By definition the word 'study' means to acquire knowledge on a subject through the devotion of time. I've always had somewhat of a knack for deductive reasoning. I've often thought of what I'd be doing had I not found medicine. Perhaps something in the field of P.I. work, or perhaps even a detective on the police force.
But whatever insights I may or may not have been born with I have never let it deter me from devoting time to the things I feel are worthwhile in my life. Medicine has always been one of those things. In past years I had the arrogance and ego to think myself unique in this aspect; that somehow I had come across some secret method of analyzation, or even that I had a brain that was just utterly better than everyone else's. I mean after all, we can't all be doctors right?
Pride cometh before the fall.
Even now, as I'm writing this, I'm struggling on how to begin...or, more specifically, where to begin. Should I start by telling you about myself? I suppose that question seems a bit redundant. The truth is I wish I could start at the good parts, but the purpose of these writings would be defeated with a proper lack of information. In the spirit of thoroughness I shall continue my shameless self-description.
My specialty is plastic surgery. I'm a plastic surgeon. I am THE plastic surgeon. I'm the fucking best. Jed Geoffries. Maybe you've heard of me? I sort of made a name for myself amongst my primarily female clientele, and I'm not ashamed to admit that this was all due to a large misconception.
You see at first my practice was small, but then again no one really ever starts out at the top do they? I began to turn down a particular group of clientele -- the entertainment crowd. Actresses, porn starlets, strippers, etc. You know the type. For most plastic surgeons this usually meant eliminating a large part of your primary patients and thus losing money, but for me it had the opposite effect. Somehow word got around of what I was doing and I suddenly became this symbol of feminism. There was a largely positive response from women on my website who were looking to change their appearance through surgery in an effort to feel better about themselves as opposed to financial gain or career advancement.
All of a sudden I was this noble surgeon with a heart of gold. Again - this was all a misconception.
The truth of the matter is that I take pride in my work. It is my passion. It is my art. I won't be personally satisfied until I have achieved everything I want to achieve when I put someone under the knife. I am not pleased until God himself looks down at my work and thinks "Gee, why didn't I think of that."
This is how deeply I care about my work.
I labor to give these girls, these so called 'celebrity' types, perfection itself in its entirety. And what do they do? They use what I gave them for a few years or so only to have it all undone. Imagine you painted a masterpiece, and once it was completed you were forced to paint over it. I absolutely cannot abide that.
And there you have it. It's not the most selfless of reasons for doing what I did, but it's not exactly dastardly either. But pressing on.
Thanks to word of mouth I began getting phone calls from potential patients left and right. My website was flooded with posts and my inbox was filled to capacity. After I began taking on said patients they realized that I actually knew what I was doing, and their praise only fed fuel to an already raging fire. I began receiving patients from all over the country and in some cases even from other countries. My female patients began referring to themselves as 'Geoffries Girls.' It became commonplace to see posts on the website like: "Went under the knife today...I'm finally a Geoffries Girl!" #newbewbs #geoffriesgirls
Naturally most of the messages I received were of the inquisitive sort. Answering questions is just something that comes with the job, and everyone always has a million questions. Most of the time if I sat down to answer some question on the blog or message board it led to a discussion, and most of the discussions were on the topic of breast augmentation. I've performed more breast surgery than any other kind. In fact (though I haven't bothered to check) I think I might even hold some kind of record in that field.
I've seen it all. Breasts of every size, shape, color. Globular boobs, cone-shaped boobs. Older women with perky ones and younger women with saggy ones. My necessary yet unintentional study of the female form allowed the recesses in my brain to open up, and pretty soon I was doing what I do best -- combining the knowledge I had already gained with my skills of deductive reasoning. Not long after that I was correctly guessing the bra size of every patient who walked into my office, and not long after that I was deducing the bra sizes of women I saw on the street, at the coffee shop, generally anywhere there were women. But just as I could see the beauty in the female form I could also see its flaws. A skin defect here, a body irregularity there. This one needs a nose job, this one needs a tuck. A lift here, a staple there. This one's eyes are too close together.
I saw so many that I actually began to grow desensitized to the entire concept of women. It became harder and harder for me to be just good ol' Jed and pretty soon, Dr. Geoffries was large and in charge. As a doctor you can't very well spring an erection while examining a patient; not when she's paying you to be professional. So you train yourself to keep it down while in the doctor persona. The problem was that I was pretty much Dr. Geoffries all the time now.
And I suppose that's what led to my loveless love-life; void of passion in every sense. I went out with some attractive women, at times. I went out with one girl who was ten years younger than me, one who was a legit fitness model, and one who used to be a gymnast; not to mention the bevy of girls I dated just for their abundance of chest-meat. But at every turn I found myself having to picture someone else in my head. Someone I had never seen, an unknown deity that beckoned my very soul only to pull away whenever it got near. This constant tease -- the idea that a woman like that might actually exist in this world was on-going. She had this grip on my mind, my body, and my soul, and --again- I had no idea what she looked like.
I pictured what I suppose every man pictures. Tight body, big breasts, and ass you just wanna squeeze and spank. But even when I came across women in actual life who had these features it was still never enough. I needed more. And every need fed that notion in my head and as the notion grew so did my deity undergo transformation after transformation; becoming sexier and hotter and bustier until it became clear to me that I was never going to find said woman. I think at this point I had made my peace with that. Comeuppance for the life that I'd chosen and the way I'd chosen to live it, I suppose.
Once again, pride cometh before the fall.
I'd seen Stacie and Kaycee Judd on more than one occasion, but never really quite met them. I was there not long after they were born. I saw them multiple times when they were babies, a few times when they were about four or five, and maybe once or twice when they were about eight or nine. I don't remember seeing too much of them after that, but I do remember seeing them when they were twelve.
As a doctor I was able to pick up on the signs which told me they had already hit puberty, and I accurately deduced their bra sizes as 34DDD. My med school training told me that as nature took its course they would gain some height, most likely lose some weight, and their chests would plateau at about the 32E range. There was still a small chance they could keep the weight in their bras and work the rest of it off with good diet and exercise, but even so they were looking at MAYBE one full cup size bigger.
But that was highly unlikely. In cases such as those I find that most women aren't to go up one full cup size and are only able to reach what would be, say, half a cup size bigger. This usually led to uncomfortable and ill-fitting bras due to sizing issues, and as a result women are usually left with one of two choices: lose the weight and go down a cup size or gain weight to fill out that new bra. There really isn't a whole lot of incentive to choose the former, so most women often choose the latter.
The next time I saw the Judd Twins was at their fourteenth birthday party. At least, I think I saw them. I was pretty drunk that night, but I know I saw at least one of them. I remember thinking my sizing predictions from two years prior had come true, although looking back on it that may have just been my drunken mind fulfilling my overinflated need to be right all the time. The truth is I don't exactly remember too much of that night, but I'm told by the twins that it was an important one.
I didn't see or hear too much of them during the next four years, either. In fact I think I saw less of them in this time alone than the rest of their collective youth. There is one incident regarding the twins that sticks out in my head, however. They had to have been about sixteen at the time. Wendell had invited me over to have a few beers, and we were drinking them out on his back patio. I had polished mine off and he was about to finish his, so I offered to go into the kitchen and get some more.
Upon opening the door to the fridge I heard a yell from upstairs.
"Stace! Did you take my beige sweater??" Kaycee yelled.
"Yeah it's in my room." Stacie yelled back.
"I need it you fucking whore!" Kaycee yelled.
"Then come get it, slut!" Stacie retaliated.
Then there was a loud, breathy grunt followed by a series of stomps and the sound of a door opening and closing.
As it stands today those last two lines of dialogue are perfectly acceptable. But those first two lines...
It's really just one word in those first two lines: the word 'my.'
That word used in that context is a sin punishable by...well; I guess I don't really know. The twins have never faltered in such a way, and if I'm being honest I don't think they ever will. I do know that if they did, though, they would most likely see the error of their ways and take immediate action to correct themselves.
But more on that later.
It was two years after the beige sweater incident (which, on a side note, the twins pulled out of storage a while back and took turns trying it on and I have to say....the way they fill those things out...just wow) when I got that fateful phone call; the one that would change my life forever...
