"Nina Kiriki Hoffman - Savage Breasts" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hoffman Nina Kiriki)

lots of stuff I had only read about before, and I mostly loved it after the
first few times. The desert I'd spent my life in vanished; everything I
touched here in the center of the mirage seemed real, intense, throbbing
with life. I exercised harder, hoping to make the reality realler.
Then parts of me began to fight back.
I reclined on Maxwell's couch, my hands behind my head, as he
unbuttoned my shirt, unhooked my new, enormous, front-hook bra, and
opened both wide. He kissed my stomach. He feathered kisses up my body.
Suddenly my left breast flexed and punched him in the face. He was
surprised. He looked at me suspiciously. I was surprised myself. I studied
my left breast. It lay there gently bobbing like a Japanese glass float on a
quiet sea. Innocent. Waiting.
Maxwell stared at my face. Then he shook his head. He eyed my breasts.
Slowly he leaned closer. His lips drew back in a pucker. I waited, tingling,
for them to flutter on my abdomen again. No such luck. Both breasts
surged up and gave him a double whammy.
It took me an hour to wake him up. Once I got him conscious, he told
me to get out! Out! And take my unnatural equipment with me. I collected
my purse and coat and, with a last look at him as he lay there on the floor
by the couch, I left.
In the elevator my breasts punched a man who was smoking a cigar. He
coughed, choked, and called me unladylike. A woman told me I had done
the right thing.
 When I got home I took off my clothes and looked at myself in the
mirror. What beautiful breasts. Pendulous. Centerfold quality. Heavy as
water balloons. Firm as paperweights. I would be sorry to say good-bye to
them. I sighed, and they hobbled. "Well, guys, no more exercise for you," I
said. I would have to let them go. I couldn't let my breasts become a
Menace to Mankind. I would rather be noble and suffer a bunch.
I took a shower and went to bed.
That night I had wild dreams. Something was chasing me, and I was
chasing something else. I thought maybe I was chasing myself, and that
scared me silly. I kept trying to wake up, but to no avail. When I finally
woke, exhausted and sweaty, in the morning, I discovered my sheets
twisted around my legs. My powder-pink exerciser lay beside me in the
bed. My upper arms ached the way they did after a good workout.
At work, my breasts interfered with my typing. The minute I looked
away from my typewriter keyboard to glance at my steno pad, my breasts
pushed between my hands, monopolizing the keys and driving my
Selectric to distraction. After an hour of trying to cope with this I told my
boss I had a sick headache. He didn't want me to go home. "Mae June,
you're such an ornament to the office these days," he said. "Can't you just
sit out there and look pretty and suffering? More and more of my clients
have remarked on how you spruce up the decor. If that clackety-clacking
bothers your pretty little head, why, I'll get Gladys to take your work and
hers and type in the closet."
"Thank you, sir," I said. I went back out in the front room and sat far
away from everything my breasts could knock over. Gladys sent me vicious
looks as she flat-chestedly crouched over her early-model IBM and worked
twice as hard as usual..