Helicopter Tiddies
On a slow day at work, my coworkers talk about breasts—
mammograms, and speculums. Our worst IUD experiences,
loud and brassy. Who fainted. Who drove themselves home.
Whose body rejected it like a sharpened candy cane from their cervix.
Whose tits are dense like hot fudge brownies left in the fridge
or if a sports bra could deflate them like a crushed macaron.
I used to have tiddies like creampuffs. Airy and whipped, or
like a soft custard beneath a caramelized shell. In Czech,
creampuffs are called větrníčky, adjacent to vrtulníky: windmills
or helicopters. If I get enough momentum, my tiddies will roar to life;
my coworkers will plug their ears with erasers and princess wave
as I hover above the writing center, exit through the skylight,
a PSL gripped in my cupholders. My tiddies will spin so fast
they'll whorl whipped cream into my latte and I'll descend
on a big, red XX painted on the roof in jelly. I'll land in a squelch
of rhubarb. I'll get a yeast infection next week.
Last year, I was prescribed 40mg of omeprazole twice a day
and with 20mg of famotidine because my stomach forgot
how to digest sugar. That's a dose for a grown man with
coke-induced stomach ulcers. At least these Mike n' Ike–sized
pills thought I was a man. My tiddies shrank to the size of
skittles from low-key trauma and my ex got disappointing
nudes and they always had to be the big spoon because I was peanut
brittle and they were like the hottest soufflé I'd ever buried my
face in. My tiddies did grow back, but I no longer had whipped
cream tiddies. No longer had proverbial attack helicopter tiddies.
Now I have protein pancake tiddies. Tiddies with infomercial ice cream
in the center. Where-did-they-come-from-tiddies, like that box of
half-eaten donuts that just appears in the office and no one eats them
because there's no note. These aren't helicopter tiddies. These aren't
private jet tiddies. These aren't the tiddies I'd started calling
beefcake tiddies and bro tiddies, and boi tiddies because they were small
and could disguise themselves as pecans. They don't crush
like a macaron when I snap the elastic of my sports bra.
My stomach learned to digest sugar again and my chest learned
how to grow fairground koláčky with big, red, raspberry nipples.
Can I eat my tiddies? Can I lick around them like a Tootsie Pop
until I get to their reasonably-sized Tootsie center? Can I pour
protein powder into them and set them to liquify and become
the boys in the yard? Can I install jet engines and a hatchback
and make them barbecue tiddies instead? Like, turkey burgers
and corn dogs or a roast pig that you cut into and it's actually
a cake and I have it and I eat it too.
Photo by Paul Christean
