Page 7 of Sinful Temptations
For nearly three hours, I went into store after store in search of sexy lingerie.
But what I’d thought would be a simple quest became as difficult as finding the holy grail on a snow-covered mountain with a herd of zombie werewolves on my tail. It seemed that designers didn’t consider size-F bosoms as a likely demographic for lacy braziers.
Oh, there were bras in my size, all right. But ninety-nine percent of size Fs were beige, had straps thick enough to secure a shipping container in place, and required a small mortgage to acquire them. The other one percent were fucking ugly.
A lovely young lady at Lace Luxury—whose breasts were the size of walnuts, thereby not requiring any bra at all, at least, not according to today’s T-shirt—had shown me six bras that actually fit, but were as unexciting as a little toe.
Out of sheer exasperation, and without really expecting a helpful response, I asked, “Why are all the bras in my size so?—”
“Boring.” She finished the sentence for me.
“Yes. Exactly. Just because I’m well-endowed doesn’t mean I don’t want to look sexy.” Go me!
To my surprise, she smirked and leaned in to whisper, “I know exactly where you should go. But don’t tell anyone I told you.” She jutted her chin toward the older staff member whose updo hairstyle must’ve required scaffolding to fix it in place. “There’s a lingerie shop in London Bridge called Big, Bold, and Boobylicious.” She eased back, grinning.
“Thank you. That sounds exactly like my kinda place.”
Twenty minutes later, I found the nondescript street, and halfway along, the tiny boutique was easily identified by the statue of giant watermelons wearing an equally giant lacy pink bra. Just the display in the front window confirmed I’d struck gold.
The door tinkled as I stepped in and the lady who greeted me, Cynthia according to her name tag, was my boob-doppelganger.
While I shied away from voicing the size of my bust, she announced,“Size F for Fantabulous,”with a cackle that could shatter crystal.
The lovely Cynthia set me up in the generously sized change-room and handed me dozens of sexy items that Isimply had to try on. I squeezed my girls into everything from tiny teddies to full-body stockings.
I tried on stunning corsets with intricate lace and hand-sewn bones and teeny-weeny clasps that required way too much wrestling for my liking.
The studded leather collection from the Biker Bliss range was way beyond my new adventurous streak.
But Cynthia was as patient as she was persistent. I even allowed her to manhandle my tits into position a few times. By the time I walked out of her boutique, I had a range of lingerie that encompassed most colors in the rainbow, and my credit card had taken one of the biggest beatings of its relatively short life.
Considering I’d been alternating between the same two bras since I’d arrived in London five years ago, the expense was justified. Besides, me and my girls were worth every cent.
But I didn’t stop my new adventurous streak there. The remaining nine days of my break would be a testament to my tour-guiding skills. I crammed in all twenty top tourist attractions in London, at least, according to the brochure I’d picked up at the train station.
I strolled through Hyde Park, took dozens of photos from the top of the London Eye, joined the millions of tourists at Westminster Abbey and Tower Bridge, and checked out the crown jewels in the Tower of London. And I waited with thecrazy royal-watchers outside Buckingham Palace, hoping, but really not caring if the Queen poked her head out and waved hello or not.
I also went in search of some alternative attractions and visited Camden which is lauded as the body mod capital of the UK. Based on the number of piercings, tats, and some of the frightening things that simultaneously took my breath away and made me nauseous, I agreed with that title.
I saw men with horns growing out of their tattooed skulls, women with implanted fangs for teeth, and enough forked tongues to make me wonder if there was some kind of snake inbreeding going on.
My whole life, I’d struggled with my body image and tried desperately to fit in. Some of these modifications were so extreme, they could do nothing but stand out. The only good thing about my body are my fingernails. With that thought, I decided to spend my last day getting a manicure.
During a break in my search for a manicurist who didn’t charge a fortune and who actually had an available spot, I ducked into a chemist for condoms. I had never bought condoms in my life. William, my stupid-fucking ex, had taken care of that. He probably only ever did it once during our time together, and even then, he wouldn’t have used up the entire pack.
Shoving that disappointing fact aside, I strolled each aisle in search of the condoms.
I paused at the hair product section. When did shampoo and conditioner become so complex? It took me nearly half an hour to choose a set suitable for my curly red hair.
With that sorted, I aimed for the condoms.
Holy shit.The choices were extensive. There was latex, plastic, and ewwww, lambskin. The next options were lubricated and non-lubricated. Apparently, it was an allergy thing.
A mental image of a hideously swollen penis covered inpus-filled lumps had me gagging. Moving on to the fun ones, there was ribbed, glow in the dark, all sorts of colors, and even ones with flavors.
I was reaching for a pack with smiley faces on it when a totally buff guy with a buzz cut strode up to me. He was so swift I jumped back, thinking I was about to be wrestled to the ground for choosing a pack that was beyond ridiculous. He nodded at me like my reaction was one he received from most women, then reached for the Trojan Magnum Large Size Condoms value pack. With a curt nod, he marched away.
Deciding that Mr. Buzz Cut’s choice of rubber would at least flatter my next potential sex partner, I followed his lead, snatched two packets from the shelf,yay me, and strode toward the counter.