Implant Imbecile

I met Paul at an obscure speakeasy on the Lower East Side of Manhattan a few days after conversing on Bumble.

Paul was a very tall yet slightly rotund financial analyst who also hailed from my home state of Oklahoma, so it was quite easy to find some immediate common ground.

We sipped on our prohibition-era cocktails on a tufted plush velvet sofa while discussing how our lives from country bumpkins to New York City dwellers came to be.

Paul then complimented me on my slender yet lean physique. Being a gymnast since grade school has blessed me with superlatively toned arms that always garner compliments from men and women alike when donning a sleeveless frock such as the one I was wearing on this evening in particular.

Admittedly gymnastics left me with the chest of a prepubescent girl, but certainly compensated for it on my backside if I do say so myself.

“Thank you. I was a gymnast from a young age,” I said.

“Oh yeah, some of my friends back home were gymnasts and they all seem to stay in good shape. Only downside is they are completely flat chested.”

Stunned by the words that were coming out of a man raised in a place such as Oklahoma I said, “Yeah, same goes for all of us,” glancing down at my subtle bosom.

“Would you ever consider getting something done about it?” He asked preposterously.

“No. No I wouldn’t. I think I have a lovely body the way it is and I wouldn’t shell out ten grand to mess with what I already have when there is no need.”

“I would definitely pay to get them done if I were together with someone long-term. I guess they would be more for me than for her anyway!”

“Well, clearly we won’t be dating long-term after a conversation like this.”

I hastily polished off the remnants of my Gin Rickey and sat in mostly awkward silence waiting for the tab while making arbitrary comments about the weather.

Clearly this Oklahoma boy has much to learn…

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