The Boob Doctor

Samuel was so fond of boobs, he became a Boob Doctor, one day. Growing up, he’d suck his mama’s boobs dry after he turned his parents’ bed into a 24/7 open milk bar.

            One time, it got weird because his big sister was in his parents’ bed when he said “Booby,” only for his sister to lift her shirt up and say, “Sike. April Fools Day, Samuel,” before pulling her nightie shirt immediately back down before her younger brother could punch her nipple dots into bruised ones.

            Big sister was only nine, so she had no lumbering boobs weighing down her structurally damaged vertebrae from massive overextension already, although if she did opt to get breast reduction surgery when she got older for some selfish, stupid reason like mild back pain discomfort from bending over on clay courts in Florida in Palm Beach from playing tennis too long, chances are, it wouldn’t be a huge load off her shoulders, if she filled out on top even less than Mama had.

            Baby Samuel would hold up one of his sister’s naked Barbies, on occasion, and ask his dada, “Do you think she’s hot, Dada?” And Daddy would say, “By southern belle standards, I’d give her a 7.3, although if she lived in the East Village of Manhattan, these days, I’d give her a solid 9, because she’d be taller than most of the munchkin gals off off Saint Marks (who you could never mount standing up unless you held them up high up against the wall, which your Do It All Dad is too putzy to pull off, if you really need to know).”

            Baby Samuel was always fascinated with his dada’s human anatomy book, which he got so his kids would have an easier time coming up with funny-sounding body parts whenever they played Mad Libs; ‘anus hole’ being a made-up body part name that became their go-to personal favorite.        Baby Samuel always wanted his Daddy to show him where he came from in Mama’s vagina, as he constantly implored his dear dada, “Show me where I used to live in Mama’s vagina, back in the day, when I used to sip booby milk through her umbilical cord.”

            Now Baby Samuel is The Boob Doctor, with a big pimping plastic surgery office in Miami Beach, about to consult a 39-year-old exotic dancer, Buttercup, about a potential breast reduction surgery.

            Buttercup wears a tight white sweater and cheap sunglasses to her appointment with The Boob Doctor as she examines various framed degrees on the wall before Boob Doctor Samuel Kornbluth enters. Boob Doctor Samuel Kornbluth enters his office and Buttercup’s nipples begin to jingle with nervous trepidation. Dr. Kornbluth taps her shoulder ever so gently, which sends shivers of titillating tingles up and down her spine like never before, before he gets comfortable in his desk chair to deliver his breast reduction surgery consultation.  

            Dr. Kornbluth says, “So, my tennis partner Dr. Ken says he doesn’t want you dancing at Senior Tatas in South Beach, anymore.

            Buttercup says, “He’s very possessive of my glittery busty beauties, but that’s not why I’m here, Dr. Kornbluth.  You see, I read on the Internet about how breast reduction surgery causes scars, and I was wondering why any woman would be willing to risk damaging their natural beauties the way God intended them to be.  

            “Do you ever feel like Dr. Frankenstein for playing the role of Nip Tuck God, by picking off where he left off?

            “I was double major in philosophy and English at the University of Florida, in case you’re wondering.”

            Dr. Kornbluth says, “I’m confused, Buttercup. I thought you came here for a breast reduction surgery consultation, but it sounds like you’ve made up your mind already. I’m still getting paid by the hour, so I don’t give a shit, especially knowing how I get to glance at your luscious lobes of perfection that jiggle with anticipation in my presence. I have that impact on all my female patients, except the hardcore dykes, but they normally have nothing to flaunt and hide under their natty-looking dress sweaters for a reason.”            Buttercup says, “I do play plenty of tennis in my downtime with Dr. Ken, and I have noticed a slight strain on my back as of late, Dr. Kornbluth.       “Plus, I own a hot Pink Range Rover, my own boat, and a condo with high ceilings and fancy fuck bags made of shaggy futon in the fancy arts district of Miami, so I’ve gotten plenty of ROI out of my gorgeous gals on top already.

            “I just want to know what love feels like without them being the centerpiece; the force field, which dominates every man’s universe.”

            Dr. Kornbluth says, “Like Kayne West says, one good girl is worth a thousand bitches, with depleted tits on top making them half the woman they used to be, BAM.”

            Buttercup says, “You mangled that Kayne West line a bit, Doc, but I heard your message loud and clear.”

            Buttercup stands up erect, pulls down her cheap sunglasses ever so slightly, and says, “I wouldn’t trade in your posh Miami Beach office for a shit box in Park Slope, Brooklyn either, Doc. New York is so yesterday’s news.”   

Michael Kornbluth