Cupcakes.

I wake up in pain. Strange pain in the middle of my back, I’m lying on a tennis ball, I must be, that’s what it feels like. I take a few deep breaths; I have no tennis balls. I live alone. Well, almost alone, I look over at Dixiecup, still dreaming with the perfect innocence of cats who are asleep. She is the type. I sit up and yank the cover from under her, she looks at me with the eyes of Satan and leaps from the bed. I’m slightly afraid. “Don’t forget your ball!” I yell at her, turning to find it, but there is no tennis ball there. I feel under the pillow, shake the blankets and look under the bed, no balls of any kind.

My back feels very weird, I don’t like this. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with my back. I try to calm my breathing, I get up and open the blinds, avoiding the mirrors I now deeply regret putting on every wall. It’s a massive zit, I tell myself. Like the one I had for Grad night. I grit my teeth, I am strong, I can handle a big zit. At this point I want it to be a big, yes-I-am-your-bitch-just-go-away zit. Because, I won’t deny, it feels kind of soft and wobbly. It makes me queasy just thinking about it, I find something herbal to smoke and put a pod in the coffee machine. On the radio they’re playing “Brick House’ by the Commodores, one of my favorites. It doesn’t take long for me to be shaking my plumpkins and that’s when I know. I just fucking drop to the floor. The boys tell me to “shake it down now,” I suck on my joint like I’m nursing, Dixie comes and starts batting at my backlump. I expect to wake up any minute.

I sit on the floor and feel it. Crumbs are sharp and Dixie’s rubber mouse is wedged where it shouldn’t be. I don’t care. I’m going into shock. “Fly Like an Eagle” comes on and I’m not high enough to deal with what is happening right now. I pretend nothing is wrong and stagger to my feet, shaking Dixie loose and looking for another joint. I take out the Baileys, half an ounce with cream for Dixie, four ounces in my coffee, and I’m thinking about toast. I cut the crust off Dixie’s and butter it well, she picks maple sugar for sprinkles. I eat mine dry, dipping it into my coffee and wondering what else I could dip. Dixie is thinking, “I want more sugar, you stingy cow,” I am thinking about anything but whatever has grown out of my back.

Why can’t it be wings? I would make a good angel except that I hate people. Is it a tumor? I think those are supposed to be hard and stuck in place. The glorious Mr. Ritchie comes on and tells me it’s time to have fun, “All Night Long”. Who cares if it’s noon? Who cares if I have a lump? Me and the people are dancing in the street, I feel the rhythm, I shake and wiggle and feel the things moving that should be. I also feel the lump on my back, swaying with that peculiar heft that is quite familiar to women. That unique kind of weight that makes your breasts always a little behind when you move, like they have their own sense of timing. It’s what makes men obsess over them, they’re high maintenance and mysterious. I have names for mine, Delilah and Jezebel. They are cliquey bitches; they will not welcome whatever the hell is on my back.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. There is no music appropriate for looking at the lump on your back. I shut the radio. The silence is way too scary; I don’t want to be alone with the lump. “Dixie, come here precious!” She doesn’t even take her face out of my mug. I need music. Wait, I know the thing, I turn on the big stereo in the living room, pretend I don’t have neighbors and crank some Eminem. It’s time to look in the mirror.

And there it is. Judging by the look it could even somehow be the same size… It looks the same, my girls have first-class nipples and excellent lift. Before I know it, I am trying to fit one cup of my bra over it, does it fit? Who gives a fuck? There’s a new accessory I will have to coordinate with, a candy for whatever guy is willing to take on a third tit. (It’s my experience that they’re not that good with the two I have.) A new jellybean, a third ‘soft pudding’, Aaaaah- the twins are triplets!

Nope. This is a really sick dream, that’s the last time I watch Seinfeld before bed. I stand and watch Dixie licking the window, I have no idea what to think even. How do I process the impossible? I need Christina, help me dirty girl. She says she’s a fighter, I believe it, I wonder if she would help me? As one kind of freak to another, kind of. Yes, I could send her an email. ‘Christina, I have a third breast on my back. Please tell no one and HELP me. Yours truly, etc. That could work, but what if she showed up here to help? She would steal Dixie. Go through my closet, take my best stuff, she fucking fits everything. She’ll need a coffee, I only have pods, but I can make it in a regular pot, so no one knows. Is my cream fresh? Wait! Wait! What if she really is dirty? Out of simple preference or something. She says she ‘turns to’ me, for everything, or a lot of things, listen to that voice though. Goosebumps. Oh. That feels weird…

I look at Dixie, eating my CD liner, I come to the inescapable conclusion that I Must eat pancakes. And not the cheat kind either, Culinary Arts Institute bullshit pancakes. I courted the flour with flowers and poetry, I massaged the eggs, sang to the milk and chewed the vanilla bean before dropping it in. It took 2 hours, all the dishes in my house and three Tylenol to produce 12 light, feathery, gossamer, there is a spider web in the recipe, pancakes. I had no time to think about breast enhancements that are, in effect, unsought, unrequested, and, dare I say it? Unwanted. Just a tad. There isn’t enough syrup for that kind of thing. Not anywhere. I use all of mine, add brown sugar, baileys, whipped cream, nuts, must chop them first. Coconut too, must go to the Asian grocery, never mind I have skittles. Eat standing up since I CAN’T LEAN BACK ON ANYTHING WITHOUT KNOWING THAT IT’S STILL THERE.

Well, that was quick. Give Dixie the last pancake and the plate, look at the disaster in my kitchen, think about the disaster on my back. Oh Christina, it does NOT ‘Keep Getting Better’.

I brew a pot of Sailor’s Black and use it as an excuse to have more cream. This is a major meltdown, I think. Oreos then, I dip and drink, sitting on the bar stool. Dixie watches my hand go up and down, tense and tail flickering, never a good sign. Not for the first time I regret she isn’t a dog. I look at her sternly. “I need sympathy missy. Either you pretend to have some, or I swear I will go down to the pet store today and buy a yappy Chihuahua. And I will name him Lawrence.” I stare her down, she sees I mean business. She comes close to me, rubbing her shoulder on my knuckles, ten seconds of purring, she takes my cookie and jumps down. It almost makes me cry.

Think now. I can fly down to the states and have it removed. I’m sure the plastic surgeons down there have seen worse. I’ll tell them I had it done in Mexico, on the cheap, that I didn’t speak the language, so lots of ‘loco loco’ meant nothing to me. Sigh. No matter what I say I will look like a freak, or worse. Someone who really is ‘that dumb’. Um. No. I just woke up this way. Yes, that sounds better. Really? No. I switch from Christina to Celine and that just doesn’t work. Who can I suffer miserably with? Am I suffering? Maybe Bjork will know. Ooooh, she understands freaks. I bet she would love to wake up with a third breast, instant new look, no vinyl, welding or glue required. She already has an outstanding pair; can you imagine a third like that? Lucky bitch. I’d look.

Ah- I know what music I deserve, Anoraak, yum, first “Odds Are Good” then “Nightdrive With You” on repeat. I have no idea what they look like, but I imagine them as beautiful, perfect beings, with the normal amount of everything and better rhythm. The heroes of today, making songs like that. It gives me the strength to power clean my kitchen, resist the rest of the skittle bag and eat a carrot. I pick up my phone and, before I can regret it, send a text to my friend Sasha along the lines of ‘I need u emergency! Come now. Now Now Now Now’!

It’s gone. It’s read. The three little dots start moving. Yes, he’s coming. What the fuck was I thinking?! He’s ten minutes away. “Dixie! Come help mommy!” I run to the kitchen, grab a bottle of wine and a corkscrew, a bag of chips and a joint. I’m definitely locking myself in the bathroom, a fuzzy blanket, my largest sweatshirt.

“Dixie you’re either in or out, no, you can’t block the door! Dixie! I mean it, I am shutting this door, move Dixie. I swear I will squish you, I will this time, go Dixie, get out!” Wait, is that his key in the front door? “Ooh Dixie, now you’re fucked. Whatcha gonna do? Ah! Who’s in our house? What if they want your shit, Dixie?” That’s right, get the fuck out. Slam the door, lock it. Lean my back against it, wince and wiggle, use the blanket, it’s a bit better, brace my feet against the back wall so he can’t force the door, and wait

The music stops, and I hear him coming to the bathroom. “Hey Dixie, who’s my love? Yeah, you know it.” After this blatant suck up there is loud purring for about 3 minutes. I have time to open my wine and regret my Spicy Jalapeno chips. He knocks on the door and asks, “you okay? Physically I mean, did someone break in? Did you hurt yourself?” He tries the handle, “nice. WTF? You did ask me to come over. Dix wants in, open the door.”

“No. She can stay outside; she’s going to throw up and I don’t want that in here with me. She’s a bitch. I’m fine. But not really. You be a dear boy and put the music back on, then get yourself whatever you want and come back here so we can talk.”

“Through the door? Or will you let me in?”

“Duh. Through the door. You can’t see me.”

 “Okay, did you do that thing where you shave off half your head, or dye it orange? Another Mohawk? Wait, did you get a new tattoo?! Girl you only have two breasts, where would you even put a third cupcake? Let me in so I can assess the damage and we can find a way to fix whatever you fucked up.”

I suck on my joint like I’m trying to swallow someone’s dick. Delilah and Jezebel have tattoos around them that make them look like cupcakes, it’s part of a theme I have going. Other things resemble cream puffs or bon bons, you get the idea. I don’t know how I feel about a 3rd cupcake. My god, how can I bond with her if I can’t see and touch her? How else do you name a breast? What a nightmare. How bitterly I regret my sugar binge. No! I could never regret those pancakes. I really regret waking up this morning. Wine and pot have done nothing but make me stupid. And fatally honest. “It’s much worse than all of those things,” I say with complete conviction.

“Oh my god! Are you pregnant?! Was it Chico? Ooh ooh! Let it be Martin, he’s hot and Asian, which is how I like them. As long as it’s not Bruce, can you imagine? Seriously darling, what were you thinking? You know how to deal with the nasty nasties, you’re a reasonably modern girl. If we don’t look in your closet. Now let me in so I can see if it’s made you ugly yet.”

“I’m not pregnant Sasha,” thinking, I could rock triplets, enough teats for all, ooh, what does it feel like to have babies sucking on there for hours? Ouch. Pretty sure the ladies would protest.

“I need music Sasha!” I say fiercely, “and toast! Dry. A bottle of water, I need water. Hurry!” I bang my head on the door to show him I’m serious. I hear him get up and head for the living room. “No Linkin Park!”

“Why do you have them if you never listen to them? I want to hear them.”

“No, no, no. You know I’m not ready. I may never be ready. Don’t touch my cd’s Sasha! And stop making me think about them.” He lets the radio decide and soon another Tina is rocking my world. I look at the stumps I have for legs and picture them beside her never ending shapeliness. Oh! She has a rack! I love Tina, what would she do with a 3rd breast? Make men drool like she does with the two she has.

“Sasha! Do you know if Tina and Lionel Ritchie ever made music together?” What would that look like? I can see her, strutting down the street where he and his cohorts are dancing, Lionel is a gentleman, he tries to dance with her, like she dances with anyone. No! She would burn her way down that street, a freaking firework, could this party get any better?  Lionel, bless him, can’t keep up, but who cares?

“I have no idea, I have your water and stuff, your majesty, now open the door.” He kicks it to show he is tough. Dixie whines and scratches the paint.

“First, I need you to promise me that you will never tell a soul about this. By ‘this’ I mean the predicament I am in, which I will reveal to you, once I have your word. By ‘tell’ I mean use your voice, mime, dance mime, or learn to use semaphore for the purposes of informing others about my predicament. This includes all forms of media, social gossip opportunities and your pack of siblings. Put your phone in the kitchen, come back and swear, and I will let you in.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Look my looney friend, open the sodsucking door or I will take the hinges off.”

“Swear it!” I scream. “Now! Swear it now! Swear it now!”

“Okay! Okay, I swear it, here, listen to me, I’m sliding my phone down the hall, there, did you hear it hit the wall? If it’s broken, you buy me a new one. Now open!”

I keep my sweatshirt on and wrap my fuzzy blanket around me, then I open the door, and he falls in and hits his head on the toilet. Not my fault but funny. Dixie and I try not to choke. She buries her head in my chip bag, I wiggle my way into the corner, ooh, yes, much more comfortable in the corner. He rights himself and then drapes the toilet with my towels, sits and checks his hair, which is still perfect. He looks at me, “what’s going on bitch?”

“Not so fast my sweet, dear best friend. I have one more security precaution, you must do as I say if you want to learn what my predicament is. You have my word of honor that it will be well worth your while to obey me.” I look him in the eye, he can see for himself that I’m a different woman than the one he dropped off last night. More mature, somehow. Stronger, sugar buzzed, tensed and clearly high. Whatever.

“Alright, what do you want me to do?”

“Strip down to your boxers, put this bra on your head and smile while I take your picture on my phone.”

We stare at each other for a long time. He keeps my eyes while he takes it off. I sigh. He is pretty all the way down. Even with my bra on his head like earmuffs and a ghastly grin he’s a handsome boy. He waits until I have the picture lined up, sound on so he can hear me click, then he poses like a porn star, with my bra stretched out between his legs and his tongue hanging out. I click and click; he knows he looks good in anything. Finally, he dresses up and sits back down on the toilet, saying nothing, just waiting.

“Empty your pockets, so I know you don’t have another phone. There can never be a picture of what I am about to show you.” He pulls out the usual suspects, keys, credit card, condoms, and a scented handkerchief, no surprise. It’s time to make good on my promise. Am I ready? The bottle is empty so I must be. He says, “you can trust me, I’m your best friend.” I look at Dixie who is licking the empty chip bag, the last thing I need is her to start batting and turn this into a farce. Or worse.

I look at Sasha, “there is no way to be ready to see this, trust me. And there will be no unseeing it.” I stand up and let go of my fuzzy blanket. “I woke up like this Sasha.” I turn around and drop my sweatshirt. He gasps. From the living room we hear “Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?” The eternally divine but ill-timed “Bohemian Rhapsody”. I curse Dixie for having dropped the remote in the toilet, turn deeply red and wait for him to say something. He clears his throat and murmurs, “I’m here for you, darling.” He spends the song examining my unnamed lady, he twists me from side to side, he plays with her, weighing her, arranging my hair around her. “She’s perfect honey, just like the twins, nothing like an implant. You say you just woke up like this? That’s marvelous!” He claps his hands together. I look over my shoulder at him, “are you fucking nuts?”

“Yes, that’s it, look at me, smile like you mean it. Perfect. Clearly, you’re not thinking what I’m thinking, but you need to address this seriously.” He rubs his hands over my shoulders, I see his watch, I remember the camera in it. I remember who he is, good friend, perfect dick. Dixie winds around me, he whispers in my ear, “stripper, my lovely. Pole dancer, centerfold, porn star. Trendmaker”. Queen gives way to Justin, who tells us we are “Bringing Sexy Back.” I try to picture it in my mind, I can’t. “Yes,” his eyes are shining, he frames my face with his soft hands.

“Get ready for your 15 minutes of fame, luv, and what we make of it. You already have over 90,000 followers, I’ve only posted a teaser shot. Book your tattoo now! Now! Now!”

If you want to hear the rest of my story, you’ll have to buy my book, I guess. Sign up for my emails and you can help me pick a name…