Dont Mince Words

My little game of Cat and Doctor continued today as I returned to my plastic surgeon’s office with a Christmas card (“thanks for the great ass”) and my German apple bread (“because only a girl with good farm stock hips could bake like this”).

He came around the corner from another room and announced my presence.

“Marna’s here and today she’s in red and looks great,” he exclaimed.

“I clean up pretty well for someone who has been sponge bathing for two weeks,” I told everyone.

“Wow, look at those heels,” he said.

I reminded him I was a sugardaddy-less working girl and had to return to the corporate monkeyspank today so that I could collect vendor gifts, a bonus, and participate in general holiday fuckoffery (someone put a bottle of Grand Marnier on my desk for symbolic reasons).

I stripped down nekkid and was told again I’m still healing fabulously. My belly button was revealed and it’s cute, in a newborn crusty kind of way. My one remaining pussy pump was also removed which will increase my mobility as well as get the whole puss back on a healing path. The better news is…. I can shower. But not before I make a pit stop at Babeland on the way home to see about a new vibrator.

It’s the simple things like showers and masturbation that keep me going. But the Victoria Secret gift certificate for new panties is running a close third. HO, ho, ho.

I was alone, naked in a room with a hot doctor. There was only one thing I could do and that was flirt.

My plastic surgeon was marking me up with a Sharpie. Cut lines and what not. This takes nearly a hour to do for a body lift. My idle conversation began with, “So when can I have sex again?”

He pushed back, his wheeled stool rolled to the corner. “I have a funny story for you,” he replied.

When 20-something women come in for work, they ask when they can go back to the gym and exercise. Older women ask when they can drink and smoke again.

“But you women, you women in the middle, you always want to know when you can have sex,” he explained.

Now that I had his attention, I asked him if he wanted the over/under on my total estimated skin weight loss. I told him I thought I had a good six pounds of skin. He said he expects it to be over 10.

From there he exposed another secret to the surgery. “When I pull this skin up, your pubic area will get tight and your clitoris will be more exposed. Many women tell me they orgasm faster,” he said.

“I’ll let you know in six weeks and come back and tip you if you can make that happen,” I said smiling.

When you are in New York, you go to the Empire State Building. When you are in San Francisco, you go to the wharf. In DC, you at least drive by the White House. No stay in Los Angeles is complete without a visit to a plastic surgeon.

I can now check that off my list.

I’ve never been one of those bad-self-image girls. My boobs dragged the ground in ninth grade. Push-up bras solved that problem. Jiggle thighs can be counter balanced with Spanx. I’ve never been stick thin, but I have been fine with my body. I’ll never forget when my sophomore year college gym teacher pulled me aside in weight training class and told me I had a great body, but I was obviously German and would never be a size two. I smiled and thanked him.

Through out time, the only thing I’ve ever wanted was even eyebrows. Until now. I’ve lost a ton of weight and my empty jelly rolls are getting in the way. During sex, I can feel my stomach sway side-to-side like an obese cat running with a waddle. When I button my jeans, I feel like I have to tuck myself in.

So today I had a consult with a plastic surgeon in….. Beverly Hills. He ended up being tremendously hot. When he walked in his first words were, “Wow, look at that hair, you don’t see that out here.”

I assume he was talking about the color because I see that freshly-shot-of-of-a-canon look all the time on the street. My curls are not that impressive. The flirting continued with the alcohol consumption question.

“Oh, I don’t know, I drink four to six beers a month,” I stated.

“Beer? You drink beer? That’s rare for a woman to drink beer in this town. More points,” he said.

He left the room and I put my blue paper robe on, opening to the front. I was thankful I remembered to made sure my bra and panties matched. He came back and told me to show him what bothered me. I flashed him my jelly roll and he said, “yeah, you are ready for surgery. A couple more pounds won’t matter.”

He then gave me a fake “after” effect and pulled up on my love handles until the skin in my legs and gut were taunt. It was weird and made me feel like I should be dangling on a meat hook in Fast Food Nation. But it was a nice way to see all my glory changed.

I selected December 7th as my surgery day. The Japs may of bombed us in ’41, but in ’07 my fat is getting attacked.

Tomorrow I’ll get my eyebrows waxed.