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fantasy and science-
fiction. If a male writer can put us into the mind of a six-armed Legamoth
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from Canopus, he can sure as hell show us what Shirley McNulty from down the
block is thinking. James Schmitz, for one, built a whole SF career on the
antics of strong female protagonists (come to think of it, if you'd ever met
Mrs. Schmitz, you'd under-
stand why). Other male writers have done as well or better at putting
themselves in the minds
-. of members of the opposite sex, and of course the reverse is true.
On the other chromosome . . .
There are some stories that a man simply would not write. Not because being
male ren-
ders him incapable of so doing, but just because he's unlikely to think of
certain themes, or at least to approach them in as, well, personal a fashion.
After you read Nina Hoffman's story, you might want to think twice about
approaching them at all.
Savage Breasts
NINA KIRIKI HOFFMAN
I WAS ONLY a lonely leftover on the table of Life. No one seemed interested in
sampling me.
301
302 Nina Kiriki Hoffman
I was alone that day in the company cafeteria when I
made the fateful decision which changed my life. If Gladys, the other
secretary in my boss's office and my usual lunch companion, had been there, it
might never have happened, but she had a dentist appointment. Alone with the
day's entree, Spaghetti-0's, I sought company in a magazine I
found on the table.
In the first blazing burst of inspiration I ever experienced, I cut out an ad
on the back of the Wonder Woman comic book. "The Insult that Made a Woman Out
of Wilma," it read. It showed a hipless, flat-chested girl being buried in the
sand and abandoned by her date, who left her alone with the crabs as he
followed a bosomy blonde off the page.
Wilma eventually excavated herself, went home, kicked a chair, and sent away
for Charlotte Atlas's pamphlet, "From
Beanpole to Buxom in 20 days or your money back."
Wilma read the pamphlet and developed breasts the size of breadboxes. She
retrieved her boyfriend and rendered him
acutely jealous by picking up a few hundred other men.
I emulated Wilma's example and sent away for the pamphlet and the equipment
that came with it.
When my pamphlet and my powder-pink exerciser ar-
rived, I felt a- vague sense of unease. Some of the ink in the pamphlet was
blurry. A few pages were repeated. Others were missing. Sensing that my
uncharacteristic spurt of enthusiasm would dry up if I took the time to send
for a replacement, I plunged into the exercises in the book (those
I could decipher) and performed them faithfully for the requisite twenty days.
My breasts blossomed. Men on the streets whistled. Guys at the office looked
up when I jiggled past.
I felt like a palm tree hand-pollinated for the first time. 1
began to have clusters of dates. I was pawed, pleasured, and played with. I
experienced lots of stuff I had only read about before, and I mostly loved it
after the first few times. The desert I'd spent my life in vanished;
everything I touched here in the center of the mirage seemed real, intense,
SAVAGE BREASTS 303
throbbing with life. I exercised harder, hoping to make the reality realler.
Then parts of me began to fight back.
I reclined on Maxwell's couch, my hands behind my head, as he unbuttoned my
shirt, unhooked my new, enormous, front-hook bra, and opened both wide. He
kissed my stomach. He feathered kisses up my body. Suddenly my left breast
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flexed and punched him in the face. He was surprised. He looked at me
suspiciously. I was surprised myself. I studied my left breast. It lay there
gently bobbing like a Japanese glass float on a quiet sea. Innocent. Waiting.
Maxwell stared at my face. Then he shook his head. He eyed my breasts. Slowly
he leaned closer. His lips drew back in a pucker. I waited, tingling, for them
to flutter on my abdomen again. No such luck. Both breasts surged up and gave
him a double whammy.
It took me an hour to wake him up. Once I got him conscious, he told me to get
out! Out! And take my unnatural equipment with me. I collected my purse and
coat and, with a last look at him as he lay there on the floor by the couch, I
left.
In the elevator my breasts punched a man who was smoking a cigar. He coughed,
choked, and called me unladylike. A woman told me I had done the right thing.
When I got home I took off my clothes and looked at
myself in the mirror. What beautiful breasts. Pendulous.
Centerfold quality. Heavy as water balloons. Firm as paperweights. I would be
sorry to say good-bye to them. I
sighed, and they hobbled. "Well, guys, no more exercise for you," I said. I
would have to let them go. I couldn't let my breasts become a Menace to
Mankind. I would rather be noble and suffer a bunch.
I took a shower and went to bed.
That night I had wild dreams. Something was chasing me, and I was chasing
something else. I thought maybe I
was chasing myself, and that scared me silly. I kept trying to wake up, but to
no avail. When I finally woke, exhausted
304 Nina Kiriki Hoffman and sweaty, in the morning, I discovered my sheets
twisted around my legs. My powder-pink exerciser lay beside me in the bed. My
upper arms ached the way they did after a good workout.
At work, my breasts interfered with my typing. The minute I looked away from
my typewriter keyboard to glance at my steno pad, my breasts pushed between my
hands, monopolizing the keys and driving my Selectric to distraction. After an
hour of trying to cope with this I told my boss I had a sick headache. He
didn't want me to go home. "Mae June, you're such an ornament to the office
these days," he said. "Can't you just sit out there and look pretty and
suffering? More and more of my clients have remarked on how you spruce up the
decor. If that clackety-
clacking bothers your pretty little head, why, I'll get Gladys to take your
work and hers and type in the closet."
"Thank you, sir," I said. I went back out in the front room and sat far away
from everything my breasts could knock over. Gladys sent me vicious looks as
she flat-
chestedly crouched over her early-model IBM and worked twice as hard as
usual..
For a while I was happy enough just to rest. After all that nocturnal
exertion, I was tired. My chair wasn't comfort-
able, but my body didn't care. Then I started feeling rotten.
I watched Gladys. She had scruffy hair that kept falling out of its bobby pins
and into her face. She kept her fingernails short and unpolished and she
didn't seem to care how carelessly she chose her clothes. She reminded me of
the way I had looked two months earlier, before men started getting interested [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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