Amanda H. had one boob bigger than the other. Sure, many girls have one knocker that outweighs its twin, but hers were in gross disproportion, like a Chinese man next to Everest. One of them was so massive that it overflowed a double D, while the other could barely fill the palm of a child’s hand. That was how the Good Lord made her (praised be his name!), though she never understood why.
In school, the boys would ask whether she found her own chest titillating. Others called her a social boob. She couldn’t find a boyfriend to knock her up. But boys knocked the schoolbooks out of her hands, just for the thrill of it.
I asked Amanda to share her most vivid memory of junior high. “Marty Johnson!” she said, clenching the hem of her dress as though it were someone’s throat. Marty was the class athlete, the former star of the Little League team. One day in biology class, when Miss Daisy introduced the concept of the breast, he stood on his chair and pointed at Amanda. “I’d never chew on them tits!” he said.The whle class laughed.
She also recounted the time her grandfather took her to Six Flags, but left her with a stranger.
“Excuse me,” he said to a spectacled man, “would you mind watching my Amanda? You know, while I take my other grandkids on the rides?”
The man winked, then nodded towards a rollercoaster. “By all means. Wouldn’t want her boob to smack her in the face when that baby hits 88 miles per hour, would we?”
Her granddad laughed.
Oh, the agony she felt, the way her brothers enjoyed that coaster! She closed her eyes, and for a moment she sat right there with them, the wind whooshing through her hair, the g-force tugging at the flaps of her cheeks. Then she opened her eyes, and there she stood, on the sidelines watching.
More than anything, she wanted that to change. She wanted to be like everyone else. But she did not get her wish that day.
She got it years later. On New Year’s Eve, 2002 in the year of our Lord (blessed be he for his almighty mercy and clemency!) her high school offered a foreign exchange trip to the Gobi, land of mystique, land of enchantment.
And as they stood in the desert, scorching wind at their backs and firelight on their shoulders, a classmate pointed to her. “Look at Amanda and her barbaric bonkers!”
“Stop it!” Amanda spun on the bully. She pointed back at him, though had nothing to say. He was normal. So she simply stamped her foot, bit her lip, and pressed her boobs against each other, the large one jiggling like half-settled Jell-O.
The teacher spun too, towards the bully, and shushed him so loudly that even Amanda did a doubletake. But then that teacher turned to Amanda and furrowed her eyebrows. “You too.” For a moment, Amanda thought the chastisement done, but no! The teacher’s eyes drifted to Amanda’s mighty left can, then that wimpy right one, before settling back on Amanda’s sniffling face. “All three of you,” she said as nastily as possible. “All three of you.”
Amanda couldn’t take it anymore. She darted off into the night.
Wild desert winds crashed upon her. Shivering, she crawled into a pathetic cave that some nomad built from broken stones. Through her tears, far at the horizon, silhouettes of double-humped camels carried her classmates into the night, their perfect humps bouncing up and down the way she wished her bosom would do. Alas, she was only a dromedary!
But then, fretting and weeping, she backed up, hugging her knees, seeking only to get farther from the cold and that distressing sight, when she bumped into an object.
Praise Jesus and Moses combined! There behind her — a silver lamp! She picked it up, wiped the tears from her eyes, and rubbed it in desperation. Nothing. She rubbed more. Still nothing. So she thought long and hard, then — in a craze — rubbed it against her misshapen breasts, like a witch doctor in a ritual, and out of the lantern popped a motherfucking genie, excuse my French, my most cultured readers!
“Behold! I bestow upon you wishes three.”
She looked at him stupefied.
“You have three wishes,” he cautioned.
“Anything I want?”
“Anything, but understand that then I get to grant myself any wish I have with you.”
“Oh genie, anything you want, just give me my three wishes.”
“So it shall be done.”
Our heroine’s first wish was the most obvious: “Genie, I wish for my breasts to be normal.”
“You wish for equiponderate breasts.”
“Your wish is my command, and so it shall be done!” And the genie’s eyes roared with fire, and her little breast grew big, and her big breast grew somewhat less so, and so she became a camel, so to speak.
“Oh genie! Mercy upon you and yours, as you have saved my tits — and thus the poor girl attached to them — from laughter and misery! Oh, if I may now have my second wish, I wish my classmates dead, everyone who ever mocked me.”
And the genie’s eyes exploded even more, fireballs in sockets, and her newfound juicy melons throbbed with great pleasure and satisfaction. Then the genie said even louder than before: “Your wish is my command, and so it shall be done!”
“Aaaaaah! Aaaaah! Aaaaaah!” Her classmates screamed. And by Moses and Jesus and Visnu altogether, I swear to you that amidst cries of anguish and pain and bursts of gunfire, she felt her nipples harden.
“Oh genie,” she said, enamored with her savior (as girls are wont to do when swept off their feet by a genie) “oh genie, my third wish is for you to have your way with me, as no man has ever known this ajami koos.”
The genie narrowed his eyes: “Your koos is mine. Your wish is my command, and so it shall be done!”
By Mary, Jesus, Vishu and Zeus combined, the genie, he bumped her three full times, balls deep. With each push, his balls slapped against her asshole. And by the time he was through, our heroine just knew she was preggers because, well, it’s a wonderful world.
But then, without warning, the genie said, “and now, it is my turn. My wish is that all of this was just a dream.”
Then she woke up, looked at her crooked boobs, wiped dry her bedsheets, and readied herself for another day in the office.
Moral: Do not trust genies.