What I did on my Summer Vacation


All the boob talk yesterday reminded me of when I got mine.

It was the summer between my sophomore and junior year of high school. I was one of the very last girls in school to acquire the bumps, and by the time they came, I’d endured many years of being called flat-chested and boobless. I had remained dateless too.

There wasn’t a boy in high school who had any interest in me – I can’t blame them. I had the physique of a 10 year old even though inside my head, I was at least 21.

That summer, things really popped. Rapid developments occurred and when I returned to school in September of my junior year, I had acquired a decent set of breasts in just two months. It was the closest thing to a miracle I’d ever experienced. It was like time-lapse photography…only it was real flesh and blood.

What a gift! I just loved them and still do to this day.

That summer, an older sister also helped me become “attractive” by showing me how to put on make-up and fix my hair. When I returned to school I had actually become cute. I didn’t think it was possible that the mirror would ever show me anything but a skinny, shapeless, unattractive girl, but this new reflection was quite nice in my mind.

It took the boys a few weeks to realize I wasn’t that same flat-chested girl they once teased unmercifully. I noticed how the teasing slowly stopped and approving glances became more prevalent. “Sexy!” one of the popular boys shouted out to me in the hall.

I blushed purple but loved it.

Another important thing happened that summer prior to the full bloom of the boobs. I met a guy who was a college sophomore -- somehow he could see the future “me” in that skinny, artless girl. We'd run into each other at the library and talk and laugh - very quietly of course or we'd have been thrown out by the stern straight-backed head librarian. His eyes would sparkle when he looked at me and for the first time in my life I knew what it was like to feel desirable.

The first big dance of the school season was the Halloween dance; one I’d longed to attend in the two prior years, but had never received an invitation.

Everyone in high school was abuzz about the dance; snippets of conversations could be heard in the halls about who had asked whom, what was going to be worn to the dance, and where everyone would meet up later.

I knew I’d made it as a “woman” when on one day I got three invitations to the dance: one from a “nerd”, one from a “jock” and one from an all around mucho-popular guy who, incidentally, had also led the pack in picking on my pre-puberty body.

So do you want to know which invitation I accepted?

None of them.

I had to turn down all three invitations because I already had a date for the dance with that college boy who could see into the future.

And I’ve been “dating” him ever since.