By Week 2, most of the women were noticing some increase in breast size. Check out the photos:
Name: Christy
Starting cup size: A
"I have MORE CLEAVAGE!" proclaimed Christy, a few days into her second week of taking the pills. "Just a tiny bit, but enough that I notice. There's just a bit more roundness on the inside edges between the two. WOW!" This was Big, with a capital B-cup, news.
Name: Jennifer
Starting cup size: B
Jennifer also noticed a difference, claiming, "Today my husband told me he really thinks the pills are working. I wasn't sure, but then we compared my before and after pictures, and you can definitely see a difference!"
She went on to explain the other pleasant side effect of the supplements: "I take these pills right before I go to bed, and in the morning I have to take a dump as soon as I wake up. I've never been regular before in my life, but now I am!"
This continues to be different from my experience, since I'm still stopped up like a toilet full of cheese.
Name: Erin
Starting cup size: C
"I went out the other night," said Erin, "and my friends were telling me how 'big' I looked." Then she confessed that "I had stuffed my bra with those silicone stick-on boobs that give you at least a full cup increase in size. Even wearing a black shirt, those things looked huge."
I think it's funny that she had to disassociate herself from her own breasts. "Those things" were so large that they required their own postal code. "You know, those things that later terrorized a small city in Tokyo, smothering a family of eight, and wiping out a petting zoo."
"I should also mention that I am currently taking birth control pills," Erin continued. "My period is not supposed to come for at least another 10-12 days. Guess what? Breakthrough bleeding. Lovely."
So it turns out the pills may also cause irregular periods. You'll agree this is a problem. A maxi-problem.
Name: John
Starting cup size: D (for "Dude")
As for me, I couldn't tell if I was gaining any breast. But just to be safe, I decided to buy myself a bra.
I went into Victoria's Secret, where I was helped by a nice young woman named Ashley. I told her that I needed help picking out a brassiere, and she let me know that no one has used the word "brassiere" since 1952. Then she took me into the fitting room area, where she measured me."You're a 34A," she said.
"Well, that's better than an AA or an AAA," I remarked. "Does this mean I have some definition?"
"No, we just don't carry those sizes," she said. "They sound like batteries."
Flattery, not batteries. I liked the Victoria's Secret philosophy. She came back with a box of sample bras, and let me into the fitting room.
"If you need me to check the fit," she said, "just ring the call button." She pointed to the large ASSISTANCE button beside the door.
"Do a lot of women ask for help?" I asked.
"All the time," she responded. "Most women are wearing the wrong size. An associate can help them out."
"I want to be a Victoria's Secret associate," I informed her. "I just realized that my job sucks."
"I've been here for two and a half years," she said, winking. "Treats me well." I'm not 100% on this, but I think she might have been the gay.
She left me to try on the first bra, and it was like trying to wrestle myself inside a tube sock. I swear, I don't know how you ladies do it. I finally got it on, and rang the ASSISTANCE button. Ashley came right in, wincing only slightly at my disgusting body.
Recoiling in horror.
"Let's try on the next one," she suggested.
"How do I take this off?" I asked, contorting my body like Houdini.
"Actually, it has hooks on the back," she said politely.
"What?!" I exclaimed. "Bras have hooks?!" I tried desperately to pull the bra over my head. "No wonder my wife keeps asking me to be more gentle!" I was stretching the elastic with my manly, hairy shoulders, rendering the testing bras useless for future customers. They were going to have to give the fucking underwear to charity after I was done.
She tried to show me how to put on the second bra, but I was hopeless. It was like trying to get a retarded person to solve Rubik's Cube. "Please help me," I begged, as I wrestled with the straps and the hooks and the glavin.
"Here..." she tried to point, without touching my sweaty man-flesh. "Try to ... no, not like that. Around your waist." Apparently my skin had salmonella.
"Do you get a lot of guys in here trying on bras?" I asked as I tried on the third one, a nylon/cotton mesh.
"Quite a few."
Here I thought I was being funny, and it turns out that half you queers have already stolen my shtick. "Do many of them pretend to be comedy writers?" I asked.
"No, you're the first one." I had that at least.
"Is this a training bra?" I asked. I liked the fit. This was my bra.
"We don't really advertise training bras," she said, packing it up for me. "We call them 'adolescents.' They would be for the comfort of the young woman whose girlfriends are blossoming before she is."
That was me, I realized. All three of my girlfriends were blossoming before I was. But would I eventually overtake them, now that I had the proper underwire support?
