As a child, I had a boob obsession that rivaled that of any teenage boy. I never played with my Barbie because I actually enjoyed combing her hair or dressing her up in pretty clothes. Instead, I stripped her naked and stared intently and enviously at her boobs. My favorite movie was ‘Blue Lagoon’ and should I find myself in a room alone watching, I would repeatedly rewind to the part where Brooke Shields revealed her cleavage over and over again like a lecherous old man.
More than anything, I wanted a set of my own boobs. I theorized I would look absolutely stunning with breasts. To prove my point, balls and balloons alike were carefully jammed underneath my shirt in an attempt to create the appearance of cleavage. Many hours were spent pinching and prodding my nipples as if frequent handling would encourage growth. I drank plenty of milk and even choked down some spinach, but it was all to no avail. My chest remained as flat as my back.
Thoroughly frustrated, I went to my Mother for advice.
Tentatively pointing to her bosom, I asked, “When will I get those?”
“You’re only 5,” she mused, “You’ve still got a long way to go.”
I moped around the house, demoralized, for a spell until I came up with the most brilliant plan I’ve ever had: I was going to ask Santa to bring me boobs for Christmas.
As far as I was concerned, the plan was foolproof. I had been a good girl all year long. My teacher loved me and I always shared with my little brother. I was a good host to my friends and I rarely got in trouble with my parents. I had earned my breasts. There wasn’t a 5 year old girl in the world more deserving of a pair than me.
To really drive my point home, I handed my weekly allowance over to my Father and asked him to give it to some starving children on my behalf.
“Just make sure Santa knows it was from me,” I whispered as I gave him a wink.
Then, I sat down to write my Christmas list. It looked something like this:
I chewed thoughtfully on my eraser for a minute before I added:
2. Soccer Ball
3. Cabbage patch kid
Considering that a pair of boobs was a tall order to fill and I didn’t want to appear greedy, I decided to end my list there. I finished my letter off with a few declarations of love for Santa and even went so far as to call him my Hero. I figured a little sucking up couldn’t hurt my cause.
Later that evening, I handed my Christmas wish list over to my Father and asked him to mail it to Santa for me. He promised he would and I went to sleep that night with visions of fleshy orbs dancing in my head.
Counting down the days until Christmas is torturous for any kid, but it was particularly hard for me. The days seemed to drag on forever and remaining on my Best Behavior was getting tedious. But finally, finally, Christmas Eve arrived. I could hardly sleep, I was so excited. I just knew I would wake up in the morning with a brand new pair of boobs.
Therefore, you can imagine my utter dismay when I woke up that brisk December morning and peaked down my pajama shirt only to find I was as flat-chested as the day I was born. Santa, that fat bastard, had fucked me over. It was travesty! How could he do this to me after I had saved him the very best of the Christmas cookies?
Just then, my brother peaked into the room. “I’m gonna wake them up so we can open the presents!” he announced.
I nodded vaguely and followed him into my parent’s bedroom. They mumbled, smacked their lips, and rubbed the sleep from their eyes as my brother hopped around like a rabid squirrel. Finally in motion, my parents shrugged into robes and followed us into the living room to open our presents.
Without missing a beat, my brother dove into the pile. With a maniacal gleam in his eyes, he tore into present after present without even pausing long enough to see what each gift was.
I, on the other hand, merely sat in my Father’s lap, head resting listlessly on his shoulder. Normally, I would have deemed myself entirely too old to sit in his lap like little a baby. But having your heart broken by Santa has a funny way of driving you back into your parent’s arms.
After my brother finally finished demolishing his presents, he looked at me, chest heaving with exertion.
“Can I open yours, too?” he wheezed.
“I guess,” I shrugged.
This concerned my parents, so as my brother ripped and slashed, they picked up each of my presents and presented them to me for inspection.
“Look who got a Cabbage Patch Kid!” my Mother asked. “Do you want me to open up her birth certificate so you can see what her name is?”
“Maybe later,” I mumbled.
“Look at this, V!” my Father insisted, “A soccer ball! You really wanted a soccer ball, didn’t you?”
“It’s OK, I guess,” I pouted as I examined my fingernails.
They exchanged troubled looks for a minute. My Father raised his eyebrow. My Mother bit her lip. Finally, inspiration struck and my Mother reached for a small, square package that had been previously ignored by my little brother.
“How about you open this one, V?” she encouraged.
“I don’t want to,” I answered as I tipped my head in my brother’s direction, “Let him open it.”
“No, I think you should open this one,” my Father pressed, “I really think you’ll like it.”
Groaning as if they had asked me to mop the kitchen floor on my hands and knees as opposed to open a shiny red present with a bright green bow, I reluctantly started peeling back the wrapping paper.
“Underwear,” I scoffed, “I don’t even need underwear. I’ve got my ‘Days of the Week’ panties.”
“These are R2D2 panties, though,” my Father prodded, “You love R2…”
“I like my ‘Days of the Week’ better.”
“Are you sure about that, V?” my Mother asked slyly, “Did you happen to see what those panties come with?”
Somewhat curious, I pulled out a pair of panties. Neatly folded underneath was my very, first bra.
OK, OK, OK. So it was actually an undershirt. That didn’t matter to me. By my logic, if it matched my panties and was supposed to be worn under my shirt, it was a freaking bra.
Squealing with Christmas glee, I hopped to my feet and begged to try on my new lingerie. With a relieved nod, my parents gave me permission to change.
I gathered up my treasures and ran into my bedroom. Trembling with excitement, I peeled off my pajamas and my oh so inferior ‘Thursday’ panties. Donning my new R2D2 ensemble, I felt like a new person. Perhaps it was the over active imagination of a 5 year old kid, or perhaps the Ghost of Christmas past had cast a little spell over the entire room, but standing before my bedroom mirror, I could almost swear I saw two tiny little bumps beneath the fabric of my new bra.
Oh yes. It was official. I was definitely a woman now.
I sashayed into my living room as if I were paying the mortgage. I posed for my parents as they ooh’d and ah’d appreciatively. I vowed to never wear my ‘Days of the Week’ panties ever again. They were so babyish. How could I have ever thought they were cool? In my mind’s eye, I pictured myself at my friend Rachel’s sleepover party. “Sure, I’ll change into my nightgown,” I heard myself saying, “Just let me take off my bra first.”
If only every experience a little girl has growing up is as delicious as this. Unfortunately, by the time I had my very first period, I was officially jaded. After all, that’s the dirty little secret of puberty. It’s more fun to imagine growing up than it is to actually grow up.
I’d give anything to wear my ‘Days of the Week’ panties again.
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