P.F. I Love You........NOT!

This one might be a tad crude. If you are easily offended or a first time reader, check out some of my older stuff. For my hardcore regulars, this is for you....

P.F. is not a typo, really meant to stand for P.S. . It stands for Pussy Fat and I hate it with a vengeance. This is the little mound of chub that is beneath my pubes that has the shape and texture of a loaf of Pillsbury French Bread loaf BEFORE being baked. I tried on swimsuits yesterday at Everything But Water and was grotesquely exposed to my naked self in the tiniest dressing room I have ever been in. Even with the nautical theme, complete with ladders and port-hole windows, I felt like I was trapped and about to be strapped to a lie detector, forced to tell the sales girl my real size.

The first woman who approached me acted like I was a freak of nature when I told her I was seeking DD bikini tops since I read wonderful reviews online about their assortment for larger chested women. I glanced at her pancake titties and realized why she maybe hated me. She beckoned her underling sales girl to schlep up and down on ladders to fetch me jumbo tops. Miss Itty Bitty Titties clearly felt the only options for me lied in the Golden Girls' Collection of Ugliness.

"Mmm, how do you feel about black? Zebra print in avocado and rust? Navy high-waisted tankini? A turtleneck bikini? This one comes with a matching flowing mumu and floppy hat!"

Couldn't I have something cute in hot pink or some sort of funky floral? Youthful, people, I am not wearing adult diapers yet. I just have (surgically enhanced) giant fun bags. Give me a break.

"How about that one up there? I inquired.

"It only goes up to a C-CUP!" snapped Itty Bitty Titties out of nowhere. Wow, she really hated me. Snatch wad hoe....

I shuffled to the jail cell fitting room to rifle through my mini mountain of bikinis. Now you can't try on swimwear without panties. Though I'm sure there's some of you that strip down and say, "Fuck it!" when it comes to this. Nice. You are sharing crotch cheese with 100 other women. Deelish. In my stall I found a neat little package of disposable panties I could wear while trying on swimsuits. Almost as sexy as the paper thong I wore during my surgery. Maybe I should just pocket a few pairs and have my kids color a different design for each day of the week. I choose to leave my own on while I assess the damage.

Why don't they install some of those skinny fun-house mirrors in here? And ambient lighting? And a bottle of wine? Hello, incentive to buy!!! No such luck, I got to look at my pussy fat pudge mound up close and personal. Between that and my stretch marks that make my belly look like that zebra monstrosity I passed on, only with fleshy white stripes, I was not winning any bikini contests here. I'm cool with that though. I just don't want to look like a mom. Does that sound bitchy and vain?

Everything But Water came through for me. I found several I really liked but unless I wanted my husband to make me wear them every day because they cost so damn much, I restrained myself and only bought one. Miss Itty Bitty Titties suddenly snapped out of her "I Hate Big-Boobed Customers" bipolar mode and was chatty and cool to me. Whatever. Maybe this was all her ploy because she also upsold me on the swimwear wash and special conditioner. Huh? For a bathing suit? Okay. I left happy with my purchase and intent on coming up with some exercise to reduce P.F. . Kickbox Your Cooch? Cardio Punch Poonani? Vivacious Vag Aerobics? I'll think of something....