Puberty Part 2:
The $4000 Growth Spurt

Yes, I got a boob job. No, I didn't do it for some boy or some industry-related pressure. I wanted bigger boobs. Period. OK?
There was nothing wrong with my body before... unless you go WAY back to when I was a fat, drug-addled teen. I only started getting hot as I closed in on thirty; this whole being hot is very new to me. Of course I dig it, but now it's kinda my job. I'm not going to demur and say how unimportant it is; I totally appreciate it. Let's face it, even way out here on the fringes of the entertainment industry upon which I stomp, a thousand miles from the shallow trappings of Hollywood, there's a shitload of sexism. Say you're a girl, you're a musician or performer of any kind. If you're any good at your craft, and you're not afraid of some seriously thankless work and oodles of rejection, you'll do alright. But if you're stupid fuckable? Life gets a wee easier. Sad but true.
I consider myself to be very lucky to have some random genetic glitch that makes me somewhat OK on the eyes. Being hot helps with my gig. I must embrace it, enjoy it, and, hopefully, get over it before the ravages of age take it away.
So, back to my boobs. My body has always been big, which was really fun trudging through puberty and spotty adolescence with the name "Large". Big, yes, but uncurvy. Even when I gained weight in my teens and twenties (185 lbs when I was 16) I still had no boobs or girly hips. "Flat-so" was a favorite jab in the cafeteria. I thought about plastic surgery but couldn't really justify it. It just didn't sound like me—so extreme, so vain. As time went on, however, it sounded more and more doable. I got better looking year by year, but, now, well into my thirties, my small but nice A-cup boobies were starting to do that flappy coin-purse thing and my once pert nips were heading south.
I researched breast augmentation for about a year before I did it. If I was gonna be put to sleep, filleted and stuffed with sloshing salt-water pouches, I was gonna be armed to the teeth with knowledge. I read all the pros and cons. I looked at every before and after photo, from the good to the bad to the horribly botched. I read every personal account, even the super scary ones. But the thing that stumped me more than fear of pain, death or walleyed Frankenboobs was....... what would people think?
Shocking! Storm cares what you think??!! Not really, but with my boob job, I wondered if I was buying into something ugly, something fake. I'm a public person, and some consider me to be a strong, fuck-what-you-think kinda broad. By doing this would I be contradicting that image? Was it just an image, or was I really a ham-fisted, burly girl who did what she wanted, damn what the proverbial "They" thought? Was I declaring my body sub-standard? And against what standard was I measuring myself? As a woman, was I saying that a certain body type was more attractive when others were not? Was I giving too much credence to being attractive? Was it THAT important?
It was a rough five minutes. Then I cupped my flappy little boobs, thanked them for being cute and stuff, and went for it.
The surgery and the week that followed is a mottled blur of pain, painkillers, bandages, drainage tubes, feeling remorseful, and my boyfriend bringing me soup and policing my vicodin intake. Then, slowly, the pain and remorse went away (so, sadly, did the vicodin). And then, as the months went by, my newbies finally softened and fell into fine, t-shirt filling shape.
Now my new, round and lovely C-cup boobies are a year old and looking and feeling swell. I think I look more curvaceous, more womanly. It's like going through puberty again but with a little more say in the outcome. Only a dash of people have said they opposed my decision, but they're drowned out by the rest of the world that shouts "Take it off !!!" at shows. Losers.
There was one particular woman—a heavily pierced, tattooed, patchouli lesbian—who was highly offended. She and her jangling face railed on me about how I was violating the temple of my goddess body and "selling out, giving in to public pressure and blah blah [insert phony wiccan drivel here] and why why why?" As I listened it occurred to me that if I HAD stayed with my original tits (O.T.s) because I didn't want to upset some self-righteous Burning Man bitch, or anybody else, for that matter, wasn't that a kind of giving in to public pressure? Wow. NOT getting boobs to keep my cred was as shameful as doing it so some shmuck wouldn't leave me. Fuck that. I do what I want. And I wanted big juicy boobs.
As her little rant wound down, instead of pointing out her various body modifications and how she certainly didn't come up with them on her own, OR how she and her like-minded sisters probably all jingled around together in their identical more-"alt"-than-thou poseur-dom feeling like a pack of pure individuals, I just giggled and said, "Duh, silly! I wanted big boobs so the boys would wanna fuck me front-ways for a change."
In truth, after all my research, agonizing and healing time, I really am no hotter than I was with my A-cup boobies. I'm glad I went through with it, though. I learned a lot. As it turns out, I actually don't give a fuck what folks think about my boob job. In the end, I did it just for me. Sure, it's nice when folks notice how I fill up a dress a bit better, and jumping up and down on stage, bra-less, wearing see-through things gets the audience a tad more frothy than before, but at the end of the day, they're just a pair of tits. Besides, whether I'm an A, B, C or FF-cup, boys still seem to like me bent over best.