Transatlantic (Patreon)

It was… Shit, which month was it. It was still cold. There was a fire going, one that had been roaring since the morning.

It wasn’t the first time Astrid and I had met. (That little backstory takes place back here.) But at this point, we had gotten to know each other well enough. It was solidly Covid times, and our visits were usually constructed around whether or not towns or municipalities would be suddenly closed for God knows how long.

Better then, to hunker down in my place. She lived in a “Big Town,” in the most adorable of little apartments; I happened to be located in a place that can only be described as a prehistoric micro-mansion. Cities in Spain, even if “Big” isn’t the right word to use, were still stressful places at that time. Better to hunker down in a locale where the cows far outnumbered the people. (Just add two more cows to the mix). Moo, indeed.

[Beer before liquor, never been sicker.]

Liquor before beer, in the clear. Wine before Scotch? I don’t think they’ve made up a rhyme for that one yet. The next morning is one that I only half-remember (evolutionary defense mechanism, coming in handy at last). There were eggs. But that night was the night when I… What’s the word. Sounds like I’m misappropriating, but the closest I can surmise is “came out.” You don’t often share your second life with people you’ve only just met. Sure, after the strange looks on the street, the high school kid doing a piss-poor job hiding the fact that he’s aiming his camera phone right at you, blahblahblah, when you get through those barriers, and actually make a friend (hard enough to do when you’re in your 30s!), you want to make sure you don’t just bugger the whole thing up.

But, one conversation leads to another, as conversations often do. Sometimes, it starts when two people are bitching about how financially catastrophic the world has become. The small blessings they’ve been afforded, but also, the lead-up circumstances, like a couple of reverse Yorkshiremen.

I do OK. I thank you all for your support, and I know I don’t say that enough. Mine is a pretty unique brand of B.I.G. (Busty Internet Gal, I know I cited that on the Instagram, but I just made it up now, so I’m a wee-bit proud of it), so believe it or not, there aren’t as many of you as you’d might think. I prefer it that way — you all are chill, which means epochs more to me than a lifestyle where I offer “20% off to the next 5 subscribers,” or whatever. So, thank you. Sincerely. And, I have a couple of freelance clients who have been tried-and-true for a while now. One of them even pays me on retainer (!), which is a fucking unicorn as far as copywriting is concerned. The reason I do OK is because I lead a simple life, one I’ve alluded to, before, here and there, stories you’ve stumbled across if you’ve scrolled through the archives.

In Astrid’s case, it had been a series of life changes. And while self-sufficient, things were kinda hand-to-mouth. I’ll let her explain those deets in her own good time (her Patreon is here, in case you don’t already know).

You know those awkward interactions I was talking about a few grafs back, and about how hard it is to make friends sometimes? It’s a factor that is affected quite critically when you’ve got a beyond-substantial amount of adipose tissue restricting arm movement and knocking shit off store shelves. Speaking of which…

[Like, what, 16 inches? C'mon, dude. Eat your vegetables.]

That has nothing to do with anything, but I was thinking of you guys the other night when I was in my local convenience store. Those are 12-inch tiles on the floor; do the math to figure out how scooching sideways works for me whilst on my quest for chips.

Anyway!

There’s a scene in The Game, one of my favorite movies. David Fincher, 1997. There’s a scene toward the end when Michael Douglas (I don’t believe in spoiler alerts when it comes to 25-year-old movies) is in Mexico, sitting in the consulate’s office, no cash, no passport, trying to get back to San Francisco. “They robbed you, and they didn’t take that watch?” the guy behind the desk asks. “Seems to me a guy with a watch like that doesn’t have a passport problem.”

Because, yeah. I’ve been guilty of it, too. People already think I’m a bona-fide adult actress, or that I at least use Natalia and Olga to my advantage. It usually bugs me when people assume… But, there I was, Astrid sitting there, stressing out about the next paycheck, and…

“Seems to me a person with tits like those doesn’t really have a paycheck problem.”

It was awkward for a second. I lose my filter when I’m tipsy. And, I’m my family’s progeny, so the Irish-German doesn’t help.

“No.” Not a conversation killer, but a return to refill an only half-empty glass of wine (though, yeah, it was scotch at that point). “I’m not down for the camgirl thing.”

“No, no, no, neither am I. But…”

I haven’t told a lot of folks that I’m Heather With The Boobs. A couple of friends know, yeah. My aunt does, too. And, I am sure, a great many more have figured it out. But the rest of my family? I’m a black sheep anyway, boobs aside, so yeah. I keep that (pun SO intended) close to my chest.

“Listen.” I grabbed the bottle from her when she finished topping up. “What if I told you… and please, don’t take this in any weird way… You can just kind of… Be yourself. Show… only as much as you want to? See how it works, but… groceries are pretty cool, yeah?

Astrid’s not judgey. Quite the opposite, since you don’t find judgemental people very often who have been on the receiving end for as long as she has.

“I mean, you’re not going to be hitting up Loewe to get outfitted for a trip to Cannes, or anything.” It didn’t sound that fancy — I think I may have said something more similar to “eating caviar out of a sheik’s butthole, or whatevs.”

[We were watching... Citizen Kane. I swear to God, we had the timer set to take a pic every 30 seconds, and just forgot about it for, like, an hour. This is the result. {At ThiS RaTe, I'lL HaVe tO tUrn oFf tHiS pHoNe iN... 60 YeArs!}] But, I can't help but be reminded of my favorite movie, The Shining, and how we may or may not resemble those poor Grady girls.

It’s a funny thing when I gradually reveal my Clark Kent to people (the normal Me Heather is my SuperGirl). I always think they’re going to be more reserved and, well, judgemental. But it’s almost always the opposite. Maybe it’s just the company I keep. Folks are generally just more curious than I would have initially given them credit for.

If the conversation goes on for longer than the initial introduction, avoiding a casual change of topic, ne’er to be heard from again, I usually crack open the Patreon, and share a few essays. Dramatic readings are always nicer when you wash them down with some brown. That leads to the IG. On occasion, someone sees your nipple in passing, scrolling down the page, and there’s this moment of, “Hey, look, it’s a squirrel!”

But, shit. This was Astrid I was talking to. A woman who has lived with big ol’ monster tits for way longer than I have. A few years younger than me, but, if anything, well more accustomed to the ins and outs of “the lifestyle.”

Which is why it was kind of odd to be… instructing her? Her hesitation, initially, was born out of genuine concern. She’d gotten fucked over in the past by a previous interest, and was more than content to trade in any opportunity of that ever happening again for something a bit more pastoral.

But, over weeks and months, conversations continued, and curiosity turned into attention. A few faceless pics for her Instagram? Why not — who in the living daylights is ever going to know it's you? These are yours, to do with as you please.

A couple of audio files, with some barely whispered coos… if anybody recognized your voice, what’s the worst that could possibly happen?

A video here. A fun night, memorialized on digital film. A quick tap of the post button, and it’s there, surreally, for the world to see.

It’s scary, sometimes. Not gonna lie. One time, I actually stumbled across someone who knew me, purely because of Instagram. He was cool. We actually had a good laugh about it. But, you have to think about it… Don’t you? Close your eyes, and imagine that you’re (not bragging here) as recognizable as I am. And that, you know, you can’t really hide your secondary sexual organs, and all the chicanery that comes with that.

[The cover of our Christian rock album... "Juggz for Jesuz?" If you can think of a better one, leave it in the comments below!]

Astrid gets that, too. But, like me, she found something else in the process: liberation. I’m happy to say that a similar sentiment has been shared in my conversations with other B.I.G.s

It’s not an epiphany. You don’t just wake up one morning and head out there, ready and raring to face the whole world, tits-be-damned. But it creeps up on you: for every shitty DM you get from some schmuck who’s raving on about raping you, you get a DM from a perfectly normal fella. Sometimes, you have an occasional chit-chat. Wonders of the modern age suck most-often, but it is kind of a miracle that we can just willy-nilly text with the far-flung. And sometimes? You meet people who become friends. What else would you call them? You check in now and then, for years. As best a friendship as the internet can offer, in most cases. And in the last few years, I can’t help but think that most of us have needed that kind of connection. We’re a social species, after all.

Astrid’s been getting her wings preened, and her toes have evaluated how the water feels. I’m proud of her. I really am. (I also hate to say it, but her writing is probably better than mine!) And, she’s taken the opportunity to explore: not just outside of her own comfort zone, and not just within the company of  a gradually expanding group of acquaintances. But (and oh, what a magnanimous example I certainly must be!), she’s gotten the chance to explore more of herself.

Context kicks ass, most of the time. It ain’t cheap to acquire, but it does kick ass.

I’ve been missing Astrid. But, I’m happy now. Summer is off to a fine-enough start, if only in regard to revisiting the notion of interpersonal relationships. And this place, here, is a pretty fine place to live. In fact! She’s going to be spending some time here — quite a bit of time, in fact.

No spoilers, this time. But you’ll be hearing from me, and from an old friend of mine.

There might even be scotch involved.

[Yeah, she does that sometimes. Don't blame her; she's just one of the only ones who can get away with it]