Breast Enhancement for Your Wife or Girlfriend

One summer afternoon on the beach, my girlfriend Christine got to chatting with an ex-girlfriend of mine, Daphne. While they swapped gossip about me, Daphne, with perhaps not the purest of motives, turned to Christine and slyly confided, "You know, Ivan really loves big breasts on a woman." Daphne had always been proud of her generous, firm bustline, and while Christine was an athletic five five weighing in at about 105 pounds, her breast were minuscule- and she was well aware of it. Daphne's remarks, of course, were not calculated to build Christine's confidence.

But the next time Daphne and Christine met, Christine's confidence had swelled- and so had her cup size. With $5,000 and a quick operation, Christine had transformed herself into the woman of her-and my-dreams. But dreams, when they become reality, have a funny way of changing your life in unexpected ways.

About a week after that day at the beach, Christine began casually quizzing me about my preferences in women. An attractive woman would pass us on the street and she'd ask, "What about her-do you think she's pretty?" Or she might point to a woman at another table in a restaurant and say, "What do you think of her breasts?" I didn't take her inquiries seriously and, afraid of bruising her self-esteem, I didn't answer them altogether truthfully. But under persistent questioning, eventually I spilled: Yes, I like large breasts. How much? A lot.

Now most of my long-term partners had not looked anything like Dolly Parton, and I made sure Christine knew that I'd had plenty of satisfying relationships with women who had less on top than your average Playmate. Besides, Christine was compellingly intelligent, witty, and attractive-the kind of person that people remember. That said, I don't deny that at times I secretly wished that her considerable personality were matched by her cup size.

But none of this, of course, really mattered. Christine and I had been together for over six months-we were feeling the first stages of love for each other, and Christine's breast size was about as far down on the list of important issues between us as, say, deciding what movie to see.

Then one day at a bookstore we were studying a magazine rack that sported a Playboy with an impressively endowed centerfold on the cover. Christine gestured toward the photo-"How would you like me to look like that?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" I said.

"I want to do something... scientific." I thought I know what she meant, but I didn't say it. "I've been thinking about getting a breast enlargement," she said.

I was stunned, but I knew right away she was serious. I also knew I approved completely. Although of course I'd never mentioned it to her, the idea had occurred to me.

"I could spend years in therapy trying to undo the feeling that something was lacking in my body," she said. "Or I could save a lot of time and anguish, and change my body to fit my body image."
Suddenly I felt as if I'd been lost in the desert and an angel had just offered me water. Salt water- in a super-duper little silicone container.

During the following weeks we rode a wave of dreamy excitement. As commonly recommended, Christine tried on different sizes of bra padding and pranced around in them. We looked at lingerie catalogues together and got hysterical, like kids trying on grown-ups' clothes in the attic. I felt a little like I had won the lottery-I honestly questioned whether I deserved such a generous gift. I couldn't help feeling some guilt-that I would reap many of the benefits while Christine took all the risks-but she assured me she wanted to have the operation for herself, too.

We ruled out the inexperienced surgeons in our region and turned instead to San Francisco, a cosmetic-surgery mecca. After checking with the California Medical Board to make sure he hadn't botched any operations, we settled on Dr. Andrew Barnett, a personable surgeon who had performed thousands of breast augmentations. He skillfully drew us out on what we wanted (big, perky) without making us self conscious. He treated me like a respected participant. I acted cool-the informed consumer seeking hard data.

Dr. Barnett laid out all the risks and described the operation. After the patient is put under general anesthesia, a one-inch incision is made in the armpit. From there a pocket is made underneath the muscles of the chest wall next to the ribs. Then the implant-basically an empty plastic bag with a valve-is inserted. A saline solution is pumped into the implant and the valve is sealed. The whole thing takes about thirty minutes.

It all sounded pretty straightforward, until Dr. Barnett showed us some before and after photographs of recent patients. We were suddenly disappointed. The patient's heads were cropped off, making the aesthetics hard to appreciate. They certainly didn't look like the Playboy centerfold. Smudgy doubts began to accrue.
Then a recent patient arrived for her two-week checkup. Upon learning why we were there, she surprised everybody by inviting Christine and me into the room while Dr. Barnett examined her. She was a slender, attractive woman in her late twenties. Her new bust was not very evident through her sweater, but when she took off her bra, Christine and I gasped. They were large, firm, and gorgeous. Dr. Barnett asked if I was going to need CPR. We were sold. When it came time to decide on Christine's "new size," I left her alone with Dr. Barnett. That was her decision. Plus, I liked the idea of her surprising me.

The next day-after dropping off Christine and buying a huge quantity of tulips to festoon our hotel room-I spent the morning at the medical facility pacing nervously, the cliche of an expectant father. After a very long hour and a half, Dr. Barnett came bustling out. "She's doing great," he assured me. "No bleeding, no problems. I just have to run upstairs to get a D bra. I thought she'd be a very full C cup, but it looks like a 32D instead." He paused at the door and said, "I think you'll be happy with her size." Did he wink when he said that?

Shortly after, the nurse allowed me to see Christine in recovery. She was groggy from anesthesia, but lifted her gown to show me her new bustline. I stared in disbelief. They were-there's no other word for it-huge. And quite beautiful.

In the months that followed, we felt like new parents, giddily cooing over our new twins and attending to their care. We took frequent shopping trips to add to Christine's new wardrobe, fascinated at how her clothes curved around her new body.

Christine's breast also kicked our sex life into overdrive. I had worried a bit that they might feel more like artificial sex toys than real, voluptuous breast, but except for the valve-which I could feel once in a while if the implant rolled into a certain position they felt surprisingly natural and looked fantastic. Christine was equally pleased. Her confidence about her body had blossomed and vastly improved her self-esteem. Our dream woman had been born.
But that wasn't the end of it. With time, Christine's libido settled down to normal. But mine stayed stuck in high gear-and we had trouble coping with the difference. I couldn't turn down my desire. I loved her new breasts so much that I unconsciously started touching them more than the rest of her. Without meaning to, I'd hurt her feelings.

Also, throughout the time that Christine and I planned her augmentation, a new closeness and commitment developed between us. But this spawned an unexpected burden. Now she wondered whether my love had developed because of my fascination with her new breasts. More than once during a fight she exclaimed, "You're only with me because of my tits!" Ironically, her breast enlargement cured her of one insecurity, only to introduce another.

Moreover, her sexuality, so amplified on the visual plane, made a huge impression on other people. Doors started to open for Christine everywhere she went-suddenly there were job opportunities, invitations to parties, and general interest in having her around. Not the least of that interest came from other guys. Men know when an extraordinary female physique is on the premises. They become silent or goofily animated, or they sprout dorsal fins and begin circling for the kill. Common attack modes for the male breast-shark include the frontal hug-rub, and taking a woman's arm in conversation and trying to feel the side of her breast. Men will flirt with Christine in front of my face, or call her up when I'm out of town. Her desirability has increased tenfold, and she has had to deal with the increased harassment. But I've had to pay a price too. I now know what it would be like to date a supermodel-always wondering on some level, how long she will by ours, how long it will take for someone more impressive than you to come along and whisk her away.

I do confess to getting a perverse thrill when I see how startled women are by Christine's improbable figure. She will enter a room or remove her coat or stand up in a restaurant, and the conversation among nearby women will abruptly go dead, like a lost phone connection. They stare, shake themselves out of it, turn back to their dinner companions, and try to play it cool. And when men are around, other women tense up and close ranks, acutely aware of the high competition.

Neither of us knew exactly what we were getting into when we started this journey, though neither of us would change a thing now-Christine says that removing her implants would feel like a mastectomy. But one of the ironies is that although breast augmentation is a thoroughly modern technological marvel, the results are in some ways thoroughly old-fashioned. The truths we supposedly hold to be self-evident these days-that appearances are unimportant, that self-esteem can come only from within, that advanced men and women have risen above the tyrannies of gender stereotypes-are only partly true. Even today, large breasts on a beautiful woman are enough to turn the politest society into the wild kingdom.

This article by Ivan LeCasque subsequently was published in FHM (UK) and Marie Claire (Germany).

As far as we know, it was the first true account ever published by a man about the experience of his female partner getting breast augmentation.