Chapter 18 - Perky Tits

Over the years I have developed a philosophy that has held me in good stead. Any time you interact with the medical establishment, the government or any form of bureaucracy, bring a book. Technology had forced an amendment recently - a cell phone or an e-book will work just as well as long as the battery is fully charged when you arrive.

Invariably you have to wait in a chair that can range from luxurious to ass-biting, until some arcane and hidden device with a random timer included within its bowels decides it's your time to be dealt with. Experience has shown that it certainly can't be a rational process that determines when the doctor is ready or the second assistant clerk to the third vice president is available.

We arrived at the clinic at 9:52 AM, in time for our ten o'clock appointment. Walking in the door with the head of the whole shebang having her arm around my shoulder did marvels for the alacrity of the staff by bypassing that random timer and seating me in an examination room without delay. I was a little nervous; confiding in Sandra had been easy, talking to a complete stranger, probably in a white coat and adorned with a stethoscope instead of a necklace, wasn't so easy.

My illusions were shattered when a motherly woman of maybe fifty years knocked on the door and entered. She was wearing a beige blouse and brown slacks, casual flats; a pair of rings on her left hand were the only jewelry she sported. She greeted me with a smile and casually asked how I was that morning. It was more like sitting down to coffee with someone you didn't know than anything connected to the medical establishment.

I should have known Sandra would have hired such people to work for her, especially considering how traumatized many of the clients would have been. For a wonder, the fact that I was a man who wanted to dress as a woman appeared to be unremarkable to her.

She reviewed my medical history, remarking on the fact that this wasn't the first time I had been part of a medical study. When I was maybe four years old I developed a hernia and had surgery to repair it. The doctors used surgical glue to close the wound rather than stitches, something that was brand new technology. It didn't matter much to me, the main thing I remember was being incensed that I had to sleep in a crib and I was a big boy, I didn't need no stinkin' crib.

I'm maundering again, you must be used to that by now.

Naturally, she had to examine me, so I took off my blouse and removed my bra. She agreed that my forms were ready to be replaced, then complimented me on my good taste in bras. I had to tell her that my mother was the one who chose it. Other than my one foray into mail order (remember the stars and moons?) whenever I went shopping for clothes it was with my mother.

After having spent much time organizing my memories to write this, I can see how odd it sounds to only have gone bra shopping with my mother. Since neither of us were thrilled with the selection at the Woolworths, after a skating session we would go to her favorite boutique, the one where she bought me that first bra. Since I was too young to drive, of course I went with my mother. There were a few times that Dad came with us, but he exhibited the usual male reaction to being surrounded by lady's frillies and studiously ignored them. I've never quite had the nerve to ask him what he thought as Mom and I discussed this bra or that girdle. And yes, I did wear girdles when the dress called for it, like any other young woman of the time.

I never asked Dad what he thought of paying for all these clothes for his son, either. Like I said, we were well off, but dressing me up had to put a substantial hole in the paycheck. He never once complained or made me feel the less for my need to be a girl on the weekends. He didn't complain about the cost of our skating obsession, either. It wasn't cheap buying two of all the outfits and traveling to competitions. At least with Mom to train me we weren't paying for a professional trainer like some of the other girls.

Which brings up something else you might have been curious about. As I got serious about skating, Conrad had to disappear on weekends so Connie could practice and compete. My buddies were mighty curious about where I went and I couldn't tell them. I tried to cultivate a personality like that new guy we were seeing in the movies, James Bond. Most of my buddies thought he was the ultimate in cool, and the rest just liked ogling the women. Me, I kind of wanted to be the women, but that wasn't something I could talk about. Being a crossdresser in the sixties was more than a small challenge; here I was training as a woman ice skater and trying to make all my buddies think I was James Bond. Is it any wonder that gender challenged folks in these modern days really need to see a shrink?

I did it again, didn't I? I was supposed to be telling you about getting my new breast forms and somehow I ended up talking about ice skating, macho secret agents and psychiatry. I'll try to keep my focus, at least for a while.

Naturally, healing after a mastectomy was not an issue in my case, so she took a few measurements and bustled off to return with two new forms for me to try. I was amazed, while they were undoubtedly made of plastic and would never look like real skin, they were shaped like real breasts and even felt like real breasts - at least they felt much like Julie's breasts and I figured she wasn't unique among woman, at least in that department.

Once they had found a home in my bra I could see that my body looked much more natural with them, but there was a certain looseness in the cups.

"I think maybe the next size up." and off she went, returning with another pair. With the blouse on and buttoned there was certainly no way to tell I was anything but a reasonably well developed young woman. All trace of my misplaced masculine angst at not being a man among my peers had vanished. I was starting to realize looking so much like my mother was a blessing, not a curse.

I had thought I had average-looking breasts before, and they were good enough that I don't think anyone ever realized they weren't home-grown. The difference was subtle but profound, my breasts now looked - and it's so damned trite I hate to use the word - perky. Perky breasts are usually found in soft porn and not on real women. I guess since I wasn't a real woman I could qualify to own a set of perky breasts, even if they had to be stored in a box.

Before we left, Sandra took us on a little tour, then stopped in her office. She closed the door and Julie said "I wanted to do this where we wouldn't attract a big crowd."

"What do you have in mind?"

"You."

"Well, I don't mind that too much," I answered.

She opened her purse and took out a small bag.

"I have to do this right, she said as she knelt before me. "I don't have to ask you to marry me, since that's a done thing, but I want the world to know you're an engaged woman. Hold out your hand, darling."

I did and she slid a rather old fashioned gold engagement ring on my finger."

"It's the one my father gave my mother. She wore it until Doug replaced it and we think it would be appropriate for Connie to be it's new bearer. It has a history of love behind it, and I hope we can add to that history."

"You're OK with this?" I asked Sandra in a tight voice.

"Of course. It would mean a great deal to me to have that ring remind you of your new family each time you see it, and I expect you to wear it when you're my bridesmaid this summer."

So we all broke down and cried. A good thing the hot-shot director had a small bathroom attached to her office or we would have attracted a good deal of attention sniffling through the halls to the lady's room to repair our makeup.

We left soon after, offering my profuse thanks to everyone within earshot. Julie and Sandra had wide grins on their faces at my delight, and not just at my new breasts. There was only one thing we could do after that - go shopping.

That's another overly trite thing I object to, detailed and breathless descriptions of going shopping for all the things a crossdresser needs to feel like a woman. I only object to the descriptions, not the actual shopping, especially when Sandra offered to spring for some matching undies for her two girls. If you think that's all we bought, then you don't really belong reading stories like this. We decimated the sales racks.