Boobies

As promised, this week, I’m thrilled to welcome Marrie Lobel in this, her sophomore installment as guest-contributor.  Her blog, Dirty in Public, is one of my personal favorites. I’ve enjoyed reading her posts over the last year or so, and I’m excited to host her once again.  Please read, enjoy, “Share” (hit the share button and post it everywhere) and Tweet about this little piece. Let’s show Marrie just how much we appreciate intelligent, articulate writing here – even if it is ever so mischievous.

And so, without further adieu, I present to you “The Boobie Chronicles: My First Mammogram, Daisy Pasties, and Ms. Nippy Fingertips.”

xoxo

Ms. Cheevious
, Editor in(Mis) Chief

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As you know October was Breast Cancer Awareness month, and this being my 40^th year, I was honored {not, really} to be a part of the month long celebration by having my first mammogram. I admit that I suffered a painful pang in the pit of my stomach when I was informed that I was due for my first mammogram; the pang? How can I be due for a mammogram? I’m too young. After all, I’m not a member of any garden club and don’t own a single ornate red hat. That morning I woke up, got dressed and envisioned a large red feathered hat on my head when I did my final glance in the mirror before setting off to the doctor’s office.

Shortly after signing in, I was called and escorted into the back, where the latest in medical fashion awaited me. I undressed and slipped into the oversized, fashion faux-pas {with the opening in the front, of course} and stood there waiting for the tech to come back while being stared down by a large menacing machine from the corner of the room. After a brief wait the technician came in and greeted me warmly; which contrasted the temperature in the room. As she gave me the cliff notes on how the examination was to unfold it occurred to me that she has seen more boobies than most men ever will in their lives. The odd contemplation that danced in my head suddenly blossomed into insecurity. I began to shrug my shoulders with uneasiness at my internal awkwardness. What if my tata’s didn’t measure up? It’s one thing to be assessed by a man; it’s another to be by a certified boobie specialist…who happens to be a woman with a nice rack of her own! It was then that things got interesting.

The tata expert handed me two small daisy print band-aids and asked me to place them over my nipples. They were adorable and I decided immediately that I needed to snag a stack for my personal amusement. I had always wanted to try pasties but had never imagined that my first time would be initiated by a woman in Bettie Boop scrubs.

Once the daisy adhesive body art was affixed properly, the tata aficionado placed her hand on the small of my back as she nudged me closer to the machine that had been glaring at me in a domineering manner since the moment I entered the room. Without further small talk or even a drink, I found my right breast being tenderly grasped; her nippy fingertips flipping and fondling me into position. The funny thing is I remember looking at my boob in her hand and noticing how it looked like a glob of silly goo. Between the nippy fingertips, the daisy pasties, and my goo boob it was immediately obvious that for the first time in my life my breasts were being man-handled and there was absolutely nothing sexy about it! Ms. Nippy Fingertips sweet-talked her way through the examination, attempting to ease my physical discomfort and my emotional unease. Not that any kind words can really make the sensation of your breast being pulled then flattened within a few centimeters of busting pleasant. Suddenly, without warning, Ms. Nippy Fingertips flipped the lights on bright and said I could get dressed.

What? No cuddling? No, “Was it good for you?”  Just like man…oh, wait! Nevermind.

Because Ms. Nippy Fingertips and Dr. Tata wanted to ensure my first mammogram was a memorable one-I had to immediately go through it all again; this time with the added bonus of an ultrasound. The results from my initial x-rays found something “unusual”. Now, I like being different but this is the one time when a simple; “You’re normal”, would have been just fine by me.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat

Like some twisted Groundhog Day, I repeated all the steps, daisy pasties and all. The small talk and examination narrative were reduced to simple you-know-the-drill directives. This time all the real action happened in the back room. Still  looking hot in my hospital gown, I was funneled through the back door into another room where an exam table, dimmed mood lighting, and cold lubricant jelly waited for me. An attractive, chit-chatty woman with a bright pink lab coat suggested I flop onto the table and relax awhile. Before I knew it I was dolling dating advice with my breasts glistening with lubricant while being massaged with an ultrasound wand. I know it sounds like some twisted porn set-up but that’s just how I roll. Just me, the pink lady, and my daisy pasties had good times that day. As for the examination, I was relieved to hear that I was “normal” in an abnormal way and with that the green light was given.

As I removed the lube from my boobies I realized that a new chapter in my boobie chronicles had just closed; leaving my boobies free to wave in good health and laughter. Although I’m not quite ready to join the Red Hat Society or a garden club, I do carry the memory of my first mammogram experience as a rite of passage and my stack of pasties as a spirited memento.

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Tune in next time for a post of my secret divining…

Love you people!  Mmmmppphhhuuuhhh!!!

xoxo,

Ms. Cheevious

Editor in [Mis]Chief

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Blog content copyright 2012, LISA JEY DAVIS a.k.a. Ms. Cheevious.

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ABOUT MARRIE LOBEL

Marrie is a Geekalicious NorCal Betty masquerading opinions about dating, sex & relationships as fact through dirty talk & wicked rants. You can read more on her personal blog, Dirty In Public and on Singles Warehouse where she is an #SWEXPERT contributor.

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