There was Ariana—sweet-faced like her father, wise for her years. She hugged me firmly, fully to her heart. I was instantly smitten.
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Taking a stroll down mammary lane at home, I tried on every intact brassiere I owned—the sexy itchers, the hydraulic pusher uppers, the Wonder Bras with matching v cut panties, the Wonder Butts with sister size stuffings.
I pretend loved them all, especially the ones I lost, in that intense, temporary way that we actors love. Those staged lives rerun in my mind, and on television. But when the pretend ended, I didn’t mourn long, as there soon was another reality to believe.