Sunny: The Hippie Chick

By Dawn Natelle

Reviewed and Edited by Eric

Chapter 8 – There’s a man with a gun over there

There was a concert at the Longshoreman’s Hall on New Year’s Eve, and all three attended. A guy named Ken Kesey who had just returned from an epic bus ride across America was there and was in charge of the Kool Aid. Sunny abstained from it, remembering the bad trip she had gone through the last time, although Ben took a couple of hits. I had researched the drug, as little as I could find out about it in the medical journals and had decided I did not want to mess with the wiring of my brain, even if the stuff was still legal to take. Both Sunny and I did partake of marijuana cigarettes. Not that we bought any but sitting around the big tables it was hard to not get a joint passed to you from time to time, and it was considered rude not to partake. In fact, not smoking could quickly get you labelled a ‘narc’ (a narcotics officer) or a policeman.

Sunny spent quite a bit of time talking to a guy named Neal Cassady, and I started to wonder. The guy was handsome in all the ways I wasn’t and at one point he offered her a ride on ‘Furthur,’ the bus used in the cross-country odyssey of the year before. He apparently had been the main driver of the bus. But fortunately (for me) Sunny turned him down, and he wandered off to the Kool Aid table. Sunny came back to me and told me the guy had been Dean Moriarty in the famous Jack Kerouac book On The Road, which was one of my favorites. Apparently Cassady had lived in North Beach when Sunny had lived up there, although she was unsure that she was living as a girl then. Nevertheless they had never met before.

The light show at the concert was more trippy than normal. Instead of just colored lights moving about, some guys had come up with some way to project colored liquid gels that swirled about in a kaleidoscope of colors. It blew away the folks on the Kool Aid, and was pretty spiffy to those of us just stoned on weed.

Ben said he could still see the bubbles of color swirling about as we rode the busses back home.

January meant a return to school, term two of the eight I needed for my pre-med degree. Our rent in the apartment went up to $30 a month, but Sunny decided to chip in the extra $5. The rainy season was starting to abate so she had plenty of days on the street with her little act.

This made it easier on Ben and me, both of whom were struggling to survive on our scholarships. And of course, the food costs at the apartment were way down, with Sunny doing the shopping (sometimes with her own money) and making us great home-cooked meals at a fraction of what we had been paying for pizza and Chinese delivery food in the past.

We were getting into the month when Ben insisted on a road trip that weekend. Or more accurately a bus trip up to the North Beach area. Sunny was game from the minute she learned the destination. She always liked going back to where she had first lived in San Francisco. I was the hard sell, but Ben wouldn’t tell us where exactly we were going. He just said I had to see it, whatever it was, and that it wouldn’t be a cheap trip, which made me less excited about it. We would go on Thursday afternoon, when both Ben and I had no classes. Sunny was hoping it would be rainy but decided to skip work even if it was nice.

I grudgingly agreed to go, and on Thursday just after lunch we gathered at the bus stop and headed on the Haight bus to our transfer spot to go up to North Beach. Our goal was the corner of Broadway and Columbus. Sunny knew the streets but couldn’t remember what was there.

We got off the bus and looked at the old building Ben was pointing at. A sign said Condor Club and advertised Topless Go-go dancing. I had heard of go-go dancing, where scantily clad girls wearing little more than underwear would dance on pedestals or such. I had never heard of topless though. It couldn’t mean naked breasts, could it? There was a short lineup outside the club, and Ben got us into the line. Apparently the lineup went around the corner in the evenings, but just after noon on a weekday it wasn’t bad. This is where the expensive bit came in. They wanted an outrageous five dollars just to get in.

We got a table near the back of the hall, at Ben’s suggestion. There were three or four girls dancing in little cages in the new bikinis that were all the rage at the beaches. A waitress came around and part two of the gouging hit. Draft beers cost $2 each, instead of the 25 to 40 cents in most places. Once they were served the music died and an announcer introduced Miss Carol Doda, The North Beach Wonder Girl. Then the music started up again and a piano began descending from a hole in the roof. There was a girl on top of it dancing the new dance called the Swim, wearing not very much.

As she danced, the not very much became even less, until near the end of the first song she was wearing nothing above her waist. And her ‘above the waist’ was pretty spectacular. I had little experience looking at naked women, other than in men’s magazines. But she was huge. Her breasts looked at least twice as large as the average woman.

Sunny stared, transfixed. By the end of three songs, perhaps 10 minutes of dancing, she took off her bikini bottom, revealing something Ben later told us was a g-string that covered her sex, but only barely. She hopped off the piano, now standing on the stage, and scurried off through the crowd towards the dressing rooms, with a man on either side of her ensuring that no patrons decided to get overly friendly with the near-naked blonde girl.

“Wow,” Sunny said as we sipped our beers and watched them hoist the piano back up into the heights above the stage. “I am so jealous now.”

“It is just a matter of genetics,” I told her. “Your breasts are growing, but they will never get to that size. I don’t know how she got so big.”

“I do,” Ben said with a grin. “Apparently she goes to a doctor every week or so and gets injections of something called silicone into her boobs. Now, they are more than three times as big as they were when she started dancing.”

“I. Want. That.” Sunny said. “Can I Mitch? Please.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” I replied. I couldn’t refuse anything those blue eyes asked me. “I’ll have to do some research. But I’m pretty sure you will have to wait and see how big your breasts get on the hormones alone.”

“Also,” Ben added, “did you notice how her breasts stuck out? No sag, no bounce. I doubt they even feel natural. It could be like little rocks in there.”

“Don’t care,” Sunny said. “I want them.”

That led me back to the post-grad library the next day, where I scoured the journals. I found out that Dow Corning had developed something called a breast implant, and I wrote to them for information. I got more than I expected. A salesman wrote back and to my surprise he sent a set of three different sized implant pairs. Sunny was relaxing on the sofa that night as her dinner cooked when I tossed one of the larger ones onto her lap.

“What’s this,” she said as she held up the floppy gel-filled sac.

“Your left boob,” I quipped and tossed its partner over. “These are what I think you should get instead of injections. A plastic surgeon will make a small incision under your breast, once it is grown out enough, and then stick these in under your natural breasts. There will be a little scar, but not much if the surgeon is good. And the scar will hide in the crease under your natural breasts, so no one will know it is there, unless they are looking for it.”

“These are awesome,” Sunny crowed as she held the implants up over her boobs. “I want to wear them now, instead of the towels.”

It turned out that the largest implants were much smaller than the towels, and Sunny had to get some new bras, 32C that held the implants fairly securely to her chest.

She wore the implants to her next appointment with Dr. MacBrien. He was amazed.

“I have heard of injections, but not these,” he said hefting one after they had been removed so he could inspect Sunny’s hormonal growth. “My specialty is Pharmacology. You really need to see a plastic surgeon about this. But I’m not going to recommend anyone yet. You have to let the hormones work for at least a half year, and maybe a year, until they stop growing. I do have someone in mind, but if Mitch wants to talk to him first, that might be a good idea.”

The doctor gave me contact information for the plastic surgeon, who also taught at the medical school one day a week and had a private practice the rest of the time, like Dr. MacBrien. I called his office the next day and got an appointment for Thursday afternoon. I could not pry the large size implants out of Sunny’s hands (or bra, more exactly) but I took the two smaller sized ones to Dr. Killensworth.

He seemed interested by the implants I showed him. “I’ve seen women wanting injections, but I think introducing silicone into the body that way could be potentially dangerous. I worry about the silicone moving around in the breast, and possibly migrating to other locations. These implants seem to be potentially more effective.”

The doctor took the medium implants, and copies of all the research I had done for further study. He didn’t see much of a market for transsexuals like Sunny, but saw that there might be a healthy market for entertainers and other women wishing for a larger breast line, as well as reconstructive work for women who had lost a breast to cancer. He also wanted to meet Sunny in a future visit, which he booked for a month away.

A surprise came at the end of the visit, when I explained that Sunny was a little worried about the implants sliding around in the bra.

“Take off your shirt,” the doctor ordered, and I complied, wondering what he was up to. He spun around in his chair and took two small tin containers from the credenza behind him. I was made to lay on his examining table as he spilled a liquid from one of the tins on the back of the smallest breast form and then laid it on my right nipple. He then duplicated it with the matching form and set that one on my left nipple. He made me hold them in place for about five minutes as he explained what he had done.

“This container holds an adhesive for human skin. We use it occasionally in plastic surgery. It is completely safe for skin, but I don’t know what effect it will have on the implant plastic. The other is a releasing agent. You just need to use a Q-tip to apply the releasing agent to the glue and it should come free. Bathe the area with soap after.”

I let go of the implants and sat up. To my surprise they adhered to my chest, jiggling a bit as I moved. “I didn’t want breasts,” I complained. “Sunny does. Take them off.”

“I will,” the doctor said. “But it would be better if you just wore them home and took them off in six hours, to give a good test of the glue. If it hasn’t affected the implants by that time then it never will, and it will be safe for your friend.”

“But I can’t go home with breasts. Everyone on the bus will see them and stare.”

“Don’t be silly,” he chastised. “They are only 3/4-of an inch thick. With the sweatshirt you wore in they won’t be noticeable. And it will give you an idea of what your friend is going through.”

I finally relented and pulled my shirt back on. Looking down I didn’t see any untoward bulges or anything. Perhaps no one would notice. I know that I did. They pulled down on my chest and jiggled a bit as I walked. I pocketed the two tins, and left, wondering if the doctor was crazy for putting them on me, or if I was crazy for letting him do it.

All the way home I was aware of them, jiggling when the bus hit a pothole or anything. I was only getting used to them a bit when I got off the bus at Mario’s stand, where I picked up my papers. Bending over to pick up the Chronicle was odd, as the forms hung straight down.

Sunny had already finished up. Mario was soon closing the kiosk. I headed to the apartment, wondering how I should let Sunny know I was wearing the small forms. In the end, after dropping my newspapers I just reached up and took off the sweatshirt and stood there topless.

Sunny was in the kitchen and didn’t notice at first as she was prepping dinner. Suddenly she froze, and her eyes went wide.

“You have Boobies, Mitch,” she said, coming closer and looking at them. They were definitely not a part of me, my skin was a bit darker than the implants, but they were securely in place, even when Sunny gave them a little squeeze.

“I have to keep them in until 8 tonight,” I said. “Then we can take them off.”

“I want mine glued on,” Sunny insisted,

“Not yet,” I said. I hadn’t gone through all this for her not to wait and find out if it was safe. “After we take mine off if there is no damage, we can do yours.”

“Okay,” she giggled. “Ben said he would be home from the library for supper. Let’s fool him.” With that she darted into the bedroom and came back with a t-shirt. It was loose and baggy on her, but when she pulled it over my head it was tight. It would have been tight on my chest without the implants. With them they certainly stood out.

It took Ben several minutes to notice the change in my torso. Admittedly they weren’t very big. But when he did notice he reached over and fondled them. “Very natural feeling,” he pronounced. He would know, having regularly spent the night with girlfriends. The only ones I had ever touched were Sunny’s and hers were still barely there.

We ate dinner in an odd silence. Ben said that with my long hair (I hadn’t cut it since coming to the City five months ago) and clean-shaven chin, I looked a little like a girl. Not something a guy wants to hear. At eight sharp all three of us got the Q-tips and solvent out and started to loosen the glue. Within 10 minutes I was freed, and now felt the odd sensation of not having breasts. After that we glued Sunny’s bigger ones on her and once the glue set, she was thrilled to be able to do a little dance topless around the living room. The doctor had told me she would have to remove them one day a week for several hours so the skin could get air. I studied the small implants closely and could see no indication that the glue had damaged them in the least.

The next few days flew by. This term seemed tougher than the first, but I was able to maintain my straight A standing.

Early in February we started to feel a different vibe on the streets. There were more and more hippies on Haight and some of the old families moved out as rents increased. Some of the bands took houses, and other free spirits were in apartments like ours.

There was a peace march near the end of February in Golden Gate Park, just down the road, and Sunny wanted to attend, because there were some good bands playing. We left a couple hours early to get a good spot to watch from. I was in my camouflage outfit, but Sunny had tie-dyed it earlier in the week, saying it would be in bad taste to attend a peace rally looking like a soldier.

She was in one of her long, flowing sundresses as the three of us headed down the street. Most of the foot traffic were hippies heading to the park. We caught up to a vaguely familiar girl and walked alongside her. Sunny was first to recognize her.

“I know you. You’re Janis Joplin,” she blurted out.

“And you are the girl who sings and dances at the news stand,” Janis replied. “Are you going to the march? The band is playing there. We rented a house just a street down from here so I thought I would walk in. The boys are taking the gear in our van.”

The girls gossiped about music all the way to the park until Janis had to split off and find her bandmates.

There were thousands at the park. The war in Vietnam had been going for a few years and more and more young people were being drafted. Ben and I didn’t have to worry: we had educational exemptions and surely the war would be over in three years. How could a huge country like America not conquer a tiny place like Vietnam? But we were here to support the ones who were at risk.

There was a small group of blacks in the park. They had won civil rights in their actions of recent years, but somehow things were still heavily unfair with mostly blacks being drafted. The event went on peacefully for a couple hours, until we noticed that vans with SFPD logos on the side drew up around us. For over an hour they just remained parked there, but in the late evening doors opened, and dozens of policemen in riot gear climbed out of the trucks. The music stopped and soon there were two masses of people lined up, police on one side and hippies on the other, neither side looking very happy.

It was fairly early in the tense moments when Sunny stepped up to the line. I screamed at her to come back to safety, but she didn’t. She had something in her hand. It was a daisy that she had woven into her hair this morning. She walked up to a policeman who was probably younger than herself. He thrust his weapon out at her, yelling for her to get back. Instead, she just reached out and stuck the daisy stem into the rifle barrel. As she did, a Chronicle photographer snapped a photo.

Then the man to the young cop’s left thrust his rifle forward, forcing Sunny back, and she came back to where I could wrap my arms around her. I really didn’t like what seemed to be happening, so I pulled her to the back of the crowd just before the police started forward with tear gas canisters going off. We were well out of it when the cops started using billy clubs on the hippies, and some of the hippies started fighting back.

Three hundred were arrested in that event, the first anti-war rally in San Francisco. Several others had been held in Berkeley, and many more would happen later. Sunny’s photo was printed in the Chronicle inside pages the next day: the front-page photo had been of a more violent incident where three cops were using their sticks on a dazed young longhaired girl who had blood all down the side of her face.

But Sunny’s photo made the cover of Newsweek Magazine that week. You might have seen it, or you might have seen one of the several copy-cat flower placings that occurred over the following years.