Is Your Heart On The Line?


A chapter from my latest memoir, Hearts on the Line

chest size was only a nice average B cup, so she decided to get the operation. “She threw a party to celebrate going in for new boobs. She was soon bouncing around the office in a top so low you couldn’t look her in the eye. You were either staring at her tits or trying not to. She applied to the Heffner Mansion and was allowed to hang out— “So to speak,” Connie says.
“—yeah, at the pool. During one of our Playboy promotions two years ago, a new client met her there, and they got married after three months.”
“So romantic it almost brings a tear to the eye.” Connie sips her coffee, one-hundred percent dry-eyed.
“Another of our girls is Lindy’s friend. She told us that Lindy’s implants have had to be surgically corrected twice. She also said the marriage is breaking up, but she has no idea whether it was because of the boob problems or not.”
Connie shakes her head. “Alana said there was a client whose boob-bag thingy left her lopsided but she couldn’t afford the corrective surgery.”
“Sounds like she’s talking about Becky.”
Connie looks at my ganache-colored wall with the pictures missing. “Do you ever feel like this dating world has gotten completely insane?”
“Yeah. Nutso bonkers.~Especially when we get the Playboy clients.”

Connie heads back to her office, and I’m dawdling over my coffee, thinking of the time I almost got implants. My ex-husband the French chef tried to talk me into it. In his opinion my hair was the wrong color; he wanted me to bleach it blonde. My nails? Too short; teeth too yellow, breasts too small, skin too white, and on and on. You’d think I was an albino beast from the Black Lagoon. Being a natural redhead, I’m very pale, and my skin burns easily. Bruno used to try to convince me to get a suntan. He bought me a gift certificate for five sessions at the local tanning salon. I told him that he’d better get a refund. Then he started in on the breast implants and threatened to divorce me if I didn’t get a tan and implants. Before I met him, I’d never been put down by a man because of my looks. I had always felt very confident about myself in that department, so my self-esteem imploded.

Bruno was devastatingly handsome with full pouty lips, green eyes, and curly chestnut colored hair. I used to stretch out a ringlet and let it go...boing! I told my aunt one day, “I’m lucky to be with Bruno. I mean, it’s amazing I was able to attract such a great-looking guy in the first place.” She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. I pretty much had.
But it wasn’t just his looks I adored. Our wedding in his small village in France was a fairytale. We posed in the nearby woods where white cyclamen grew wild, my white lace dress rising out of the blossoms, white against white. And the food! To Bruno and his family, food was a spiritual experience, savored and revered as an art form. And he was adventurous. We took ski trips to Big Bear and wind surfed in the ocean in summer. And his French friends held garden parties in the evenings, stringing twinkle lights and playing world music, the men and women in cool jeans, cigarettes of tobacco or marijuana at their lips. They talked of their international travels, their laughter filling the warm summer nights. I felt like I was in a new world, a secret club with a secret language. My French quickly became fluent, and I loved the way Bruno and I could have private conversations anywhere without people being able to eavesdrop. Oh, I wanted to please that man.
Bruno wore me down. We went to a plastic surgeon for a consultation. In the examining room with the doctor, I “tried on” implants of different sizes. The doctor placed them in my bra, and I put my shirt on to see what I would look like. Then he asked Bruno and me to watch a video of an actual breast implant surgery. Keep in mind that I can’t even look when I get blood taken, so watching a surgeon cut a woman open and stuff big plastic sacks inside her shocked me to the bone. If I hadn’t been too paralyzed to move, I’d have run from the office, screaming, TORTURE! MAYHEM! Unless you’d had a mastectomy, this was just...awful. I took deep breaths and turned to Bruno, trying not to stutter. “This procedure is...pretty serious. I mean, it’s m-major s-surgery.”
He looked woozy, himself. “Yeah, I didn’t realize that either.” “I’m scared, Bruno. I don’t know if I want to do this.”
“Well, you’ll be asleep. It probably looks worse than it is,” he said.

Yes, he still wanted me to go through with it. I knew that with new boobs, I could have bought a certain desirability and therefore power to hold onto Bruno—which I made mean love, even though it was no such thing. So, I decided I was willing to buy this feeble love with saline bags in my chest. I was ushered to the front desk to set up my appointment for the surgery and to pay. I must say that it was the one time in my life that I was grateful for being broke. Bruno couldn’t help pay, and, fortunately, I didn’t have enough credit left on my Visa card, so I was denied. Thank you, Jesus and all you angels!

And thank you also for letting me come to understand what it means to have a soul mate and not to settle for someone like Logan or Bruno. Or a Playboy type. These new clients that want their day at the Hefner manse may not have any idea what it means to have a deep, loving connection. They will go through a number of titsy- pops, and I will do many affirmations to keep from feeling like a glorified madam in a whoreho~use in this world of insane dating in the City of Angels.

* I do not compare myself to young titsy-pops. My body is
lovely just as it is.
* A little Botox now and then doesn’t count.
* I help soul mates, not playmates, find each other. Soul
* I humbly thank the universe for helping me connect with my
own soulmate, allowing me to know what it’s like to be loved.