m sure nobody here wants to read a book report, so since I have a little weed in my system, let’s just turn this post into a listicle called  “The Top-Five Moments While Reading Big Girls Don’t Cry That Made Heather Say, ‘Same’.” 

Like…

She falls in love with a blind artist in her town, and he wants to sculpt her face in clay. They develop an appreciation for each other, and after knowing each other for awhile, things get a little heavy one night. He’s never seen her before, of course, and when he moves in, his hands grope around in disbelief and (yeah, it happens) disgust.

Most of us don’t have the convenience of falling in love with a blind artist who is perpetually at arms length. But one time, I went on a date. This was a couple of years ago, when I had just gotten to the size I am now. My friend convinced me to meet a friend of hers; she’d been talking me up, and all that. One thing led to another, and when he realized that I wasn’t just fat underneath that super-flowy hippy muumuu, he kind of short-circuited a little. 

This was at a weird transitional time for me… I was somewhere on the fine line between “I wish a guy would just notice me for something besides my breasts” and “I would be absolutely retarded to think that my breasts aren’t going to play some part in this…” 

Anyway, things went well. By the time we got back to my place, we finally play around a little, which I had been missing — dryspell for ol’ Heather. But then, the moment he sees my breasts (if I decide to let him that far), it’s like a switch got flicked. Face kinda sullen, you can tell the jaw is tight, a few stifled syllables, just a change of personality and a keen interest to change the direction from the (sexy) one it was going into… 

And yes, that only happened a couple of times — usually, it’s actually kinda amusing to be with a man or a woman and watch as they try to figure out what the hell to do with them (I don’t even know the answer to that most days). But in the case of this guy? Those were deformities, and he had some savage morbid curiosity to settle.

It stung, for a while. I’m better now. 

At one point, she’s like, 15. And she ends up at a discotheque, by herself. She’s determined to have a good time, and since she’s pretty developed by then, she doesn’t have any problems with the bartender about getting a couple of drinks. She ends up out on the dance floor, dancing to ABBA, content in the knowledge that her awkward new boobs are just flopping around, and who gives a fuck, she’s enjoying herself.

Damn right, sister. You do you. I dance like a weirdo, but there is a bar where the karaoke guy refers to me getting up on stage as K-cup Karaoke with Heather. But that’s usually when I’m just wearing a snug t-shirt anyway, and don’t really mind showing them off. That bar is comfy, all my friends are there, and there, I’m the karaoke singer with the giant tits, and I’m okay with that because *I* still think that I do a damned good drunken rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” thank-you-very-much. (turn around…)

In other words, it’s the sketchy little five where everybody knows your name, and where you can minimize guys buying you drinks when you’re just in the mood to chill out. But, it takes going to that place the first time, doesn’t it. And realising that you kinda like being the 80s Diva with giant boobies. 

When that blind guy dumps her, Tina has some effed-up dreams. She hates her boobs, because they cost her the guy who she was really falling for, and she has this dream where she’s lying in a forest on her back, and that her breasts are growing to the point where they cover her mouth and muffle her screams. 

Dude! I’ve totally had this dream too! Mine was in my old car… I was in the passenger seat, the doors were locked, and I couldn’t get out. I remember these weird snippets… not memories from the dream, but I knew how I felt when I envisioned certain flickers. Like being terrified, and having this gut feeling that the dream really involved what would happen if I couldn’t get out of the car, and wouldn’t stop growing. Like, imagining that I would get stuck in there and eventually crushed by my own breasts. 

I’m not going to say that “OHMYGODTHEYWONTSTOP” dreams are particularly common among the largest breasted. Maybe they are? Maybe I’m just weird? But it is nice to see that I’m not the first. 

So, she befriends this mega-wealthy Saudi guy who lives near the horse stables where she works. He invites her over to his house, she’s 16 (which used to be age of consent in the UK; I looked it up), so her boss says sure. She goes, hangs out with odd socialites, smokes some of the devil’s grass and generally has a nice time. She goes back for a second party, when a couple of red flags go up. Turns out, she realizes before it’s too late, that he was trying to lure her to Saudi Arabia in order to sell her on the sex trade! Wooooah! Twiiiist tuuuurn, bro!

I’ve never been sold into sex slavery. So I’ve got that going for me, which is nice. But I have, I think, found myself in the company of odd eccentrics who I wouldn’t have otherwise had the pleasure of knowing over the last few years, were it not for the boobs. So that’s nice too.

I used to work at a magazine, and sometimes, we’d get access to some crazy party, restaurant or gallery opening, some pretty swell invites. I’m inherantly a “wanna go home and curl up with Netflix” kind of girl, but there was this party with this really big band playing, and my friend wanted me to snag her an invite, so I got on the list too because it would have been awkward if I wouldn’t have gone, and there you have it, Heather goes out. 

That night was a blast. We ended up hanging out with these New York socialites at Waffle House, then we go to their crazy-expensive hotel room to hang out and fool around. I kinda had my eye on the guy, but he passed out before he could make it too long. His sister and I, however, had some fun (would never have pegged her). 

But nope. So sex trafficking for me.

At the end of the story, she wraps things up pretty quickly, like she ran out of juice and promised herself she would come back to it. And that’s cool. I get it. She left it at a good spot. 

Except that one of the things she mentions only for a second is the fact that she was a part of a cult, at one point. What kind of cult? Jim Jones? Sex cult? Just a buncha hippies? We need to know! 

She didn’t tell us. I’ve never been a part of a cult, but I was actually invited once! I was in a TJMaxx and this really weird woman came up to me and started making conversation about the wonders of nature, and this group of pagans she belonged to, and They would love to meet me, because I have this really positive, fertile energy. 

But who knows. Maybe I should have taken her up on it. Then I would be living on a well-armed commune of apocalypse-fearing devotees of Anubus. Knowing my luck, it would be a fertility cult, and my name would be changed to Honey Dove-Raven, and I’d have a brood of screaming children who are named after the directions of the wind in Greek mythology. 

They never talk about food in a cult… I imagine cult food would be pretty tasty… Maybe that’s how cultists do it. Great cafeteria.