by Bob Purssell
* * *
I stood on a treadmill dressed in a leotard. A male technician told me to relax. The treadmill began moving, and I started walking. After maybe a minute, he said, “Good. We got it.”
“What? Got what?”
“We just took a holographic video of you walking. This will allow us to create an image of you.”
“Kind of sneaky.”
Not put off by my observation, he replied, “We didn’t want you to pose. This way you were at ease, natural.”
“When do I see the result?”
“In about a minute. I’ve already sent them to Dawn.”
Back in Dawn’s office, she showed me my image as viewed from all different angles and heights.
“Now let’s add some enhancements.”
First, she showed me the impact of various different breast enhancements. I actually liked the largest one, but I told Dawn that I preferred an augmentation two-cup sizes smaller. She smiled, so I think she realized I was telling a fib.
“I’m going to work on what are commonly referred to as your buns. You’re a very lean woman so I think you’ll benefit from some augmentation in that area.”
It was not that Dawn’s suggestion came as a surprise. I had often wished that my beanpole-like body had more bulges in the right places. Not saying a word, I just nodded, hoping the computer would produce something wonderful.
“That’s too much,” exclaimed Dawn. “Let me try again.”
Fiddling with a slider in a popup window, she said to herself, more than to me, “That’s better—yes, just a little bit more—there.”
Turning to face me, she asked, “How’s that?”
THAT was fantastic. If I could only achieve in reality what was on the monitor.
“You’re an athlete, aren’t you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“To my eyes, yes. Few women have as much development in the abductor muscles. What was your sport?”
“Ice hockey.”
“Are you still playing?”
For a second I thought about making a wise crack, but I simply decided to answer, “Not since I graduated.”
“Well, we can slim your tummy down a little. Let me show you.”
And show me she did. On the monitor, I had gone from a plain Jane to a babe in a few clicks of the mouse. I was salivating before Dawn did the before-and-after clincher.
Expecting a closer, Dawn surprised me with, “The computer is helpful, but I’d like to see the real thing.”
Caught off guard, I blurted out, “The-the real thing?”
“We’re only getting started. First, we’re going to give you some padding. That way you can get another view of how you’ll look. When we’re done, I’ll have the fellows in the shop do their thing.”
“The shop?”
“You’ll see.”
After being fitted with a padded bra, I once again took a stroll on the treadmill for the video camera. As I walked, I glanced at the mirrors in front and to my side. Liking what I saw, I smiled.
When I was done, Dawn said, “Now let’s see what you could really look like.”
After being fitted with an even larger padded bra and padded panties, I put on the leotard. This time I really bulged in all the right places. I mumbled, “If only reality would conform to fantasy.”
“I heard that,” said Dawn. Then she asked the matron who had been helping me, “Did she put on the girdle?”
“No, ma’am.”
Turning to me, Dawn said, “No cheating. I want to see what happens when we fix those abs.”
The girdle was breathtakingly tight. I joked, “Is breathing optional?”
Perhaps thinking my complaint was real, Dawn reassured me, “It’s only for a little while. I want to make another holographic video.”
Back on the treadmill, I walked, wondering, hoping really, that the perfection I now saw in the mirrors was not a mirage. To myself, I whispered, “Could this be the real me to come?”
* * *
Even though Dawn told me that I could, I did not bother to take off the leotard. Instead, I wore it to her office and viewed the video.
“How do you like it?”
“I hate me. The real me, that is.”
Dawn joked, “Mother Nature doesn’t always get it right.”
In jest, I said, “If the boys back on the Reagan could only see me now.”
“That’s a thought. That’s a very good thought!” exclaimed Dawn.
Ignoring my presence, she began banging away at her keyboard. “We’re in luck,” she explained. “This evening we have two focus groups. I’ll talk with the moderators. I might be able to convince them to use your holographic video.”
Not comprehending and alarmed, I asked, “What do you mean?”
“Often focus group moderators ask the members of their groups to evaluate different body forms.” Then with an impish smile, Dawn added, “That way we can see how our ideas stack up, so to speak.”
“But what if someone recognizes me?” I asked with obvious angst.
“Don’t worry. We blur the faces.”
Excited, I added, “And boohoo, the holographic video, isn’t the real me.”
“Not yet,” countered Dawn with a wide grin.
* * *
Since the shop—whatever that was—would not be finished until 5:00 PM, I had the afternoon off.
Sitting on a beach, I watched the tourists. Most were garden-variety vacationers, many middle aged and older, complete with paunches. However, there were some younger people, including two great-looking young gals.
I watched the men watch these girls as they frolicked, sometimes running along the beach, sometimes rushing into the surf. Could that be me?
I thought of Kelly, besieged by the pilots and the other officers. Then I thought of me, the all but invisible, ignored, forgotten sidekick.
What would it be like to be chatted-up continually? What a bother, constantly having to fend off potential suitors. I mumbled, “Goddamn it, bitch, you wish.”
After changing out of my bathing suit into resort casual, I waited for Dawn, who was late for our five o’clock meeting. Just my luck, I mused, Dawn’s been kidnapped with all the plans for my future.
Bursting into the office, she said. “Come. You have to see this.” I hesitated. “Don’t say a word; just follow me.”
Briskly, almost at a trot, I followed her down a flight of stairs, out a door, across the lawn to what looked like a maintenance building. Before entering, Dawn said, “Take my hand; close your eyes.”
“It’s not my birthday.”
“Just you wait ’til you see the present.”
We walked a short distance before Dawn said, “Open your eyes.”
I did. In front of me was a tan-colored, life-sized Styrofoam statue minus the head. Dawn said, “This is what you asked for.”
Ignoring Dawn, not paying any heed to the two men who were leaning up against the workbenches, I slowly walked around the statue, drawing into my mind the image.
No one spoke.
I finished my inspection. “I like it. That looks really good.”
Dawn said, “Look at the wall.”
“Why?”
“Just look at the wall,” she insisted.
Behind me, I heard the two men moving something. When the noise stopped, Dawn said, “Look around.”
There was a new, darker, olive-colored statue. Dawn explained, “This one has the enhancements I think you should make.”
As before, I walked around. Whereas the sand-colored model was attractive, the olive-colored statue was stunning; I thought, Kelly, you’ve met your match.
Finished with my inspection, I blurted out, “You can do this?”
“Absolutely.”
A t
ear of joy trickled down my face. I all but leaped at Dawn and gave her a hug. Then, to their embarrassment, I hugged each of the two men.
* * *
Tuesday morning, I was again in Dawn’s office. “The results,” she began, “from the focus groups are in.”
Anxious, I wondered how I had done.
“We compared both of your holographic videos against calibrated videos.”
“What do you mean by ‘calibrated’?”
“We have videos that we have used many times. We have a very good idea how people will react to them.”
“Got it,” I responded.
After showing me each of the calibrated videos, Dawn said, “As you can see these are beautiful women.”
The competitive me rising to the challenge, I asked, “How did I do?”
“Your approach—I labeled it, the ‘conservative approach’—finished fourth out of five with one group and fifth with the other.”
“That’s not too good. Well, so much for my ideas.”
“Remember the competition. The calibrated videos are of women with beautiful bodies.”
“How did your video do?”
“The full enhancement video did better.”
“How much better?”
“One group ranked it third out of five, and the other placed it just behind the number one video.”
* * *
“I can’t go with the full enhancement. It’s too much,” I protested.
“I thought you wanted to be more feminine?”
“I do but—”
“But what?” pressed Dawn.
“Others won’t like it.”
“The data,” replied Dawn, “does not support that conclusion.”
“I can’t go by what a group of horny guys think.”
“The groups were mixed, young and old, male and female.”
“Damn, you’re making this hard.”
“I am not. You’re the one with the prejudices.”
I could not bring myself to make the choice I truly wanted. In silence, I wavered.
“Remember, you’re a tall person. You need the extra size.”
I changed the subject. “Dawn, when I came down here, I was thinking in terms of just the breast enhancement. If I go with everything, what will it cost?”
“The breast enhancement alone is $48,000. The buttocks are $37,000 and the abductor reduction is $22,000. Which comes to—”
“$107,000,” I responded.
“Yes, priced separately $107,000. However, if you do all three, the price is $99,000.”
“Without tax,” I joked ruefully.
“On the island, medical procedures are not taxed,” replied Dawn, not realizing I was cracking another one of my jokes.
“$99,000 is a lot of money.”
“We can arrange financing. If you want, I can set up a meeting with one of our financial specialists.”
“It’s not my ability to pay. I have the money. It’s just the amount. This is something of a frivolous expenditure.”
“Why,” asked Dawn, “do you consider what we’re discussing to be frivolous?”
“Maybe I haven’t used the correct word.” I paused, but Dawn remained silent. “People are judging the book by the cover. That’s not right.”
“Do you think people are going to change their behavior in the near future?”
A telling point, I responded, “Obviously not.”
“Well then, if they’re not going to change, and you’re unhappy with your life situation, then what’s left?”
“In other words, it’s BetterYou or androgynous bitch?”
“That’s my conclusion. Do you see an alternative?” When I did not answer, Dawn said, “Let’s take a break, and then we’ll talk about the procedure.”
* * *
Dawn asked, “The Houston office explained that BetterYou doesn’t do breast implants?”
“Yes, they spoke in general terms about a hormone treatment.”
“Let me explain. During your growth cycle, your body didn’t supply the hormones that would have stimulated the development of what you would characterize as a more feminine woman.”
“Mother Nature shortchanged me.”
“Yes, that’s one way of looking at it,” answered Dawn. “To fix that situation, we’re going to implant a pouch that contains a collection of chemical agents that will stimulate the development of the desired tissue.”
“Now that I’m growing, how do I stop?”
“Excellent question. We used to give the patient an injection that would stop the growth-stimulating hormones.”
“Obviously now you do something different, right?”
“Yes. By analyzing lots of hormone treatments, we have developed a very complete understanding of the process. Starting with your DNA, we can now accurately predict how much hormone will be needed to produce the desired growth.”
“So, if I want to be a C cup, you’d put in this much, and if I wanted to be your DD-cup super woman, you’d put in that much?”
“Yes, precisely.”
“How long does this take?”
Dawn answered, “I can’t be entirely precise, but here is what is typical for a person like you: during the first two weeks, no visible change; after that, an increase in cup size every two weeks.”
“So six weeks for a C, eight weeks for a D and ten weeks for a DD?”
“Yes, that’s roughly the timeline.”
“So it’s back to the question of how big?”
Rather than arguing her point, Dawn took another tack. “Barbara, I get emotionally involved with my clients. As a doctor, I’ve been told that’s not professional.” She paused and when I did not interrupt, she added, “But why become a doctor if you’re not going to get involved emotionally?”
“You love your work.”
“I love my work, and I love my patients. You,” said Dawn with great earnestness, “were meant to be a DD.”
“I don’t know.”
Dawn persisted, “I, the focus group, my colleagues, we all feel you shouldn’t shortchange yourself. You’re a big, tall woman. You need the extra size.”
“Bigger is better, size does matter,” I bantered back.
Smiling, Dawn replied, “In this game, most definitely.”
“I still don’t know. This is a big step.”
“I thought you might say that, so I’ll offer a compromise.”
“Bargaining for boobs. I like it.”
“Okay, have a laugh at my expense, but listen to me.”
Realizing Dawn was being serious and I was sounding like an airhead, I said, “Zip it, Barbara.”
“We’ll implant enough hormones to create DD-size breasts. We’ll also give you an airline voucher so you can fly here from Houston. If you want to stop, if you don’t want to get any larger, just jump on a plane, fly down and we’ll stop the process as soon as you arrive.”
“How much extra will this cost?”
“Nothing. It’s on the house.”
“I can go all the way … or stop somewhere in between?”
“You’ll be in charge.”
* * *
Sans $99,000, I went back to the Advanced Naval Communications School with my pouch of hormones tucked underneath my skin and my voucher in my purse. The first two weeks, as Dawn had predicted, nothing happened. After the third week, I may have had some increase in breast size, but that could have been my imagination. By the end of the first month, the middle of April, I was bigger by one-cup, a size B.
After school, much relieved that BetterYou had not bilked me out of my money, I bought a bottle of champagne and two larger bras. Excited at the prospect, I thought, just two more weeks and you’ll achieve your C-cup goal.
Just before bed, naked
from the waist up, enjoying a celebratory glass of the bubbly and admiring the new, larger me, I was sitting in my easy chair, when my CO, Commander Waldron, called and told me, “Lieutenant O’Leary, I want to see you tomorrow at eight hundred hours in my office.”
“Yes, sir,” I responded. Then, sure that the navy had unraveled the reasons behind my latest expenditure, I spent the rest of the evening trying to put together a defense of my activities vis-à-vis my physical enhancements.
* * *
Promptly at eight o’clock, I entered my CO’s office.
“Lieutenant, yesterday I got a call from the Eisenhower’s XO. Seems they’ve royally fucked up their communication center. They need help and they need it now.”
After pausing for me to assimilate his thought, my CO then explained. “Told him, ‘Got just the person to get you back on course.’ … Ready to give it a shot, Lieutenant?”
“Sir, what about the Advanced Naval Communications School?”
“Got it covered. I talked with the dean.”
“How long will I be on the Eisenhower?”
“A week, two at the outside.”
Two thoughts collided. First was the obvious one about my personal medical situation. If my temporary Eisenhower assignment dragged on, how would I hit the stop button?
The other was the realization that I had a career-enhancing opportunity awaiting me on the Eisenhower. Get them straightened out, and I almost certainly would get a letter of commendation and, possibly, even a promotion.
Acting on the theory that naval heroes take risks, I responded, “When do I ship out, sir?”
“That’s the spirit, Lieutenant. Your flight leaves from Corpus Christi at eighteen hundred hours.”
* * *
Much relieved that I was not in hot water, confident that providence had smiled in my direction; I immediately packed and was on my way. Stopping at a Wal-Mart, I went on a minor shopping spree and prepared for the future by buying larger bras. By 1800 hours, I was waiting on the Corpus Christi Naval Air Station flight line for the arrival of the plane that would start me on my journey to the Eisenhower.
Twenty hours later, I exited the C-2 Greyhound onto the deck of the Eisenhower, which was steaming slowly in the sweltering heat just off the Nigerian coast. Within the hour, I was at work in the ship’s communication center.
