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Dear Elain,

Well the birth control pills that Mom insisted I get seem to have done the trick. I’ve been on them for two cycles now and it really seems to have smoothed out my period. I don’t cramp as much either, so that’s good. The Doc says he thinks I’ll outgrow needing them when I finish puberty, but they’re a good thing to have while my body finishes developing.

He also says that I still need to gain some weight (UGH!). Apparently my body fat is so low that it’s interfering with my normal development and menstrual stuff. On top of the counseling they’re still making me go to for bulimia… OK, OK, I get the message. At least Dad isn’t making eat spoonfuls of peanut butter before going to bed anymore.

Why do I have to be so ugly? Why is being a teenager so hard? The world may never know. Ah well, enough for today. Good night sweet princess. I hate myself.


PS — I think my boobs are growing for some reason. I wonder if it’s the pills.

That was how it started. That was when it started.

It was the twenty-first of June almost sixteen years ago. I know this because that’s the date I wrote at the top of the diary entry in purple ink. It was my birthday. I had turned fourteen that day, and life really sucked.

Well, “sucked” is a relative term when you don’t have any bills, a job, or any real responsibilities other than to get good grades and to not kill yourself. It was the latter I was having a hard time with.

In retrospect, I think it was just the growing pains that every young girl goes through, but I was just particularly susceptible to the drama of it. Some people make mountains out of mole hills. My strategy was to bring myself so low that they just looked that way.

I was depressed, bulimic, suicidal, an underage smoker, pale, weak, insomniacal, etc., etc. — all the cheerful things you can do to yourself when you’re too antisocial to know people who can get you into real drugs. Fortunately for me I was that kind of antisocial and managed to avoid that particular battle.

Yeah, I guess life really did suck back then. Of course with only the slightest amount of perspective, it’s easy to see why. It sucked because I made it suck. I made the choices that kept me miserable. Why is that so hard to see when you’re in the middle of it?

Anyway, enough of the doom and gloom. You surely didn’t start reading this to depress yourself right? I apologize for any dryness or flaccidness you may be experiencing as a result of my psychotic ramblings. The story will improve shortly.

Oh, and I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Elain, and I’m much better now.


Things in general are much better now. Of course life isn’t perfect, but I can truly say, “Hi, I’m Elain. I’m 29 years old, and I love myself.”

This is your cue to say, “Hi Elain” in 12-Step Program style. I can’t hear you… …c’mon say it… …ahh that’s better. Thanks for playing along.

If you have never been in a Your-Preference-Anonymous support group, or any other kind of support group, let me explain it. I’ve been in my fair share on the road to digging myself out of the holes I’ve dug myself into.

They exist to provide you with a certain amount of accountability, encouragement, and a certain sense of tribal belonging. It’s your job to not do what your not supposed to do, and it’s their job to look you in the eye make you confess to not doing it. Get it? Then you have cake and Kool-aid.

These groups never worked for me. They work for a lot of people, but not me.

The solution for me was not for someone to tell me why I shouldn’t or couldn’t throw-up all my meals, or take that handful of sleeping pills, or smoke two packs of Lucky Strikes a day. Hell no! That would have involved me making hard choices that I didn’t really want to make if I was honest with myself.

What did work for me was eventually finding methods to improve my life in ways that made slowly killing myself less attractive. I had to find specific ways to make the choice to live the obvious, logical, and natural choice — not just the default one. It worked too. I’m still here.

Meanwhile back at the point…so why is that diary entry so important? It’s the postscript. That’s the day I first noticed my breasts were coming to life. It turned out that in spite of my general ill health, I had an immediate hormonal reaction to the birth control pills. On one hand it smoothed out my menstrual cycle. On the other, it jump-started my breasts. These breasts saved my life.

Within three months I legitimately filled out an A cup. Five months later I was up to B. Six more found me at C. There seemed to be no stopping them, and you’d think I’d be ecstatic. What I was though, was the same scrawny, ill, pale girl — with nice ripe breasts.

Imagine a bony ribcage with these swollen perky tits on top. I looked like I had implants. It was disgusting and did nothing positive for my self image. However, since Escort Sefaköy my breasts seemed to have an agenda of their own, I decided I’d try to fit them better and see if I could get healthier at the same time. So I made some lifestyle changes.

The first thing I did was quit smoking when I started my junior year of high school. You see, several things happen when you quit smoking. Notably, you stop poisoning your body. What this means in concrete terms is that your circulation improves because your heart doesn’t have to fight for survival every twenty minutes. Your lungs stop taking a beating, and you automatically get healthier.

You also have to figure out a way to satisfy the oral addiction, which is why a lot of people turn to food and gain a lot of weight. Did I mention I already had weight issues? Yeah, tell me you didn’t see this coming.

So anyway I started nervous compulsive eating, relapsed into my bulimia, and the shit hit the fan. After a brief stay in a clinic and a lot of support from my parents, I got that sorted out and was able to keep things under control. I put on a little weight because I “needed to”, and my ribs stopped poking out. That little bit of extra weight, increased circulation, and general better health gained me a D cup.

Since I could breath better and I still had a serious complex about gaining weight, I figured I’d try exercising. Exercising is hard — don’t let anyone try to tell you differently. I don’t care what the infomercials say.

You see, several things happen when you start exercising. Notably, your body reconfigures itself for the physical stress. What this means in concrete terms is that your metabolism and hormonal systems adapt to change your physical structure. You also feel better because of all the endorphins you release and the strengthening effect the exercise has on your immune system. Go figure.

So anyway, exercising… Even though my name comes from the Welsh word for little deer (see no “e” on “Elain”), I was no good at running or the aerobics that were fashionable at the time. It’s hard to run and bounce around when you’re carrying D-cup breasts. I did find out that I could swim pretty well though.

Swimming is a great muscle and aerobic workout, and it helped me undo a lot of the damage I’d done to my lungs over the years. I could never have competed because my breasts were too big to be streamlined, but I did enjoy the solitude of the indoor pool, the feeling of the water, and the excellent exercise.

Okay, follow me here. Exercise boosts your metabolism, so I ended up actually eating more but it turned to muscle and my body tightened up unbelievably. You’d have thought I won a Nobel Prize by the way my parents reacted to my new habits. Exercise also boosts your hormonal cycle, and swimming in particular really works your upper body. So in addition to getting healthier and stronger, I got an E cup. No kidding.

The summer before college I grew a little taller and also really pushed myself at the pool to lean myself down a little. I was still nowhere near a competitive level swimmer, but I was admittedly in fantastic shape. I settled back down to a DD cup, and there I have remained.

So… let’s reflect. I was no longer “scrawny” or “ill”. “Pale” I couldn’t do anything about. Along with the Welsh name, my heritage showed through in my super pale skin, green eyes, and bright red hair. I don’t tan — I just burn. It’s not pretty.

I still had the nice ripe breasts, but they were absolutely huge compared to they way they were when I first started to turn my life around. The fact that they were high-mounts made them look even bigger. If you don’t know what I mean, let me explain. Some big breasted girls have low mounted breasts that have a gentle slope to them and sway when they move. Some big breasted girls have high mounted breasts that are more round and jiggle rather than sway. It all has to do with where on your chest your breasts connect. I’m in the high mount camp. It’s just the way I’m put together. It gives me a great hourglass figure though, especially in a swimsuit.

I didn’t really think of my breasts in a positive way at the time though. I felt freakish and odd. I also felt like I had to be careful what I wore so it didn’t look like they were shoved up under my chin all the time. I’m sure that the male side of the species noticed me (or them rather), but I still didn’t feel particularly pretty or feminine. I was just focused on the exercise as a way to combat my depression and my eating disorder.

Still if it weren’t for the initial growth spurt of these bouncy beauties, I would probably not have had the initiative to turn my life around. Yup, these breasts saved my life.

Ironically though, it was the bright red hair that proved to be the next catalyst. It also got me into the first and only fight I’ve ever been in.


I didn’t really have any friends at that point in my life. I’d spent Yenibosna escort bayan years hating myself, and normal people don’t like to be around a person like that. Actually at the time I think I just didn’t like people in general, so I never went out of my way to be around anyone who wasn’t family.

Point being, I had never been with a boy. That’s it — period. I’d never been on a date, never been to a dance, never been kissed, certainly never had sex. I had never masturbated either. In fact I never even really thought about sex, because it was a completely foreign concept for me to think of myself in a sexual way. With my curves you would think that it would have been natural, but my head just wasn’t in that place.

Anyway, swimming is a great way to get good exercise without having to play on a team or really interact with anyone, so I managed to mostly maintain my solitude during my transformation. Mostly that is.

That summer before college when I doubled up on my pool time, it was inevitable that I’d cross paths with some people. As it was, the local community college swim teams ran a camp for kids during the day at the same indoor pool I used, and I overlapped some of their staff time. I tried to keep to myself to myself, but people kept trying to talk to me.

I wasn’t interested in talking to anyone, so I didn’t further any conversation past brief salutations or farewells. I was kind of a mean bitch back then, if you couldn’t tell. Anyway, nobody knew my name, but they quickly came up with a nickname for me: “Moses”. I only ever heard them calling me that behind my back, though. I guessed it was because I kept to myself or because I parted the water widely or something.

One day though one of the college boys made a mistake and got in my face when I refused to talk to him. In retrospect I know he was just trying to be friendly or pick me up and figured I was playing hard to get. Still, I’m not a friendly kind of girl.

“C’mon Moses! Why are you so unfriendly? Do I stink or something?” he said.

It was the first time any of them had called me that to my face, so I felt obligated to find out what the deal was. “Moses?” I asked. “Why am I Moses?”

“Nothing,” he said. I don’t think he meant to say the nickname out loud.

“‘Nothing’ doesn’t answer the question. Why am I Moses?”

I guess felt threatened, so he smirked. “Because we draw inspiration from your mountains!” he said pointing at my breasts. Then he lowered is finger to point at my crotch, “And because you have a flaming bush!”

I could feel myself turning crimson. Red mist began to creep in at the edges of my vision.

“You really should trim that bush back — ha, ha — it’s always fuzzing out around the edges of –“

But that’s all he was able to get out before my right fist caught him in the diaphragm. He had just enough time to suck wind and double over before the left fist caught him under the chin and lifted him backward into the shallow end of the pool.

I’d never hit another person before. It felt good. I was stronger than I would have thought I was.

His friends helped him out of the pool and revived him with extravagant apologies to my departing back. I guess he was okay. I never saw him again.

That night as I sat on my bed in my underwear with my left hand swollen and sitting on a ice pack, I saw what he meant. My pubes did fuzz out around the edges of my panties. Imagine my embarrassment. It never really occurred to me that was happening with my swimsuit. You’d think with as damaged as my self image was, I would have had a better sense of body consciousness. That’s what occurred to me anyway as I stepped out of my panties in front of the full length mirror on the bedroom door.

I guess I should pay more attention to myself. I shucked off the heavy spandex sports bra I had on, wincing as I had to use my left hand, and looked at myself naked in the mirror. It was as if I was looking at a stranger. There’s something seriously wrong with that.

“You’re not who I last remember seeing here,” I said to that curvy stranger in the mirror. My God, I had changed, and I felt the first inklings of what I would later learn was an acceptance of myself. I wouldn’t have admitted it at the time, but I looked damn good.

I dug a hand mirror out of a drawer, opened my legs slightly, and reflected my nether regions in it. I supposed I could trim my pubes a little to save me the embarrassment of showing them off while in my suit.

I kept turning this way and that to catch the light and aim it between my legs. You know I think that was the first time I’d ever really taken a good look at myself down there? I was nineteen years old and felt like I was looking at my pussy for the first time.


I didn’t do anything that night, but the following morning found me in the bathroom with the same hand mirror and a pair of scissors. I sat naked on the edge of the tub and Halkalı escort carefully slid the scissors into the natural crease between my right inner thigh and beginnings of my mons. What I remember most is how cold the scissors were next to my skin.

Being very careful not to pinch myself with the blades, I slowly squeezed the handles together and listened as the hair audibly sliced off. The orange curls floated down onto the grey/blue tiles of the bathroom floor. They looked so surreal, and I thought, “That used to be a part of me. Now it’s a vibrant dead thing on the floor. How strange. How strange and liberating.”

I turned around so my feet were in the tub and did the left side. This time the hair fell into the tub and didn’t look so shocking against the white enamel. I used the mirror and also snipped the hair short on my outer lips. I’m right handed, so I had a hard time getting things symmetrical. I kept having to trim a little here and a little there to get everything to match (not that anyone was going to see it, but it was the principle of the thing), and eventually my lips were just barely covered with downy hair. I now looked a bit mismatched between up top and down below, so I went ahead and just trimmed the rest of my pubic hair short.

There was now a small orange pile of casualties in the tub. I used a hand towel to brush myself off completely and also swept up my first trimmings from the tile and dropped them into the tub with the rest. I planned to wash it all down the drain when I showered so there wouldn’t be a collection of pubic hair in the garbage for anybody to find.

Examining myself in the mirror again, I was surprised at how much of a difference it made. I could really see the details of my pussy now. My lips were clearly visible through the sparse hair that remained and seemed to pout outward a little. I looked different…maybe…maybe good…sexy?

I reached down with my free hand and stroked my fingers over my new haircut. It felt a little bristly but not too much. Watching myself in the mirror, I absently caressed myself for a number of minutes, and I just kind of spaced out on how good it felt. Finally I started suddenly and jerked my hand away.

I looked into my reflection’s eyes and read shame and embarrassment there. I had just caught myself playing with myself, and was momentarily mortified. I was so repressed it was ridiculous, don’t you think?

“Lighten up girl,” I told myself. “You’re self-absorbed enough without developing another complex.”

With that I climbed into the shower and took my time getting clean. I did take a little conditioner and rub it on my new haircut though, to soften it. The conditioner was cold and very slippery. I rubbed it in really well just to make sure it did some good.


Sure enough when I put clean underwear on after my shower my bikini line was free of little red wisps. I looked good, I thought. I finished getting dressed and marveled at how different the fabric felt against my pussy.

That whole day at my crap summer job it seemed like I was constantly concentrating on it…my pussy that is (I didn’t have to concentrate on my crap summer job). My attention kept returning to how it felt when I walked, how it looked in the mirror, how it felt when I touched it, etc., to the point of complete distraction.

By the time I made it to the pool that evening for a late swimming workout, I had dampened my panties so many times during the day that I really had to peel them off to put my swimsuit on. At first I thought that I was just sweating more due to not having a furry buffer between pussy and panty, but my mons and outer lips weren’t the damp part.

Tentatively I slid my finger between my moist inner lips and felt the slickness of my continuous arousal. I gave a momentary shudder as the unfamiliar feeling washed over me, and I moaned involuntarily as my fingertips brushed past my clit.

My moan reverberated a little too loudly in the cement and tile locker room, and I glanced around sharply. I was alone, but I still hurried into my suit and rushed out to the pool.

I had a very good swim. I tried to burn out my confusion and embarrassment with intense physical activity, and pushed myself really hard. I succeeded in exhausting myself and really getting my arms and legs to burn, but I failed miserably at clearing my mind.

As soon as I was back in the locker room and in the hot shower, I had my hands back between my legs. The showers were deserted thank goodness, because there was no disguising what I was doing. I still clearly remember the steam boiling up around me as I worked both hands between my legs, rubbing my pussy furiously and clumsily with my fingers — my arms tucked in squeezing my big breasts forward so that the shower drummed on my nipples — heat upon heat upon heat — until my knees buckled, and I had to hold onto the wall to keep from passing out.

“Get a hold of yourself Elain,” I said aloud, and even smiled at the irony of the statement as I made it. I turned the water on excruciatingly cold (just the far side of “ridiculously cold” but not as far as “insanely cold”) and finished up my shower under the shock of it. I dried off, got dressed, drove home, and tried not to think about my pussy again.

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