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Description
Preview for this one-of-a-kind, or maybe two-of-a-kind, romantic comedy.

CHAPTER 1
There are many things worse than being in the counselor’s office when you have no idea why you’ve been told to report there. You forget them all when you’re in that uncomfortable plastic chair opposite the desk.

    “Good morning, Hannah Parsons,” Mrs. Carroll began.

    “Good morning,” I responded, as if she had me at gunpoint.

    “How are you feeling?”

    “Fine,” I said as if I knew she would ease back the hammer on that gun if I didn’t give her a sufficiently pleasant answer.

    “I’m going to get right to the point. It’s a sensitive subject matter, yes, but it’s also one where it would be healthier to talk openly and honestly about it.” There has never been a conversation that started in such a way which ended well for everyone involved. So if I couldn’t end the conversation happily, I would try to end it quickly.

    “Okay,” I said.

    “I have reason to believe you are ashamed of your breasts,” she said. Immediately I felt a previously unimaginable level of shame for my large breasts. I know for a lot of women, breasts are a natural conversation topic. They were not something I wanted to talk about to anyone in the slightest ever since I had grown a larger pair than average.

    “What!?” I said, half shocked and half indignant.

    “You, a formerly extremely outgoing and socially engaged student, ended your membership with all your extracurricular groups, starting with your sports teams.”

    “I decided they weren’t for me,” I said with a shrug. “Besides, I have two jobs now. I’m afraid I no longer have time for unpaid hobbies.” Miss Carroll didn’t express any emotion in response to my excuse. My eyes drifted to her own flat chest over a seemingly fit abdomen. I got a brief suspicion I was being judged.

    “Pair that with the fact you wear visibly oversized hoodies even on eighty degrees days like today, and the conclusion is unavoidable.”

    “I uh...” I said. Even in the age of hyper-surveillance and overly-analyzed teaching techniques, I hadn’t expected anyone to care about what I did with my breasts as long as it didn’t make me a criminal, infected, or knocked up.

    Have the conservatives gotten so mad about trans surgery that any girl having issues with her breasts that MIGHT lead to a reduction has the schools worried? I thought.

    “Wha—” was all that I actually said.

    “You shouldn’t be ashamed of your body,” Mrs. Carroll said. “All breast sizes are valid. No matter what anyone says about you, take care of yourself and be proud.”

    I wavered between wanting to kill Mrs. Carroll for saying all these things, wanting to kill myself so that I could make absolutely sure I’d never hear anything like them again, and wanting the end of all life in the universe so no conversation like this could ever occur again. I will say this for her: At least she was clinical about it. If she had tried to be cloying or heartfelt, the real breast-related problem would be me strangling one of us with my bra straps.

    All that corporate-style talk and thinking about my chest had them feeling especially sensitive in my bra. It was not in a sexual way. Has your tongue ever felt too big in your mouth? Okay, imagine that sensation, but add on an awareness many incels of all ages want your tongue.

    Fortunately I had spent years and years conditioning myself to gracefully take ridiculousness from authority figures. I sat up straight and smiled.

    “Thank you!” I said with all the chipperness and sincerity I could fake. I waited. “It’s weird, you worry about this kind of thing for years. Then someone comes along and, you know, says it outloud, and you feel, like, better than ever!”

    “That’s nice, and you know if you ever need to talk about it again, I’m here,” Mrs Carroll said, sounding very much as if the idea of talking about such a thing made her uncomfortable too.

    “Is there anything else you wanted to tell me?” I asked in my customer service voice.

    “I wanted to show you something,” Mrs. Carroll said, turning her back to me. She opened a filing cabinet, thumbed through some folders, and brought out a pamphlet. “You’ll find plenty of useful information here.”

    “Thank you!” I said, taking the pamphlet. I guessed I would look more grateful if I skimmed it in front of her, so I thumbed through the surprisingly numerous pages. It turned out that the pamphlet had all the cutesy messaging Mrs. Carroll had been too sensible to give me herself, and on something as out-of-date as stone tablets. Right on the cover there was a drawing of a girl with red hair in pigtails, stick figure arms and legs but breasts that looked like two third trimester pregnancy bellies stuck to her rib cage. It was drawn in a style a little worse than the Diary of a Wimpy Kid books with none of the charm. She was standing in a spotlight and hanging her head in shame, as if her breasts had been caught committing a crime against humanity by growing so busty.

    The clash of style and message was very jarring. The content said “Becoming a woman will give you health problems and get you unwanted attention. Anyway, here's some condescendingly bad drawings because we still want to treat you like a child.” Of course the pamphlet wasn’t the first thing that had treated me in such a confused way, but this felt so much more personalized and insulting.

    The drawings might not have bothered me so much except that it would have been nice to get some decent big breast stuff from school. Then when I got home I could have locked my bedroom door and enjoyed myself, if not just from the drawings of busty women than the extra taboo aspect of playing with myself to school material. Not that the internet didn’t provide me with plenty of material, but it’s all about context.

    Thumbing through it hoping that maybe the artist had slipped something good in there, I saw about what you would expect. Some advice about gawkers, bra shopping, surgery, checking for breast cancer. The artist did a decent job making all the slack-jawed guys ogling the red-haired girl punchable. If only I didn’t find every character drawn in this kind of style punchable! I noticed that the red-haired girl wasn’t just the only character drawn with red hair, but with hair at all. Raised some suspicions about the artist.

     The only advice that stood out was some exercise advice for back, neck, and shoulder pain. We’ve all heard the “jokes” about big breasts causing back problems, but I hadn’t gotten around to changing my modest exercise regimen to accommodate my new body. Most of the time I either had other things on my mind, or no inclination to pay for the necessary gym membership and/or equipment.

    “Wow, this should be really helpful,” I said, closing it and fanning it excitedly. “Thanks again, it feels really good to talk about things like this! If I need to, when would be a good time to stop by again?”

    “Oh,” Mrs. Carroll said, a bit uncomfortable with the idea. I knew I had her. I didn’t really know Mrs. Carroll, but I had learned through trial and error how to get adults to stop wanting to talk to me in a way that didn’t piss them off. Excessive appreciation usually did the trick. “I’ll have to get back to you on that. But before you go, I recommend you reconsider quitting your extracurricular groups. Might be a good first step in self-acceptance.”

    Everything about that call to the guidance counselor made sense then. The school was only worried about the loss of income from a student whose parents had been paying a lot to keep her outgoing. She’d probably made a half-assed guess what my deal was from just looking at me walking down the hallway in a hoodie on a hot day. Better than learning the counselor was just a creep and wanted me to show some more skin, but not much.

    Walking to my next class, it seemed like I gave everyone on the way a hard look and wondered what they knew about me, or had guessed. I owed the fact I’d managed to keep my breasts a secret from school, or at least an issue no one bothered me about, to the fact the growth spurt began at the start of summer break. If I had started in the middle of the year, god, the trouble I would have had to deal with. Creepshots, psychotically insecure guys saying they “loved” me, stalkers, rumors.

    I mean, you couldn’t be as into breasts as I had been since middle school and not learned all about that stuff. I tried at least not to spread any of it around. And I tried, I really tried, to be respectful of the other busty girls, especially those who were less repressed about it.

    Halfway to my next class, coming out of the girls restroom was Denise Tompkins. She had been texting as she stepped out, but glanced up at me. I must have been glaring, because Denise suddenly looked a bit apprehensive and scrunched up her face in confusion. I tried to smile then. I did not want her mad at me.

    Between when I passed her and when I arrived at class, I received a notification. I checked my texts. It was from Denise.

    Sat 6am?

    That was all I needed to know she was offering me some farmhand work tomorrow. It was my least favorite kind of work, as I don’t think anyone enjoys pulling weeds, hauling buckets of feed, or scrubbing chickenshit out of every surface. Work no one should want to do ever, let alone right around sunrise.

    It occurred to me then that Denise would have been a good suspect for my little counselor investigation. She had seen me sweating like a pig and asked a few times if I wasn’t hot while dressed for autumn in late spring. My excuses were so lame that if they’d been true they would have raised legitimate concerns whether or not I was mentally fit to do farm work. “I’m worried I’ll forget my hoodie”, that kind of thing. It would have been nice if the tanned, fit, rich farm girl boss had feelings for me. However, I’d seen little evidence she had any interest in getting her own hands dirty. I figured farmgirl was more a fashion choice for her than an actual career preference. With how much literal chickenshit her farm had gotten under my fingernails, I felt way more resentment than attraction most of the time.

    I answered YES THX

    What can I say, farmhand work paid well. I wasn’t strapped for cash, and I had no intention of ever being strapped for cash. I never turned down a paycheck.

Wish I had too much going on for backbreaking work on a Saturday morning I thought as I reached my desk. Thinking of back pain, I looked at the pamphlet again.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

For the rest of the story, visit www.amazon.com/dp/B0CB8LPBZG

Description
Preview for this one-of-a-kind, or maybe two-of-a-kind, romantic comedy.

CHAPTER 1
There are many things worse than being in the counselor’s office when you have no idea why you’ve been told to report there. You forget them all when you’re in that uncomfortable plastic chair opposite the desk.

    “Good morning, Hannah Parsons,” Mrs. Carroll began.

    “Good morning,” I responded, as if she had me at gunpoint.

    “How are you feeling?”

    “Fine,” I said as if I knew she would ease back the hammer on that gun if I didn’t give her a sufficiently pleasant answer.

    “I’m going to get right to the point. It’s a sensitive subject matter, yes, but it’s also one where it would be healthier to talk openly and honestly about it.” There has never been a conversation that started in such a way which ended well for everyone involved. So if I couldn’t end the conversation happily, I would try to end it quickly.

    “Okay,” I said.

    “I have reason to believe you are ashamed of your breasts,” she said. Immediately I felt a previously unimaginable level of shame for my large breasts. I know for a lot of women, breasts are a natural conversation topic. They were not something I wanted to talk about to anyone in the slightest ever since I had grown a larger pair than average.

    “What!?” I said, half shocked and half indignant.

    “You, a formerly extremely outgoing and socially engaged student, ended your membership with all your extracurricular groups, starting with your sports teams.”

    “I decided they weren’t for me,” I said with a shrug. “Besides, I have two jobs now. I’m afraid I no longer have time for unpaid hobbies.” Miss Carroll didn’t express any emotion in response to my excuse. My eyes drifted to her own flat chest over a seemingly fit abdomen. I got a brief suspicion I was being judged.

    “Pair that with the fact you wear visibly oversized hoodies even on eighty degrees days like today, and the conclusion is unavoidable.”

    “I uh...” I said. Even in the age of hyper-surveillance and overly-analyzed teaching techniques, I hadn’t expected anyone to care about what I did with my breasts as long as it didn’t make me a criminal, infected, or knocked up.

    Have the conservatives gotten so mad about trans surgery that any girl having issues with her breasts that MIGHT lead to a reduction has the schools worried? I thought.

    “Wha—” was all that I actually said.

    “You shouldn’t be ashamed of your body,” Mrs. Carroll said. “All breast sizes are valid. No matter what anyone says about you, take care of yourself and be proud.”

    I wavered between wanting to kill Mrs. Carroll for saying all these things, wanting to kill myself so that I could make absolutely sure I’d never hear anything like them again, and wanting the end of all life in the universe so no conversation like this could ever occur again. I will say this for her: At least she was clinical about it. If she had tried to be cloying or heartfelt, the real breast-related problem would be me strangling one of us with my bra straps.

    All that corporate-style talk and thinking about my chest had them feeling especially sensitive in my bra. It was not in a sexual way. Has your tongue ever felt too big in your mouth? Okay, imagine that sensation, but add on an awareness many incels of all ages want your tongue.

    Fortunately I had spent years and years conditioning myself to gracefully take ridiculousness from authority figures. I sat up straight and smiled.

    “Thank you!” I said with all the chipperness and sincerity I could fake. I waited. “It’s weird, you worry about this kind of thing for years. Then someone comes along and, you know, says it outloud, and you feel, like, better than ever!”

    “That’s nice, and you know if you ever need to talk about it again, I’m here,” Mrs Carroll said, sounding very much as if the idea of talking about such a thing made her uncomfortable too.

    “Is there anything else you wanted to tell me?” I asked in my customer service voice.

    “I wanted to show you something,” Mrs. Carroll said, turning her back to me. She opened a filing cabinet, thumbed through some folders, and brought out a pamphlet. “You’ll find plenty of useful information here.”

    “Thank you!” I said, taking the pamphlet. I guessed I would look more grateful if I skimmed it in front of her, so I thumbed through the surprisingly numerous pages. It turned out that the pamphlet had all the cutesy messaging Mrs. Carroll had been too sensible to give me herself, and on something as out-of-date as stone tablets. Right on the cover there was a drawing of a girl with red hair in pigtails, stick figure arms and legs but breasts that looked like two third trimester pregnancy bellies stuck to her rib cage. It was drawn in a style a little worse than the Diary of a Wimpy Kid books with none of the charm. She was standing in a spotlight and hanging her head in shame, as if her breasts had been caught committing a crime against humanity by growing so busty.

    The clash of style and message was very jarring. The content said “Becoming a woman will give you health problems and get you unwanted attention. Anyway, here's some condescendingly bad drawings because we still want to treat you like a child.” Of course the pamphlet wasn’t the first thing that had treated me in such a confused way, but this felt so much more personalized and insulting.

    The drawings might not have bothered me so much except that it would have been nice to get some decent big breast stuff from school. Then when I got home I could have locked my bedroom door and enjoyed myself, if not just from the drawings of busty women than the extra taboo aspect of playing with myself to school material. Not that the internet didn’t provide me with plenty of material, but it’s all about context.

    Thumbing through it hoping that maybe the artist had slipped something good in there, I saw about what you would expect. Some advice about gawkers, bra shopping, surgery, checking for breast cancer. The artist did a decent job making all the slack-jawed guys ogling the red-haired girl punchable. If only I didn’t find every character drawn in this kind of style punchable! I noticed that the red-haired girl wasn’t just the only character drawn with red hair, but with hair at all. Raised some suspicions about the artist.

     The only advice that stood out was some exercise advice for back, neck, and shoulder pain. We’ve all heard the “jokes” about big breasts causing back problems, but I hadn’t gotten around to changing my modest exercise regimen to accommodate my new body. Most of the time I either had other things on my mind, or no inclination to pay for the necessary gym membership and/or equipment.

    “Wow, this should be really helpful,” I said, closing it and fanning it excitedly. “Thanks again, it feels really good to talk about things like this! If I need to, when would be a good time to stop by again?”

    “Oh,” Mrs. Carroll said, a bit uncomfortable with the idea. I knew I had her. I didn’t really know Mrs. Carroll, but I had learned through trial and error how to get adults to stop wanting to talk to me in a way that didn’t piss them off. Excessive appreciation usually did the trick. “I’ll have to get back to you on that. But before you go, I recommend you reconsider quitting your extracurricular groups. Might be a good first step in self-acceptance.”

    Everything about that call to the guidance counselor made sense then. The school was only worried about the loss of income from a student whose parents had been paying a lot to keep her outgoing. She’d probably made a half-assed guess what my deal was from just looking at me walking down the hallway in a hoodie on a hot day. Better than learning the counselor was just a creep and wanted me to show some more skin, but not much.

    Walking to my next class, it seemed like I gave everyone on the way a hard look and wondered what they knew about me, or had guessed. I owed the fact I’d managed to keep my breasts a secret from school, or at least an issue no one bothered me about, to the fact the growth spurt began at the start of summer break. If I had started in the middle of the year, god, the trouble I would have had to deal with. Creepshots, psychotically insecure guys saying they “loved” me, stalkers, rumors.

    I mean, you couldn’t be as into breasts as I had been since middle school and not learned all about that stuff. I tried at least not to spread any of it around. And I tried, I really tried, to be respectful of the other busty girls, especially those who were less repressed about it.

    Halfway to my next class, coming out of the girls restroom was Denise Tompkins. She had been texting as she stepped out, but glanced up at me. I must have been glaring, because Denise suddenly looked a bit apprehensive and scrunched up her face in confusion. I tried to smile then. I did not want her mad at me.

    Between when I passed her and when I arrived at class, I received a notification. I checked my texts. It was from Denise.

    Sat 6am?

    That was all I needed to know she was offering me some farmhand work tomorrow. It was my least favorite kind of work, as I don’t think anyone enjoys pulling weeds, hauling buckets of feed, or scrubbing chickenshit out of every surface. Work no one should want to do ever, let alone right around sunrise.

    It occurred to me then that Denise would have been a good suspect for my little counselor investigation. She had seen me sweating like a pig and asked a few times if I wasn’t hot while dressed for autumn in late spring. My excuses were so lame that if they’d been true they would have raised legitimate concerns whether or not I was mentally fit to do farm work. “I’m worried I’ll forget my hoodie”, that kind of thing. It would have been nice if the tanned, fit, rich farm girl boss had feelings for me. However, I’d seen little evidence she had any interest in getting her own hands dirty. I figured farmgirl was more a fashion choice for her than an actual career preference. With how much literal chickenshit her farm had gotten under my fingernails, I felt way more resentment than attraction most of the time.

    I answered YES THX

    What can I say, farmhand work paid well. I wasn’t strapped for cash, and I had no intention of ever being strapped for cash. I never turned down a paycheck.

Wish I had too much going on for backbreaking work on a Saturday morning I thought as I reached my desk. Thinking of back pain, I looked at the pamphlet again.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

For the rest of the story, visit www.amazon.com/dp/B0CB8LPBZG