What if they are implants?
Nov. 8th, 2001 03:10 pmInspired by Katy.
She can see his shock when she takes off her bra. He knew they were implants, of course, but he didn't know what that really meant. He traces her scars with the fingers of one hand. Even she hasn't done that. She doesn't want to think about it.
He brushes his lips down over her breast and sucks on her nipple for a moment. When she doesn't make a sound, he asks, "Don't you like that?"
She looks away, turns her head to the wall. "I can't feel it."
He stands all the way up then, and cups her head in his hands. "My poor baby. What has this pop life done to you?" She wonders if he realizes how often he brings his lyrics into their space.
Knowing about her makes him gentle, tender. His hands are soft against her skin, his kisses soft against her lips. She doesn't want that. She wants it rough and hard. She wants him, with his jailbird haircut, to make sure she knows what he's doing to her. She wants him to make her feel it.
She hasn't felt anything since that day her mother said, "You're growing up now, and sometimes nature needs a little help." She was so trusting, so innocent. Whatever her mom says must be true.
And then this. These. She still can't think about it, can't touch them, can't even look at them in the mirror. It cost a lot. She used her Mickey Mouse money. Ironic somehow that Disney paid for her breasts. She paid the doctor a lot of money, but most of it was to keep him quiet. They hurt. They're ugly. She's scarred. She doesn't feel like herself anymore. She'd have them removed if she could, but she has no wish to become the next Pamela Anderson.
Justin strokes her skin the way a four-year-old heeds the warning to "be gentle" when he pets a kitten. It's soft. It doesn't penetrate. She can barely feel it.
She wants to feel.
She can see his shock when she takes off her bra. He knew they were implants, of course, but he didn't know what that really meant. He traces her scars with the fingers of one hand. Even she hasn't done that. She doesn't want to think about it.
He brushes his lips down over her breast and sucks on her nipple for a moment. When she doesn't make a sound, he asks, "Don't you like that?"
She looks away, turns her head to the wall. "I can't feel it."
He stands all the way up then, and cups her head in his hands. "My poor baby. What has this pop life done to you?" She wonders if he realizes how often he brings his lyrics into their space.
Knowing about her makes him gentle, tender. His hands are soft against her skin, his kisses soft against her lips. She doesn't want that. She wants it rough and hard. She wants him, with his jailbird haircut, to make sure she knows what he's doing to her. She wants him to make her feel it.
She hasn't felt anything since that day her mother said, "You're growing up now, and sometimes nature needs a little help." She was so trusting, so innocent. Whatever her mom says must be true.
And then this. These. She still can't think about it, can't touch them, can't even look at them in the mirror. It cost a lot. She used her Mickey Mouse money. Ironic somehow that Disney paid for her breasts. She paid the doctor a lot of money, but most of it was to keep him quiet. They hurt. They're ugly. She's scarred. She doesn't feel like herself anymore. She'd have them removed if she could, but she has no wish to become the next Pamela Anderson.
Justin strokes her skin the way a four-year-old heeds the warning to "be gentle" when he pets a kitten. It's soft. It doesn't penetrate. She can barely feel it.
She wants to feel.