Brian sat at his kitchen table, reading the morning paper. A feature article on health and relationships mentioned that oft-sited statistic about most men daydreaming about sex about 2,000 times a day. Brian sniffed. Not him. His experience with women was so limited, he dreamed about merely TALKING to a woman about 2,000 times a day. Brian was twenty-six, and he only just moved out of his parents' house last week. He had a decent job, a nice apartment, a reliable but not flashy car. And he wasn't that bad-looking, he thought. He could stand to drop a few pounds, but if he could only meet the right girl, that wouldn't matter.
Who was he kidding? Meet the right girl? He never grew out of that fear that every boy has in high school... the fear of calling a girl on the telephone. When you're sixteen, dialing a girl's entire phone number except for the last digit, and then hanging up in a panic is normal. Even endearing. For a twenty-six year old, it's pathetic.
Brian sighed. He met girls at work now and then. Sometimes he even braved a few lines of conversation. But he always knew they thought of him as pleasant enough, but harmless. Non-threatening. A friend. He'd give anything to be a little threatening. HarmFUL, even. Okay, not harmful, really, but you get the idea.
Brian allowed these bothersome thoughts to drift from his mind. He set aside his personal problems and went back to concentrating on the mixture of entertainment news and smarmy columns in the feature section of his newspaper. But then, an advertisement caught his eye. Look at this, he thought. It's as if someone has been reading my thoughts... as if this ad is talking right to me.
MEN- DO YOU HAVE TROUBLE WITH WOMEN? Or do you have no trouble with women because you have no contact with women? Shyness is not terminal. Your problem could be a simple disorder. It's nothing to be ashamed of, and could easily be taken care of through therapy. Our two-week program, consisting of one-on-one work with medical personnel as well as trained relationship surrogates, may be all you need. Call DR. EVELYN SWELL at 555 - 2710
Brian raced for the phone and began dialing. And this time, damn it... he dialed all SEVEN digits.
* * *
Allison woke up on her living room couch, still in her short, tight, out-on-the-town dress. She stared at the TV set, which was playing the pre-dawn news for early risers and insomniacs. She groped for the remote and turned down the volume. The chirpy voice of the anchorwoman was bugging her. Allison had been out the night before, but she ended up going home early and falling asleep on the couch. Another night of getting dressed up and going to clubs. Another night of looking for single and available guys. And another night of watching all the guys drift toward the busty girls-- leaving average girls like Allison high and dry... and alone. Shit, she thought! Do all guys have this selective eyesight that only allows them to see a girl's bustline? That's so unfair, Allison thought. She knew the rest of body was pretty okay. She had long legs that looked great in heels. Curvy hips, a slim waist. Her pixie face was framed by long auburn hair. But between the shoulders and the waist? Not much going on there at all. God, if only there was something she could do about that. But surgery was expensive. And maybe even unsafe. Oh, well, thought Allison. Another evening wasted.
She rose from the couch and headed toward the front door of her apartment to fetch the morning paper, teetering on her heels. Should have taken them off before she fell asleep, she thought. The paper lay on the mat outside the door. Allison brought it in and sat at the kitchen table, stopping at the fridge to open her usual morning Diet Coke. She opened the paper to the features and fluff section. A small understated ad caught her eye. My god, she thought. This is exactly what I was just thinking about. It's almost as if this ad is talking directly to me.
WOMEN--DO YOU FEEL THAT SOME GIRLS HAVE ALL THE LUCK? THE BIG GIRLS--RIGHT? There's hope. Call us. We're specialists. We don't do nose jobs, face lifts, or cellulite scraping. Our clinic does breast augmentation, and breast augmentation only-- so nobody knows it better. AND WE'RE NOT PLASTIC SURGEONS! Our technique combines nutritional supplements with psychological conditioning, climaxed by our Exclusive Post-Procedure Relationship Therapy. Call now-- you owe it to yourself. Call DR. EVELYN SWELL at 555 - 2710
Allison reached for her cell phone and began to dial.
* * *
Brian approached the huge but nondescript building where Dr. Swell's clinic was supposed to be on 43rd Street. No sign-- no markings of any kind. Just the address. He walked in. A glass door immediately to his right was stenciled with "DR. EVELYN SWELL/THERAPIST". He walked in. It looked like any doctor's waiting room. Brian walked up to the receptionist's desk. He was startled to see no receptionist there. In the seat was a cardboard sign, hand-lettered in magic marker. PLEASE BE SEATED. THE DOCTOR WILL BE WITH YOU SOON. Brian did as he was told-- he sat down. He picked up an old women's magazine. Automatically, he paged to the end, looking for one of those ads about realistic falsies "just like they wear on BAYWATCH!" Or maybe even one of those old, unbelievable bust increasing formula ads. He'd always looked for those... even in his mom's magazines. After a moment, Brian had the odd feeling he was being watched. He hurriedly shut the magazine, and looked up just in time to see the doctor come into the room. "You're Brian?" she said, peering at some notes on a clipboard. Brian stood up. "Yes, ma'am."
"Come right on back. We're all ready for you."
She turned on her heels and began walking down the hall. Brian followed. The encounter was so quick and businesslike, he barely had a chance to see what the doctor looked like. Brian wondered why there was no receptionist. A little odd.
The doctor turned into a room that looked more like a den or rec room than an examining room. She turned to face Brian and invited him to sit down in one of the comfortable-looking armchairs there.
Now Brian could get a look at Dr. Evelyn Swell. He began his look by examining her white high heels-- a little higher than he expected to see on a doctor. And they weren't the thick, clunky heels you see nurses and the like wearing. They were thin-- spikes? Is that what they were called? Brian wasn't sure. They led into long, smooth legs clad in smoky black stockings. The stockings were held by garters that Brian was surprised to be able to see. Her white skirt was much shorter than you ordinarily would see in this kind of professional setting. She wore a white lab coat that clearly was designed to hang down past her skirt's hemline. But Dr. Swell had the kind of figure that tended to foil whatever her clothes had in mind. She posessed the kind of prodigious bust that pointed right out at you and dominated her whole upper body-- hell, her whole body, for that matter. Apparently in an attempt to downplay her bust size (as if it were possible), the doctor had pulled the lab coat closed-- or as closed as was physically possible. This pulled the bottom of the coat so far up that rather than hanging to just above the knee-- the coat ended just above her waist. When Brian managed to pull his eyes away from her... her... well, the front of her upper body, he got a glimpse of her mouth. That mouth crinkled into a sly smile. Brian immediately averted his gaze in embarassment.
"Well, Brian, I don't have to ask you why you're here. I know. I know the ad you responded to. And I don't think I have to subject you to any elaborate psychological evaluation to get to the root of your problem. It's obvious," said the doctor.
"Obvious? You mean you can tell WHY I can't talk to women?" Brian asked, startled.
"Sure. Tell me," she challenged, turning her head away from him. "What color are my eyes?"
"I--I'm sorry, doctor. I don't know."
"Do I wear glasses?"
"Um... yes. No! I'm sorry."
"Color of my lip gloss?"
"D-don't know," Brian stammered, nervously.
"How about the color of my hair? Do I wear it short or long?" asked Dr. Swell.
"I... I really have no idea." Brian hung his head in shame. "I didn't do very well, did I?"
"Oh, no. You did beautifully. You fit the profile perfectly!"
Brian didn't know exactly what she was talking about, but he was pleased. He did SOMETHING perfectly.
"I know how to treat you," the doctor said, hurriedly making some notes.
"How? I mean, what's my problem?" asked Brian.
"No problem," said Dr. Evelyn Swell, cheerfully. "You are what some therapists would call a mild fetishist. I prefer the term partialist."
"What does that mean?" Brian wanted to know. "Is it bad?"
"It simply means you are PARTIAL to one part of a woman's body more than others. You couldn't describe any part of me north of my bustline. Am I right?"
Brian looked nervously to either side of the doctor's face. "I... I guess so. I'm... I'm ashamed. I'm sorry."
"Nothing to be ashamed of! Nothing to be sorry for! You can't talk to women because you've been trying to talk to the WRONG women! You need to concentrate on the kind of woman you're really physically attracted to!" said Dr. Swell, scribbling some more notes. "I want you to begin your therapy right away. It will be structured a little like the driver education courses you remember from your teenage days."
"How so?" Brian wanted to know.
"Theory, lecture, classroom-- followed by on-the-road training," smiled Dr. Swell. "You'll work with me to learn how to please a woman of real substance. Large-breasted women like a man who can appreciate their special gifts. Tit women attract tit men! And you're a tit man."
Brian scowled. "A... tit man? It sounds awful."
"It's not awful. It's wonderful. So far, you've just been unable or unwilling to admit it."
"But don't women resent being reduced to body parts?" Brian asked.
"Oh, my goodness." Dr. Swell shook her head. "Sounds like well-intentioned gender-based propaganda has worked too well on you. That's a misconception, put forth by people with an agenda. The truth is this. You might be surprised to hear this, but large-breasted women are often shunned by women and men alike. They're called fat-- cow-like. Naturally, it's not true. Women act out of jealousy... and I believe men sometimes act that way out of fear of what their buddies will think. I want to make you into a man who knows what he wants and what he likes-- and doesn't give a rat's ass what another man thinks about it!"
She made her speech in such a stirring manner, Brian wanted to cheer. "Great! But how?"
Dr. Swell put her arm around Brian's shoulder, which brought her marvelous bust into yummy proximity. "The way tit women can tell the tit men is this: you must concentrate in every way on the woman's breasts. In your gaze, your attention, in the way you have sex... we'll begin tomorrow at six. I'll give you quiz questions on how to pay attention to a woman. All your answers must be breast-centered."
The very idea turned Brian on. "But... does that mean I can never do anything else with a woman? Wouldn't she like me to pay attention to her other parts?"
"Of course, but not right away," counseled Dr. Swell. "That comes with time. The important thing in initial encounters is to signal to her that you LOVE TITS! Are you with me?"
"Yeah!" shouted Brian, scaring himself a little. "But doctor... one thing confuses me. Why was this office so hard to find?"
Dr. Swell fidgeted uncomfortably. Brian went on.
"Why don't you have a receptionist? Why does it seem that you're the only person in this entire medical complex?"
She grabbed his face forcefully and spoke in a low whisper.
"OK, Brian, listen up and listen good. I provide a valuable service for men like you. You can't get this help anywhere else. But medical authorities and even law enforcement officials aren't too sure about me. This is an underground operation."
"Underground?"
