The Girls

Growing up as a guy two things always interested me, boobs.  Yep boobs.  From my earliest thoughts boobs where there.  From my mother feeding me, my teacher leaning over my desk, adolescent girls with their budding new friends, and finally into adulthood there they were.  Something just draws your eyes to them.  I don’t know if it’s just that I didn’t have them, or was it that I wanted them, or was it the plunging neck line with the gleaming silver pendant nestled safely between them like the little guy who brings back up when you owe money?

 

By the time you’re an adult, girls have dealt with these things from the age of 13 or so.  They’ve gone through the itching, the pain, the feeling of the bounce, and finally the lowering eyes of any man who’s attempting to have a conversation with them.  The training bras, the cleavage, the feeling of joy when you finally take your bra off..  Women take this for granted.

For a tranny like me, boobs can be a big deal.  For me it wasn’t until I was 38 when I finally felt something behind my nipple.  It was like a pea. Like someone put a little pebble in there, and OMG did it hurt if you touched it.  Not just a little hurt, but screaming, jumping around hurt.

Then there’s the other trannies.  Always wanting to compare size, give reports on their growth.  It’s like some contest to see who can grow faster and bigger.  I always imagine a couple of gardeners sitting around discussing the progress of their melons.  Each, as they tend them, day by day, watering, feeding, and finally they bring them to the great gardener show to show them off.  “Here, feel my melons”  says the first gardener, “Oh that’s nice, but check out my melons” replies the second gardener.  This tends to go on for a while, both not wanting to admit the other’s melons might be better, and both pinning the success of their gardening on just how big and ripe their melons are.  Finally they give up with secret resentment and walking off in a huff and tell their other gardener friends just how vain the other is.

Most of the boobs a man sees in his life are on some type of media.  Or they’re on some gyrating stripper.  In both cases the boobs tend to be perfect, and no one tells you that when you start hormones at 38, your’s are a lot less likely to be as spectacular as you always dreamed they would.

It’s been 16 months since I started hormones, and as my bra cup fills more and more, finally ditching my forms, it’s painfully obvious to me that I’m not going to be some giggling girl at the end of this.  I’m not even going to be winning a blue ribbon at the local gardening contest.  It’s evident to me that I must seek professional help,, and thus, I’m off to the plastic surgeon.

As I said, other trannies, like their melons.  Well the trannies with professional help love their melons.  And there is no shortage of trannies with silicon breasts that are willing to show you theirs and rave about their surgeon.  It’s like a 3d demo, many time’s in some club, the music pounding, people screaming into each other’s ears, and the subject turns to her new boob job.  Before you know it she pulls down the neck of her top and her bra and her boobs spill out in glorious fashion. It’s like an adult game of peak a boo.  And there you have it  “touch them, feel them” she says, and even though you’re a tranny just like her there’s always that bit of male guilt in the back of your head from years and years of women beating it into your head just how much of a pig you are.  So, you touch them, you feel them.  But there really is no charge of erotic electricity.  Instead you’re purely scientific.  You study them, you feel how they move, how they rest, how heavy they are, and you see exactly how they’re shaped.  And once you’re done you nod and tell her they’re beautiful, and she pops them back in never losing the beat as she dances to the clubs super DJ.

I had made my decision, and after seeing a particularly gorgeous set, I made the phone call to a doctors office to schedule a consultation.  I don’t know why I get nervous with these calls.  I do explain I’m a tranny, and that I’m wanting to do the surgery as soon as possible.  I’m turning 41 this year, and I’d love to have a new set just in time for my birthday.  The girl on the other end is nice and pleasent and suddenly I have an appt.

I suppose it’s all about aesthetics when you’re discussing plastic surgery.  The office full of Michael Angelo-esque statues, the soothing music, the comfortable furniture, and suddenly the window opens and quite possibly the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen asks if you’ve brought the documents and then calmly and pleasantly and beautifully prompts you to have a seat and wait for your appt.

I felt special, the only potential patient there, as I was ussured through the doors into a room set up with a desk and various binders full of women 😉 for my perusing. My special feeling continued as I donned the pink terry cloth robe then finally sitting down at the desk ready to gander at what could be mine in a short time.  

With a turn, turn, turn of the pages, not unlike browsing a catalogue, I felt myself getting anxious and a little full of myself, and as the quiet knock on the door, then a slow opening, an even more beautiful girl walks in and introduces herself.

It was about this time, in my terry cloth robe, that all of my painful insecurities came rushing back into my head, with the terrifying thought of showing this gorgeous perfect person my not so perfect hormone titties.  But, with a show of the fakest confidence I could muster, I extended my hand and introduced myself.  “Hi, I’m Veronika” 🙂

If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a tranny, it’s how to push your fear aside and let your confidence rush forward.  You have to almost ignore the screaming voices of fear in your head.  It’s loud to be sure, but a girl learns how to get strong in those many months of transition, living half boy and half girl.  You have to.  It’s the only way to progress.  And progression is the only way to survive.

Sadly, her beauty didn’t magically transfer to me as we shook hands.  I didn’t really think it would, but there’s nothing wrong what a tranny hoping and wishing.  And it really wasn’t a stretch with her magical glow of awesome beauty emanating like the light of a bug zapper just waiting to zap you for getting too close.

After talking a little about options and sizes, it was time for me to remove my robe and show this gorgeous creature my tranny body, and my tranny little boobs, and as I stood upright, my poor little boobs trying their hardest to be perky, the self conscious thoughts rushing into my heads, and me standing there almost a full foot taller than her as I just stared at the wall behind her as she explained how the doctor would use the measurements to decide profile and placement.

Finally she had me back up to a wall, and produced a camera to take, what I’m sure would later be used to snicker at, pictures of my poor little girls as they weeped in humiliation.  The pictures she assured me were for the dr to see as he was on vacation this week.  I didn’t mind that he was on vacation, and they had told me that.  I’ll see him again before the surgery, and I’m sure any further questions I have will be answered.  I don’t know if I could have handled being in front of him and this porcelain doll at the same time.  I already felt horrible enough without the eye of a plastic surgeon critiquing me.  A picture with arms down, snap.  Then she asks me to raise my arms.  Suddenly I’m panicked trying to remember if I shaved my armpits that morning.  An internal sigh as I had, but now I’m worried if I got it all.  She didn’t comment, so hopefully I’m safe, and finally my arms are lowered and now, and forever, a record of the event.

About that time, she handed me a cloth bra.  She explained it was like the bra I would wear after surgery as I tried desperately to put it on and not look like I had only been wearing them a couple of short years.  

When you’re a tranny different parts of your body will never change.  After 38 years of masculine development, my rib cage seems huge, and the “large” banded bra she handed me was cutting into me.  But, I was able to get it on and she produced the first of three implants we would try.   It was like the old story goldilocks, except with one major difference.  The first was way too small, the second was just right, and the third was what I wanted.  I slipped on my top and turned side ways inspecting it’s size and weight.   It’s hard not to be giddy, but at the same time you panic a little thinking with my already freakish rib cage, how am I going to find things that fit.  Quickly you brush that aside though and thoughts of dancing in a club and proudly showing some tranny your tits as she asks about your surgery fill your head.  If you were a cartoon the little cloud above you would be totally censored out, or they would change the image to something like an innocent set of melons.

After we decided on what size, and type of new breasts I were to get.  The conversation turned to some other procedures that I’d like.  I have to admit, I’m very fortunate with some outstanding genetics.  I can’t complain.  I know that I’ve been blessed compared to most trannies my age.  But, at 40, there are some things you want to fix.  things that weren’t there when you were younger, and possibly perking up some of those feminine attributes your mother so graciously handed down.

And again the critique, and honesty, and allowing yourself to take in her advice, and finally deciding on additional procedures at the same time.

I find as I transitioned, when people find out I’m trans, one of two things happen.  Either it bugs the crap out of them.  Years of ignorance and misunderstanding, and what there grandma told them comes to service, and they just don’t know how to handle it.  Or, the more often, excitement that almost makes me feel like a mini celebrity.  It’s like they just can’t wait to get home to talk about the tranny they met.  They become super sweet, and personable.  I like the latter.  And so the girls in the office, as I put down my thousand dollar deposit, smiled and introduced themselves, and made me feel just as special as I had when I first got there as they welcomed me to their little family.  I couldn’t help but think of it as a plastic occult with the dr the leader, and soon I’d be one of his beautiful creations.

I haven’t scheduled the date yet, but after checking my schedule and finances I’ll let them know, and finally I’ll have the girls I always wanted, and soon my friends, I’ll be wearing plunging neck lines, gleaming pendants, and as I dance to the music in the club, I may even show them to you, in all of their glory, as I rave about my surgeon.

Peace out my trannies!

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