Your Face (kandigurl) wrote,
Your Face
kandigurl

LJ Idol Exhibit A - Week 3 - "Shenanigans"

"My boobs need to look AWESOME," I said.

"You need Jenna!" Lace cried, thrusting a determined pointer finger in the air. Except she had just taken a bite of one of those fruit and nut bars, so it came out, "Fruh reeh rehruh!"

"Chew your food, Lace."

She stared at me, her eyes wide with a mission, and chewed furiously. I felt kinda uncomfortable, with her staring me down like that, yet I couldn't look away, so I just shrugged awkwardly until she swallowed.

"Jenna," she said, not tearing her eyes away. "You need her."

"I do not need Jenna, I just need you to summarize Jenna for me and fix up my boobs."

Lace rolled her eyes. "Gwen," she grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the laptop on her desk. "There is no way I can properly convey the message of Jenna with my limited vocabulary, my lack of fake eyelashes. You need the full experience."

She shoved me into her desk chair, and one YouTube search later, I was watching Jenna Marbles tell me how to make my boobs look good.

In case you're unfamiliar with her, Jenna Marbles is a YouTube sensation who rocketed to fame with her New York sass, take-no-shit attitude, and two little dogs that often sit in her lap (or her shirt) as she dispenses sage advice littered with fuckwords into her low-quality camera.

I'm not a fan.

Lace swears by her, though, and so I sat through over fifteen minutes of Jenna's heavy northern accent detailing her favorite breast enhancement tricks. Because amazing boobs were of the utmost importance tonight.

Tonight, I would ask Bret Anthony to prom. Tonight, I would activate The Plan that I'd spent the past three months setting into motion.

Part One: Magical Boobs.

In my mind, my boobs look incredible, awe-inspiring, jaw dropping. Bret sees them, hears my prom request, and immediately says yes, pulling me into a passionate embrace, his hand slowly working his way up my stomach (over my shirt, of course, he's a gentleman after all), and tries to feel upon their rotund, boobful majesty. I gently guide his hand elsewhere (of course, I'm a lady, after all).

Maybe I let him fondle them a little.

"Okay, Gwen, you heard Jenna," Lace said with a forceful clap of her hands, snapping me back to reality. "Two bras!"

I nodded. "But I don't have two bras here, I've only got the one I'm wearing." I came home with Lace after school, so that she could help me look my Absolute Most Possible Sexy in time for the school play that night.

She shrugged. "Wear one of mine!"

"Lace, it won't fit. Your boobs are, like, four cup sizes bigger than mine."

"Right, but that's what Jenna said, the one on the outside should be bigger. Sit tight!" She turned on her heel toward her closet, off to shuffle around in the wreckage for me.

After a few minutes of digging, she produced a lacy pink number and tossed it at me. "Try that."

My prediction held true: The thing was way too big. My boobs did not look any more perky. In fact, they sort of looked like two John Travoltas hovering inside the plastic bubbles of Lace's D-cups.

"It's not working," I pointed out, but Lace was already biting her thumb in concentration, thinking out a new plan.

"I've got it," she said a moment later, and she disappeared into the bathroom. She emerged shortly holding a bronzer compact ("For later," she explained) and an ace bandage.

"Really?" I said. "We're going to bind my boobs?"

"You have any better ideas? We just have to smoosh them the right way and I bet it will work. Now lift up your arms."

I didn't have much choice, so I did as she instructed. I stood patiently while Lace spent several minutes pulling, pushing, lifting and smooshing my chest into submission. This resulted in many a frustrated grunt and an errant "Oh, shit," when she dropped the little stabby things that hold the bandage in place. But eventually, she finished, and pointed me at the mirror.

"What do you think?"

I smiled. "Lace, it actually looks like I have cleavage! I never would have been able to do this on my own."

"That's why you've got me," she said. "Next, socks!"

I laughed. "We're doing the socks, too?" Jenna recommends, should you feel unsatisfied with a mere two bras' worth of boobage, to stick some socks into your bra. This brought to mind images of an overzealous young man shoving a rolled up sock into his underwear in an effort to impress.

"Gwen," Lace said, her voice dripping with intensity, emphasizing the serious nature of the situation in which we found ourselves, "this is Bret Anthony. You get one shot at this. We are using all of Jenna's tricks."

And so we did. We crammed socks in my bra and pinned the straps back with a safety pin. (Which Jenna warned would be uncomfortable, and man, she wasn't lying, and also, have you ever noticed how hard it is to find a stinking safety pin when you need one? They are all over the place when you don't need 'em, and you can't find one when you do. Anyway.) We brushed shiny bronzer all over them, and painted some "contour lines" in the appropriate places. We lifted and tucked, hoisted and heaved. Lace even made me do a few push ups, even though it seemed kind of pointless, given my complete lack of upper body strength.

Finally, we topped off our masterpiece with the sluttiest, most low-cut top in my arsenal, which I had shoved into my backpack before leaving for school that morning.

"So?" I puffed out my chest and turned from side to side. "How do they look?"

Lace clutched her hands to her chest like a proud mother on the verge of tears. "They look like they've been stuffed with silicone-filled balloons," she said, reaching out to pull me into a hug. "Bret Anthony would be an idiot not to say yes to those things."

I squeezed her. "Thanks, Lace."

"Uh-uh." She peeled herself away from the hug, gripping my shoulders and staring intently at me. "Thanks who?"

I sighed. "Thanks, Jenna."

Lace clapped happily. "That's right!" She handed me a shrug that would keep my arms warm without covering up our handiwork. "Now, let's get you to that auditorium!"

This is a work of fiction, continued from the last two weeks' entries, though ideally this entry can stand on its own. For the record, I do not dislike Jenna Marbles. If you're interested in watching Lace's hero in action, her boob video is here.
Tags: fiction, lj idol, week 3, writing
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