Earlier in the evening when I tipped back a martini with extra olives, his eyes locked on my falsified feminine pillows. The moon, like my heart, is almost full, but never quite. When I first moved to Hollywood, I dated a TV showrunner. I had taken his advice and gone to Victoria’s Secret to face down my insecurity over lingerie.
Now in bed together, I think of signposts, yellow and black, which warn of wet, winding roads ahead. Accustomed to giving feedback against an audition line of beautiful actresses, he immediately saw my issue. Teenage girls ran through the store, giggling and laughing.
My strategy of supplementation began in preparation for the eighth grade spring dance.
My stepmother, who had large D-size peaches and an apple behind, took me shopping.
My shape is pleasing to the eye, even if it’s only my own. My make-up bag is untouched most days of the year, and I don’t wear my push-up bras when I work out or play sports.