Helia Melonowski

We sat on my ugly gold-fabriced couch (some day I was going to get rid of it but since it was one of the only pieces of furniture in my apartment living room I figured it would have to stay) and looked through one of my photo albums. We sat close, peering into the large stiff pages of an album that held pictures of me from late grade school, junior high and high school right up through 12th grade graduation. You munched from a shallow bowl of potato chips, the bowl resting on the top of my huge boobs, the bowl setting on my torpedoing tits as if on a large two-humped shelf.

There was trouble on the outskirts of town. My patrol of the inner city had focused my attentions on only one area, and now innocent folk were in peril. Quickly, my trusty sidekick BubbleBoy and I squeezed into the BalloonMobile and rolled to the rescue. I had a hard time steering the vehicle because BubbleBoy had become so inflated during our last crime-stopping spree.

Wendy and I sat on the floor of my apartment opening bags and packages that we had just acquired from our recent trip to the mall. Wendy bought some nice little outfits that fit her slender little frame. “I really like that,” I said pointing to the knit mock-turtleneck top (in her favorite color red) she held up to herself. “Want to try it on?” she said jokingly knowing I was far from any size relatively close to Petite. “Riiight.

"Honey, are you about ready?" you called from downstairs. "Just about! Be down in a minute!" I called out, still standing before the mirror on the oak dresser. I stand there with my one-piece outfit, a tight little black dress you had picked out for me. It is very elegant, hanging loosely in gentle folds of black fabric and v-shaped in the front. It hugs my shapely hips and stops an inch above my knees.