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cises in the book (those I could decipher) and performed them
faithfully for the requisite twenty days. My breasts blossomed.
Men on the streets whistled. Guys at the oTice looked up when I
jiggled past.
I felt like a palm tree hand-pollinated for the Wrst time. I began
to have clusters of dates. I was pawed, pleasured, and played
with. I experienced lots of stuT I had only read about before, and
I mostly loved it after the Wrst few times. The desert I d spent my
life in vanished; everything I touched here in the center of the
mirage seemed real, intense, throbbing with life. I exercised
harder, hoping to make the reality realler.
Then parts of me began to Wght back.
I reclined on Maxwell s couch, my hands behind my head, as he
unbuttoned my shirt, unhooked my new, enormous, front-hook bra,
and opened both wide. He kissed my stomach. He feathered kisses
up my body. Suddenly my left breast Xexed and punched him in the
face. He was surprised. He looked at me suspiciously. I was sur-
prised myself. I studied my left breast. It lay there gently bobbing
like a Japanese glass Xoat on a quiet sea. Innocent. Waiting.
Maxwell stared at my face. Then he shook his head. He eyed my
breasts. Slowly he leaned closer. His lips drew back in a pucker. I
waited, tingling, for them to Xutter on my abdomen again. No such
luck. Both breasts surged up and gave him a double whammy.
It took me an hour to wake him up. Once I got him conscious,
he told me to get out! Out! And take my unnatural equipment
with me. I collected my purse and coat, and, with a last look at
him as he lay there on the Xoor by the couch, I left.
In the elevator my breasts punched a man who was smoking a
cigar. He coughed, choked, and called me unladylike. A woman
told me I had done the right thing.
When I got home I took oT my clothes and looked at myself in
the mirror. What beautiful breasts. Pendulous. Centerfold quality.
58 WITPUNK
Heavy as water balloons. Firm as paperweights. I would be sorry
to say goodbye to them. I sighed, and they bobbled. Well, guys,
no more exercise for you, I said. I would have to let them go. I
couldn t let my breasts become a Menace to Mankind. I would
rather be noble and suTer a bunch.
I took a shower and went to bed.
That night I had wild dreams. Something was chasing me, and
I was chasing something else. I thought maybe I was chasing
myself, and that scared me silly. I kept trying to wake up, but to
no avail. When I Wnally woke, exhausted and sweaty, in the morn-
ing, I discovered my sheets twisted around my legs. My powder-
pink exerciser lay beside me in the bed. My upper arms ached the
way they did after a good workout.
At work, my breasts interfered with my typing. The minute I
looked away from my typewriter keyboard to glance at my steno
pad, my breasts pushed between my hands, monopolizing the
keys and driving my Selectric to distraction. After an hour of try-
ing to cope with this I told my boss I had a sick headache. He
didn t want me to go home. Mae June, you re such an ornament
to the oTice these days, he said. Can t you just sit out there and
look pretty and suTering? More and more of my clients have
remarked on how you spruce up the decor. If that clackety-clack-
ing bothers your pretty little head, why, I ll get Gladys to take
your work and hers and type in the closet.
Thank you, sir, I said. I went back out in the front room and
sat far away from everything my breasts could knock over.
Gladys sent me vicious looks as she Xat-chestedly crouched over
her early-model IBM and worked twice as hard as usual.
For a while I was happy enough just to rest. After all that noc-
turnal exertion, I was tired. My chair wasn t comfortable, but my
body didn t care. Then I started feeling rotten. I watched Gladys.
She had scruTy hair that kept falling out of its bobby pins and into
her face. She kept her Wngernails short and unpolished, and she
didn t seem to care how carelessly she chose her clothes. She
reminded me of the way I had looked two months earlier, before
men started getting interested in me and giving me advice on
what to wear and what to do with my hair. Gladys and I no longer
SAVAGE BREASTS 59
went to lunch together. These days I usually took the boss s
clients to lunch.
Why don t you tell the boss you have a sick headache too? I
asked. There s nothing here that can t wait until tomorrow.
He d Wre me, you fool. I can t waggle my femininity in his
face like you can. Mae June, you re a cheater.
I didn t mean to cheat, I said. I can t help it. I looked at her
face to see if she remembered how we used to talk at lunch.
Watch this, Gladys. I turned back to my typewriter and pulled
oT the cover. The instant I inserted paper, my breasts reached up
and parked on the typewriter keys. I leaned back, straightening
up, then tried to type the date in the upper right-hand corner of the
page. Plomp plomp. No dice. I looked at Gladys. She had that
kind of look that says eyoo, ick, that s creepy, show it to me again.
I opened my mouth to explain about Wilma s insult and
Charlotte Atlas when my breasts Wrmed up. I found myself lean-
ing back to display me at an advantage. One of the boss s clients
had walked in.
Mae June, my nymphlet, said this guy, Burl Weaver. I had
been to lunch with him before. I kind of liked him.
Gladys touched the intercom. Sir, Mr. Weaver is here.
Aw, Gladys, said Burl, one of the few men who had learned
her name as well as mine, why d you haveta spoil it? I didn t
come here for business.
Burl? the boss asked over the intercom. What does he want?
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