I figured it was about time I posted my short story that placed in the Rosalie Fleming Memorial Humor Prize (of which I spelled it Felming on the envelope, nice to know it didn’t matter). Just to give you a frame of reference, I got the notice at the end of January and did the reading at the end of March.  So I’m a little slow in getting it up.  The important thing is that it’s up!  It’s always a good feeling to make an auditorium of people laugh. FYI, this was recognized under my legal name, not my pen name.

I reveled in the fact that, once clasped, I had what I would call cleavage. Granted, if I didn’t finagle the girls just right, not only would I get the standard cleavage line but I would also get this alternate route crease that rode along the inner edge of my right boob. To remedy the fork in the boob, I would have to pull one off to the side, stretch it across my boob and clamp, all this while watching in the mirror so I didn’t end up with one on my shoulder or something. Although the right one needed to get stuck practically under my armpit to compensate for it’s lack of size.

When you’re big you have a cantaloupe and a slightly smaller cantaloupe but stuff those fun bags in a bra and no one is any the wiser. When you’re small it’s like the difference between an apple and a plum (I would have gone with a plum and a prune but I don’t want people to think I have a mutant shriveled boob or anything…I don’t) and when you’re working with stick-on tits that difference is magnified even more. While the left one is positioned nicely, plumped up all pretty, the right one is finagled halfway around my back in a feeble attempt to mimic the same bongo on the right but only being ¾ the size. When they’re clipped in the middle, the right one is pulled so far off that it causes the left to start sliding, physical proof that the dual A/B size was created by the same sadist that made the two cookie Fig Newton serving. Forty-five minutes of external augmentation later, I finally have them fixed so that I can get dressed without looking like a Picasso. The Press-On Boobs aren’t going anywhere…that is until I start to sweat.

Apparently the sticky stuff likes to create a little booby Slip ‘N Slide for itself at any sign of moisture. Dancing, drinking, thinking about tropical locations, will all result in tectonic tit movement. Like discretely removing a wedgie, I often had to slyly press the boobs back onto my skin, most often under the guise of crossing my arms, my back to a wall, and feeling myself up. But, if those wonder tities are used often enough, the glue will start to peel off in booger-like clumps, more often than not sticking to your skin when you remove them. Try explaining the snot-like substance to your boyfriend when you didn’t notice it but he ended up sticking a finger in it.

The stick-on tits made their final appearance, and pre-mature departure, when I was in New York City to see a comedy show at Lincoln Center. It was November but unseasonably warm. While on Jersey Transit into Manhattan, I had some moderate slippage that resulted in me having to hold them in place and sit with my winter peacoat over me until I could properly readjust. I was good when I got to Penn Station, when I met up with my friend, but when we started walking to find a restaurant, I felt it slide for the last time but before I could catch it, the left tit slipped and flopped against my stomach.

My outfit for the night? A knee-length black skirt and a sheer, sleeveless, black shirt. We’re not talking ‘sheer under the right lighting.’ It was sheer for Helen Keller. It was very classy with the stickies on, nice and seamless, but with one slippery piece of silicone dangling down to my naval and one very exposed nipple, I looked like something out of a radioactive trailer park.

Quickly finding a nice (dark) restaurant, I barreled to the bathroom to try and salvage my dying ta-tas. Luckily enough, I had a tube of sock glue on me. Why? Not only was the shirt sheer but hung low-cut as well. I had strategically glued it so I wouldn’t have any plastic booby slips. Nearly glueless teetons in hand, I applied the sock glue over the cutlets and tried to reattach. Ironically enough for me, the sock glue and snot glue actually counteracted each other, making both glues moot. On top of my bionic flopping tits, a black fuzz line had formed on my chest because I refashioned the shirt too many times. Now that I more closely resembled a teetless chimpanzee than the classy dame I was before I got on the train, I tossed the born-again Stick-No-Mores in the bin, waving the white flag of flatchestedness.

I figured that it would be dark inside Lincoln Center anyway and no one would notice. Well, yes, where the comedians performed was dark. The lobby, however, was fluorescently lit, exposing my chest bone with nipples to anyone with nominal vision. I’m sure some people were wondering why a ten year old boy was in a skirt but what else could I do? Wrapping toilet paper around myself would have been a little too conspicuous and people might have thought that I had a tendency to self-mutilate my nipples if I used band-aids. Not wanting to back out on my ticket nor sweat under a jacket, I did what any half-naked woman in a public situation would do. I said screw it and wore my aspirins proudly. Funnily enough, one of the acts made mention of a nipple-toting twentysomething strutting around the Center. My friend couldn’t keep her mouth shut and now the spotlight guy is on my ‘dead to me’ list. The A-Cup Experience was the first of it’s kind at Lincoln Center…and probably the last. Now they check for underwires at the door.