In It To Win It

by Lubrican

Chapters : 1 | 2-3 Available On

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Chapter One

I paused and looked at the star on the door in front of me. It was a wooden cutout, painted gold, and nailed to the door. The words "Dressing Room A" were painted in black underneath the star. The ticket in my hand was going to get me into that room, where a world famous singer was doing whatever world famous singers do after a concert. I couldn't believe this was happening to me, and I realized I was panting, as though I had run half a mile. In fact, all I had done was walk down a hallway that was thirty feet long. As the security man beside me reached to open the door, flickering images replayed themselves in my mind, of how I came to be in this place.

I had gotten tickets to the Victoria Anderson concert in a radio give-away, where I was the tenth caller. They gave me four VIP tickets with backstage passes. It was late August, and I had just graduated from high school the previous May. Most of my friends were already off at college somewhere. My family didn't have the money to send me to college, and my grades hadn't been good enough for scholarships. I knew enough people who owed a hundred thousand dollars in student loans, and had crappy jobs, that I wasn't thrilled with going the government loan route. As such, I was stuck delivering pizzas for Luigi's. Not that I was complaining, exactly. Tips were good enough that I had been able to get my own place. It was kind of a rat hole, but it was my rat hole, and I was enjoying my freedom, even if I wasn't doing much with it. It was while I was delivering a pizza, in fact, that I won the tickets to the concert.

Randy, the guy I was going out with for most of my last semester of high school, was one of the people who had gone off to college, and I hadn't found anybody new to date. The truth was that Jackie Witherspoon was the only one of my girlfriends who hadn't gone to college too, so I offered to share the tickets with her. Jackie did have a boyfriend, and of course she wanted to bring him, so that accounted for three of the four tickets. I still had the extra ticket two days before the concert when my dad had his annual Labor Day cookout. I went, of course. I was standing there eating a chilidog when somebody slapped my right ass cheek. I knew who it was before I even turned around.

"What's up, sweet cheeks?" asked my Uncle Bob. "You holding up okay?"

Uncle Bob was, perhaps, my favorite adult, other than my parents. He had always treated me as grown up as I was willing to act. When I was around him I was willing to act very grown up, because he didn't enforce stupid little kid rules on me like everybody else did. Like if I cursed, for example, and it was something that needed cursing about, he never said a word. He gave me my first (and last) sip of beer, and helped me learn how to say "Beer tastes crappy," in a way that my peers just nodded at, instead of giving me a hard time for not drinking. He also gave me my first hard liquor, and taught me how addictive that tipsy feeling can be. He also treated me like a little girl sometimes, and I needed that too.

"It's hard losing all your friends," I said, feeling sorry for myself.

"Had to happen sooner or later," he said. "Besides, it will build character. Now you get to make new friends, try new things."

"I liked my old friends," I said, grumpily.

"Sounds like somebody needs a visit from Mr. Buzz Buzz," said Uncle Bob.

Mr. Buzz Buzz was nothing more than Uncle Bob's finger, weaving and bobbing as he made a buzzing sound, until he darted his finger to tickle me somewhere. He'd been torturing me with Mr. Buzz Buzz since I was six. I loved it. But not in front of all these people. I reached and grabbed his finger.

"Do you want to go to a concert?" I asked on impulse.


"I have an extra ticket to the Victoria Anderson concert Friday night."



"And you would let an old fart like me go with you?"

"I hear it builds character to try new things," I said.

"Victoria Anderson?" he mused. "She's pretty good, I guess."

"She's awesome!" I corrected. "And I have VIP tickets - and backstage passes too!"

"Then I obviously have to come," he said gravely. "Who will protect you from all those men with devious plans to seduce you, if I don't?"

I laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. He had always been good at making me feel pretty, even though I was sure I was too short, and that my boobs were way too big, and that my glasses made me look geeky. I actually looked forward to it. I knew Uncle Bob would be cool to be around, and I didn't have to play any social games with him. I could just be myself and enjoy the concert.

The concert was awesome. I sang along with the star, and watched Uncle Bob dancing next to the stage, doing dance steps that were twenty years out of date. Nobody cared. In fact, he had some people copying him near the end. He didn't care what people thought, and I wished I could feel that secure in myself.

After the last encore people didn't seem like they were in a hurry to leave, and it took us a while to figure out where we were supposed to go to use our backstage passes. We ended up at the end of a long line to go backstage. There must have been fifty or sixty other people who were very important for whatever reason. Not only was the line long, but it was kind of unruly too. People without passes were trying to sneak in, but security was tight. Uncle Bob said he'd pull up the rear, and he put Jackie and her boyfriend Rick between him and me, so that no one could break into our little group.

A guy, maybe in his early twenties was examining passes at the stage door. He had two burly security people with him, one on either side of the door. He eyed me openly, running his eyes up and down my body. It gave me the creeps, but I extended my pass to him. He looked at it, and then at me again.

"I need to see some ID," he said.

"What?" I asked. The pass didn't have my name on it.

"I need to check your birthdate," he said. He looked impatient.

I fished out my driver license and he looked at it. Then he turned his head and said something over his shoulder to one of the security men. He turned back to me, handed my license back, and smiled. "Have fun," he said.

As I went past him one of the security guys shoved his hand out at me and said "Here. You might be interested in this."

I accepted what looked like a shiny gold, oversized business card from him and was almost immediately shoved in the back as Jackie and Rick were passed through the door. I turned to see Uncle Bob's pass being examined, but then it was handed back and he stepped through the door.

I found myself in a large room that had tables spread with snacks and glasses of what looked like champagne. People were chatting and obviously trying to look important. Victoria Anderson was nowhere to be seen, though I did see one of the members of the band, eating a sandwich. I felt a hand in the middle of my back and looked over my shoulder to see Uncle Bob, looking around.

"Quite the party," he said loudly. "Isn't that the drummer?" He pointed. I nodded and his hand went to my elbow. "Well let's go talk to him," my uncle said.

I started to say we couldn't just go up and talk to a band member, but nobody stopped us and then we were standing right next to this guy, and I was suddenly wondering why nobody else was already talking to him.

"Great show," said Uncle Bob. "Did I hear some Chris Frantz in some of what you were doing tonight?"

The man stopped eating and stared at Uncle Bob. He chewed, swallowed, and then grinned. "I cut my teeth on Talking Heads," he said.

"And I'd swear I heard some of Dave Lombardo's double bass licks on that next to last song she sang," said Bob.

"Dude, you know your drummers," said the drummer, whose name I had no idea of. Nor had I heard of either of the names Uncle Bob had just dropped. "It's nice to know somebody pays attention," the guy said. "You play?"

Uncle Bob laughed. "I wouldn't know which end of the stick to use. I just love drums. They get my blood going."

The man's eyes drifted to me and I saw them drop to the card that was still in my hand.

"Hey! You got a golden ticket!" he said.


"That invitation," he said. "We're calling them golden tickets ... after that Willie Wonka movie ... you know?"

"What?" I held up the card. "This?"

"Yes, they're only handing out six, and only at this concert. Haven't you read it yet?"

"No," I said. "We just got here. And then Uncle Bob wanted to talk to you. I haven't even had time to get anything to drink."

"Uncle Bob?" asked the drummer. He looked back at Bob. "You're her uncle?"

Bob nodded.

"Far out, dude. Well, don't worry. The offer is legit. This isn't some scam."

"I'll take your word for it," said Bob, "as soon as we figure out what you're talking about."

"The golden ticket," the drummer repeated. "It's an offer of employment ... with Vickie. I can't tell you more, because it's all a secret. But I can tell you it's legit, and that she needs to go to the interview. Everything will be explained there."

"Interview?" I asked. "To work for Victoria Anderson?" I felt like my voice sounded about six years old.

The drummer's eyes darted around like he was afraid someone was listening. "I really can't say more. It's a contest, sort of. Six tickets are being handed out, but only one will get the job. That's really all I can say, except that it's for real. It's not a joke."

Then some other people crowded in, asking if he was Donny something or other, and Uncle Bob pulled me back from the crowd.

"Maybe you should read that," he said into my ear.

I looked at the card in my hand for the first time since it was handed to me.

This card entitles the holder to a job interview with Victoria Anderson. Please present it to a security representative to be escorted to your interview.

And now, here I was, outside Victoria Anderson's dressing room ... about to meet the great woman herself ... in person! And not only that, I had a chance to get a job with a world famous singer!

The first thing that shocked me was how small the room was. And how the paint on the walls was faded and chipped. Somebody had carved words into one wall. But I only saw that in passing, because my gaze was drawn to the woman sitting in front of a mirror surrounded by large, round light bulbs. That it was Victoria Anderson was no doubt. She still had on the same outfit I had seen her in during her last encore. But without the wig, as the last of the makeup came off, the disturbingly plain visage that looked back at me through the mirror was surreal. She looked so ... normal! The face in the mirror smiled.

"Hi. Have a seat. I'm almost finished here. Thanks for waiting a little bit."

"Waiting?" Again I was afraid I sounded like I was about ten or something.

"All the others stampeded in here as soon as they got their tickets," said Victoria. "I should have told Security to have them wait until I was dressed again, but it was too late. Some people are very pushy. I'm still not used to that, I guess."

"I can't believe this," I whispered. "You're Victoria Anderson!"

"I say the same thing every time I look in a mirror," said the star, smiling. "But on to business. Tell me about yourself."

I was tongue tied, at first, but later I would realize that she had skills other than singing, and that by asking questions, she was able to draw all kinds of things out of me, like where I had grown up, and what school had been like, and what other bands and artists I liked. At one point I suddenly realized I was telling her all about how Randy, one of the cooks at work, had named my breasts Frick and Frack, and routinely asked me how Frick and Frack were. I was horrified, until she laughed.

"I suspect Douglas gave you that ticket because of Frick and Frack," she said.


"Never mind," she said. "So if I order a pizza later, will you deliver it?" Victoria threw the last tissue in the wastebasket and spun the stool around to face me directly. I couldn't help the hiss of air I pulled in as I leaned back in the straight-backed chair she had offered me. Victoria held up one finger and waved it back and forth. "Look," she said. "Let's just forget for the moment that my last two albums went platinum, okay? I'm just Vickie, and you're just Amanda, okay?"

"Mandy," I sighed automatically. "Everybody calls me Mandy."

"Okay then, Mandy. I'm not going to bite. I just need to ask all these questions, because if you get the job you're going to be working very closely with me, and I need to be sure that our personalities mesh, okay?"

"I can't believe this," I gasped.

"Well maybe this will bring you back down to earth," said Victoria, not smiling. "The position I need to fill is what they call a surrogate mother."

I blinked. "What?"

Victoria still didn't smile.

"It used to be called being a wet nurse," said Victoria. "I'm in the middle of adopting a baby. And I want her to be breast fed, but I can't do it myself. So I need a surrogate mother for a year to make sure she gets a good start."

I blinked several times. "But I'm not a mother. I'm not married. I mean I don't have a baby. I can't breast feed anyone." I felt like crying for some reason.

"Actually, that's not a problem," said Victoria. "If you want to try for the position, there will be a physical, and a doctor will give you all the information you need. Lactation can be induced in most women. Science can assist. What matters the most is if you have the personality to be around me, and a bunch of people who think they are important, and still stay grounded so the baby's experience will be as normal as possible."

"Wait," I said. "You want me to feed a baby with these?" I cupped Frick and Frack.

Now she finally smiled. "I know this is coming at you out of left field, but take it easy. All I'm doing is offering you a chance to do this. If it's not right for you, then that's fine. Two of the other women have already said they're not interested. That's okay. I thought this whole golden ticket-contest thing was stupid, but my manager insisted that it would work."

She stood up and unzipped her outfit. She shrugged her shoulders and suddenly, Victoria Anderson was standing in front of me wearing only black panties. She reached for a pair of jeans that were in a pile of stuff on one edge of the dressing table and pulled them on. Then she reached for a bra. Before she put it on, though, she cupped her breasts, which were exactly the size I wished mine were, about a B cup.

"I wish I could feed Angelina with these," she said. "But I'll be on tour, and in the recording studio and it just wouldn't work. Maybe someday I'll meet a man who isn't a complete asshole, and even have my own kids. Who knows? But for now I need to take care of my career. That doesn't mean, though, that I can't start a family. And Angelina needs a mommy. I can give her that. And if you win the contest, you can give her the best food for babies."

"This is so strange," I sighed.

Victoria put on her bra and a shirt, and then took my golden ticket. She handed me a regular looking business card. I looked at it and saw a doctor's name on it.

"All you need to do for now is talk it over with your boyfriend. I understand he can help with the process. If you decide you want to try for the position, then make an appointment with the doctor." She took the card back from my limp fingers and wrote a phone number on it before handing it back. "And call this number so I know you're in the competition. The way it works is that the first woman who can lactate two ounces in my presence gets the job. She'll live with me for a year. Room and board are included, and the salary will be a hundred and fifty thousand for the year, plus room and board.. When I tour, she'll travel with me. If I go on vacation, she goes with me. You need to make up your mind within a week, because the offer is withdrawn at that time. We're on a timetable, and if everything works out well, the baby will be here on the twenty-sixth of next month. I need my surrogate mother in place before she gets here."

"But that's only a month away!" I yipped.

"The doctor assures us that at least one of the contestants will be able to induce lactation well within that time frame," said Victoria. "Just go home and think about it for a day or two. I hope you decide to try it. Of all the girls I talked to today, I like you best. I know that doesn't mean a lot, because we don't know each other at all, but I get good vibes from you. Think it over and give me a call, okay?"

Uncle Bob had not been allowed to go see Victoria Anderson with me. After all, he didn't have a golden ticket. As I saw him waiting for me, looking a little anxious, all the emotion of the last twenty minutes rushed out in laughter, of all things. Of course nobody had offered him a golden ticket. He could never lactate. I went up to him and hugged him. At least he was something normal ... something I could understand and hold onto. My world had been turned upside down, and I held him tightly.

"You okay?" he asked in my ear, through her hair.

I nodded and looked up. "Let's get out of here," I said.

"You want to leave?" He looked surprised.

I nodded again.

Jackie and Rick hadn't been ready to leave yet. We had all come in one cab, though, so it was no problem for the two of them to find their way back home when they were ready to go. We had planned on going out to eat after the concert, and Uncle Bob asked me if I still wanted to do that.

"Let's walk for a while," I said. "Maybe we can find something around here."

I didn't know what to do, exactly. That's because one of the last things Victoria did was make me sign a form that said I wouldn't talk to the press or anybody other than my "significant other" about the contest. She knew I wasn't married, but I'd never actually told her I didn't really have a significant other. Even as weirded out as I was, I took the time to read the form before I signed it, and it basically gave her the right to sue my socks off if I let the press get wind of what she was doing before the baby got there.

So I wasn't sure whether to tell Uncle Bob about all this or not. He was clearly curious, and I wanted to tell him, because I knew he'd give me the best advice.

"Must have been an interesting meeting," he said.

"Strange," I said back. "If somebody had told me what would happen in there, I'd have said they were insane."

"You okay?" he asked again.

"I'm fine. I wish I could talk about it."

"You can't?"

"I'm not sure. I had to sign a non-disclosure thing."

"Really!" he said. "How fascinating. And she actually offered you a job?"

"No, she offered me the chance to compete for a job. There are three other women who I would have to compete against."

"I thought the drummer said they gave out six tickets," he said.

"Yes, but two women already said they weren't interested."

"More and more fascinating," he said. "Please tell me it isn't anything illegal."

I laughed. "No, it's nothing like that."

"So why can't you talk about it?"

"Because you're not my boyfriend," I said.

He was speechless for ten or fifteen feet. Then he took my hand.

"Want to be my girlfriend?"

I laughed again, and put my arm around him.

"Yes, but my mother would freak out."

"We could keep it a secret," he said.

"You just want to know what Victoria Anderson wants with me."

"I just want you to be happy and make the right decision," he said.

I squeezed him. "I know. That's probably why I wish you really could be my boyfriend."

He let me think as we walked. I looked down at the front of my shirt, and thought about what was pushing that shirt out. I had gone through a number of different relationships with my boobs. First, I was impatient to get them. I was sure once I got boobs that all my problems would melt away. Don't ask me why. Then I got them and they were tender and sore, and I couldn't roughhouse with my brother or friends any more. At least I had to be careful if I did. And then they kept growing, until they were the biggest in my class, and everybody stared at them. I felt like a freak. Then there was the first time one of my nipples itched and I squeezed it, and about fell out of my desk chair at school. That night I had spent a lot of time squeezing both of them, and my relationship with them changed again. When I got in high school, I was quite sure no man knew what my face looked like - even my teachers - because all they seemed to look at were my breasts. There were times I hated them. I even asked my mother if I could get a breast reduction one time. She said we'd talk about it when I had a job and my own medical insurance.

Uncle Bob's hand tugged at mine and broke my concentration.

"How 'bout this place?" he asked. I looked and saw we were standing in front of a Mexican restaurant.

"Good," I said.

We went in and they seated us. He just looked at me and I realized he hadn't said a word in probably half an hour. That was what was so great about him. He always seemed to know just what I needed, and if that was peace and quiet, to think, then that's what he gave me. I felt a rush of emotion for him. I watched him open a menu, and suddenly wondered why he didn't have a girlfriend.

"Why don't you have a girlfriend?" I asked.

He looked up, a smile on his lips. "Couldn't find one who could compare to you."

"I'm serious," I said. "You're a great guy. Why aren't you married?"

He stopped smiling. "Well," he said, closing the menu, "I guess I'm kind of picky. I like my freedom. Some of the women I've gone out with have called me opinionated, and stubborn. One woman said I was homicidal, when we got into an argument about whether there should be a death penalty or not. I guess I've just never met the right woman. Relationships are hard sometimes."

"I don't understand that. I like you," I said.

"You have to like me," he grinned. "I'm your mamma's brother."

"I don't' have to like you," I said. "I want to like you."

"Why can't you tell me about this job?" he asked.

I looked at him. "I guess it kind of has the potential to make headlines," I said.

"You? Working for her? How could that possibly make headlines?" he asked.

I wanted to tell him. I wanted his advice. I didn't actually need his advice. I mean on the surface of things, it was odd, but it was also a no brainer. Victoria Anderson wanted me to get my breasts to make milk so the baby she was adopting could drink it. And for that she was going to give me a place to live (that was a heck of a lot nicer than the rat hole I was currently living in), and food to eat (of a wider variety than the kinds of pizza Luigi's made), as well as a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, most of which I could just bank. In addition, I'd get to see the world and hang out with amazing people, not the least of which was Victoria Anderson herself! And it wasn't dangerous. I'd have access to a doctor. It was just an amazing opportunity. Except for the fact that it was just fucking bizarre!

"You have to keep it a secret," I said.

"Okay," he said, leaning forward.

The waitress showed up. Uncle Bob opened the menu and pointed at something. "This for me and ..." he pointed at something else, "that for her." He looked up at the waitress and said "water for both of us." She left and he looked back at me. "Now, where were we?"

"We were at the part where I tell you it's easy to say you won't tell anyone, but you're going to want to tell someone," I said. "You're going to want to tell my mother, especially if I decide to do this and you don't think it's a good idea. So don't make promises you might not be able to keep."

"Does she want you to murder somebody?" he asked, his eyebrows rising.

I kept it simple. "She's adopting an infant. She wants a wet nurse to feed it."

He blinked. He frowned. "And she wants you ... to find this ... wet nurse?"

"No, Uncle Bob," I sighed. "She wants me to be this wet nurse."

Then, and even since then, I've tried to think of another time before that when my Uncle Bob was speechless. I haven't been able to come up with one. Eventually I said "You're staring at my breasts, Uncle Bob."

"I am," he said. Then he looked at me. "Don't feel bad. Isn't the first time."

I laughed, until I realized he was telling the truth. I think he was still a little addled by the whole idea, and had just admitted something without thinking about it first.

"You've stared at my boobs a lot?" I asked.

"Constantly," he sighed.

"Uncle Bob!" This wasn't funny any more.

"Look, Princess," he said, his face completely straight. "You're a beautiful young woman. Every man who sees you looks at your breasts. It's just the way nature works, so don't bust my chops merely because I'm normal. And at the risk of being astonishingly indelicate, I have even imagined your breasts ... um ... being used for their intended purpose. But you can't just decide they're going to make milk and ... presto ... they make milk." He looked confused. "Right?"

There was a lot going through my mind at that point, not the least of which was his confession that he thought about my breasts rather ... intimately. I mean that was weird enough. But what somehow made all that okay was that he was even more uneducated about how breasts worked than I was. And he was an adult, so that made it seem funny somehow.

"There are things you can do to get the breasts to lactate," I said, trying to sound wise about such things.

"Like get pregnant?" His voice rose.

"Other things," I said. "They have a doctor. There are hormones ... medicines ... stuff like that."

"Oh," he said. He blinked. "Wow. This is blowing my mind."

"So I guess you're not the right person to ask if I should do this or not," I sighed.

"Give me a minute," he said. "I just need to let the world calm down. I keep expecting purple unicorns to emerge from the table top, speaking Chinese, asking me if I need my toenails clipped or not."

I laughed again. This was part of why I liked this man so much. "It's not that bad," I said.

"Easy for you to say," he said.

"Well they're my boobs!" I pointed out.

"Point taken," he said. "It's just that ..." He stopped again and looked uncomfortable. "Never mind," he said then. "So how is all this supposed to work?"

"I have to get a physical at this doctor," I said. I got in my purse and got out the card she'd given me. "If I pass that, and want to try it, I guess the doctor will do things. The way it works is that the first girl who gets her breasts to lactate gets the job. It lasts for a year and you get room and board and a hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

His face went very still for a long time. Then he snorted and coughed. He picked up his napkin and blew his nose.

"Sorry. I was just imagining four women, sitting around in a room, topless, straining and grunting, and trying to make their breasts squirt."

"I don't think that's how it works," I said, taking him completely seriously.

"I know," he said. "But it's all I could come up with on short notice. How do you feel about all this?"

"Part of my brain is screaming at the top of its lungs for me to start right now," I said. "But another part of me says this is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard of."

He reached for my hand.

"Well it's not ridiculous. There have been wet nurses for thousands of years. It was an honorable profession throughout history. That's about all I know about it, but at least that's the impression I've gotten.

"Yes, but would my mother agree?" I asked.

He grinned. "Your mother would have a conniption fit, leading to a heart attack, followed by an emotional outburst on the level of Mount Vesuvius blowing its top again."

I let my shoulders slump. "Yeah. I know."

He squeezed my hand. "But that doesn't mean you shouldn't do it."

I called for an appointment with Doctor Richards. When they asked what the complaint was, I said I needed a physical for a job application with Victoria Anderson. The instant I said it I was afraid I'd broken some rule, but the woman on the phone said "Oh yes. Yes. Let me get you a date." Apparently they were being paid well for this, because she told me to come down the next morning at eight.

I don't want to bore you with all the details of how induced lactation works, but some of it is important, because of the decisions I made.

Basically the hormones that govern lactation are prolactin and oxytocin, which are made by the pituitary gland. What that means is they actually have nothing to do, directly, with the ovaries or other female parts. A woman who has had a hysterectomy may still be able to lactate. Prolactin, as the name might suggest, is the hormone responsible for the making of milk in the breasts. Oxytocin is the hormone that lets the milk be released. Both are produced in response to nipple stimulation.

Now the other part of the equation is that during pregnancy, estrogen levels are very high. Then, at birth, they plunge, and when the baby stimulates the nipples by sucking, the pituitary kicks in and things get all milky.

So, to stimulate lactation in a woman who is not pregnant, what they basically try to do is use artificial hormones to make the body think it's pregnant, and then reduce estrogen levels dramatically and start stimulating the nipples.

Sounds easy. But the fact is that it's a complicated mix of various medications, that have to be taken at just the right times and in just the right doses, because every woman's body is different, and what happens naturally is not all that easy to work out artificially.

Which is why Doctor Richards said I might want to try doing it the old fashioned way, that women had been using for centuries.

That involves extensive nipple stimulation on a timetable, in the form of both massage and suckling. He said this could be done either by a partner, or with a hospital grade breast pump.

He also said it was quicker than the medical procedure that was first described ... and that in fairness to all the contestants ... we had all been given the exact same information.

While the studies were not completely reliable, induced lactation using medications was expected to bring a woman's milk in between one and four weeks. Some studies suggested that using only direct nipple stimulation had produced milk in five to thirteen days.

The choice, in terms of the four of us competing for the job, was obvious.

I don't know what prompted me to ask the nurse a question before I left, but something did. The question was "How many of the others have been here already?" Her response was "You're the first."

So I needed to jump right on things, if I was going to do this.

The problem was that, according to the information the nurse had given me, which I scanned rapidly, I needed a live human being to stimulate my nipples eight times a day, for twenty minutes each session. That included both what they called "manual reservoir emptying exercises," and sucking.

And I had no boyfriend.

Of course there were mechanical means of doing the same thing, but all the literature said it didn't work as well, or as quickly.

So I needed a boyfriend. And I needed him quickly.

I didn't actually consider doing it, but I did think about an ad in the paper. I could just imagine it:

Wanted: Man to stimulate my nipples 8 times a day. Must have good fingers and ability to suck steadily for five minutes at a time. Will hopefully only be needed for five to thirteen days.

Maybe I'm homophobic, but it never crossed my mind to try to find a female to do this. Obviously it would work just fine with either a man or woman doing the stimulation. I mean stimulation is stimulation. And the first man I thought of was Uncle Bob, but so help me, I swear I'm telling the truth when I say that it was only because I thought he might have an idea about how I could go about finding a man to do this for me.

Now I couldn't just call him on the phone and ask him "Hey, Uncle Bob, you wouldn't just happen to know some guy who might want to suck my nipples for a week or two ... would you?" But I could call him and say "I have an emergency and I need help. Can I come over?"

Now, you need to know a couple more things. First is that Uncle Bob has his own business. He's a glass blower, and he has his own studio at his house. He also creates the most beautiful stained glass windows and hangings and that kind of thing. So he's home most of the time. And the second is that I can't remember the last time he said "No" to me if I asked him to do something.

You're probably way ahead of me, here, but the fact is I did not go to my Uncle Bob's house with the idea of getting him to help me lactate. I went there because I had this problem and I thought he could help me solve it.

And while I was telling him my problem, I was looking at his lips. And I liked his lips, and suddenly imagining them sucking on either Frick or Frack just didn't seem like a horrible thing at all.

Which is how I arrived, somewhat indelicately, at the point where I said "So I was wondering if you'd help me win this contest and be my sort-of-pretend-temporary-kind-of boyfriend until I can lactate."

Imagine that! Uncle Bob ... speechless ... twice!


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