<http://schema.org/articleBody>
"  Oh, nooooo! Not again!&amp;quot; I cried out, stark naked before my bathroom mirror. It was dawn on a Sunday morning last May, and I&amp;#039;d been up all night writing. I&amp;#039;d planned on hitting the \u00ADshower but was instead hit by the horrifying sight of my \u00ADsuddenly lopsided-looking torso\u2014\u00ADspecifically, my breasts, which now appeared to be scarily asymmetrical. Without any warning, trauma, or \u00ADsensation, one of my implants had simply gone whoosh, its saline solution draining into my body. My right breast had dwindled down to a third of what it had been only the day \u00ADbefore, to about an A cup, while the left one remained rounded and full, still a perfect B. The \u00ADimplant&amp;#039;s outer shell\u2014thin silicone rubber very similar to that of orthopedic joint \u00ADreplacements and pacemaker \u00ADcovers\u2014must have perforated. But how? By poking a hole in itself? By a voodoo pinpricking? At least no mystery surrounded the saline&amp;#039;s exit: The sterile salt water, no different from that found in a medical IV, would flush out through my kidneys. Such indignity\u2014the last of my right boob going down the loo! Well, not quite. Lying behind my newly meager and mushy-soft bosom, I \u00ADdetected a spooky, folded, flattened thing, like squashed origami. Its corners and edges felt stiff under my fingers, prompting the stomach-turning \u00ADrealization that I was touching the emptied plastic casing of my implant. To restore my fallen d\u00E9colletage would require surgical intervention. And to top it off, this was all disturbingly \u00ADfamiliar\u2014a bizarre repeat of an episode seven years earlier.  In retrospect, it&amp;#039;s clear that for the past decade my breasts have been tricked out with ticking time bombs. My implants have twice blown well before their projected 10-year life span and for no obvious \u00ADreason\u2014no destruc\u00ADtive impact from car air bags, exces\u00ADsive groping by a lover&amp;#039;s vise-grip hands, nor a mammogram&amp;#039;s wince-\u00ADinducing compression. The fact is, the \u00ADmajority of bust enhancements eventually go bust and require addi\u00ADtional surgery. But I&amp;#039;ve \u00ADalready had three sets of implants, plus one procedure to reduce their size by removing a portion of saline solution, for a total of four rounds under the knife\u2014plus needles, sedation, \u00ADsutures, recovery time, the works! But don&amp;#039;t take my word for it: &amp;quot;Buyer \u00ADbeware&amp;quot; comes straight from the manufacturers&amp;#039; mouth. The two FDA-approved \u00ADsaline-implant makers, Mentor and Aller\u00ADgan (the latter using the brand name \u00ADNatrelle), both have brochures on their websites \u00ADtitled &amp;quot;Saline-Filled Breast Implant Surgery: \u00ADMaking an \u00ADInformed Decision.&amp;quot; In addition to instruct\u00ADing that &amp;quot;implants are not lifetime devices,&amp;quot; both documents provide a practically identical caveat: &amp;quot;You should [know] there is a high chance that you will need to have additional surgery at some point to \u00ADreplace or remove the implant.&amp;quot; And just as your insurance doesn&amp;#039;t cover elective surgery such as augmentation (the average surgeon&amp;#039;s fee alone is more than $3,500, not including addi\u00ADtional charges for the implants, anesthesia, and O.R. time), you can&amp;#039;t count on reimbursement for any medical treatment due to complications arising from the original procedure, either. Both implant makers, therefore, provide limited lifetime \u00ADwarranties. The standard policy, to which all patients are automatically entitled, \u00ADincludes free replacement parts and partial labor costs\u2014up to $1,200 for operating room, \u00ADanesthesia, and surgical charges. For an extra $100, you can \u00ADensure a rebate of $2,400\u2014the bigger \u00ADbooby prize, as it were.  But \u00ADwarranties, schmarranties! Breast augmentation wouldn&amp;#039;t rank as American women&amp;#039;s number-one choice for cosmetic surgery\u2014tallying nearly 312,000 procedures in 2009, according to the American Society for Aesthetic Plastic Surgery (ASAPS)\u2014if every patient let herself get pre-freaked-out that her implant could one day spring a leak. I certainly didn&amp;#039;t\u2014even after the fact. In January 2000, I decided that my naturally boyish frame could use a synthetic boost. Four years earlier, my marriage had ended amicably, and I was still single and now north of 35. In those pre-cougar times, I looked upon getting a rack as a means of sweetening my meat, if you will. I hoped to whet a wider range of male appe\u00ADtites, upping my chances of attracting the right mate\u2014top quality, relationship-ready, and stamped with a Manhattan zip code.  Was I expecting too much from a \u00ADcouple of cans? Not from the perspective of a flat-chested seventh-grade schoolgirl named Liz, the frequent ruler of my psyche, whose best friend, Baree, had devel\u00ADoped D cups\u2014magnetic orbs that \u00ADattracted droves of \u00ADhormonally hopped-up boys. Like a goddess, Baree did not deign to speak, her lovely brown eyes silently \u00ADlavishing mean teen-girl contempt upon the countless bazoom-\u00ADbesotted creatures. I was awestruck and envious. Lacking my best friend&amp;#039;s monumental physical \u00ADassets, I \u00ADrelied on my smart mouth for attention. But the boys just rolled their eyes. Such was my introduction to feminine sexuality. A quarter of a century later, the memory of Baree&amp;#039;s bountiful cleavage coupled with the paucity of my own lingered, leaving me with a sense of inadequacy about my body. In spite of my discovery that a sizable male population was rapturously devoted to \u00ADdaintily bosomed females, I \u00ADperceived the stacked as possessing a primeval power, an elusive feminine mystique.  And so, after many years of yearning, I consulted with David \u00ADHidalgo, MD, the \u00ADrenowned New York City plastic surgeon. He gave me the backstory of the FDA&amp;#039;s 1992 temporary restraining order against silicone-gel breast implants, their possible link with connective-tissue disease, and thus why their saline doppel\u00ADg\u00E4ngers were the dummies du jour. In an examining room at his Park Avenue office, he fired off his saline-implant bullet points: (1) Don&amp;#039;t \u00ADexpect a onetime procedure; (2) the \u00ADdevices wear out, typically at 10 years; (3) five \u00ADpercent, or one out of 20, \u00ADdeflate prematurely \u00ADwithin three or four years; and (4) at least five percent of \u00ADwomen develop capsular contracture, or scarring around the implant, \u00ADpotentially distorting the breast, causing pain, and \u00ADrequiring \u00ADreoperation. &amp;quot;Barring disaster, what you&amp;#039;re saying is that 10 years from now I&amp;#039;ll have to do the whole shebang again\u2014replace the \u00ADimplants?&amp;quot; I asked. &amp;quot;No, you don&amp;#039;t have to replace them if they&amp;#039;re still in good shape,&amp;quot; he clarified. &amp;quot;Only if one deflates or there&amp;#039;s some complication do you have to take them out and put new ones in, and usually you do replace both. But 70 percent of implants are intact at 10 years, and after that you might make it to 20, even 25 years.&amp;quot; He swung apart his arms as if to say, &amp;quot;Voil\u00E0!&amp;quot; before asking whether I&amp;#039;d given any thought to size. &amp;quot;Not big, but not so small that the surgery would be a waste,&amp;quot; I replied, pulling from my bag a postcard of Titian&amp;#039;s Venus of Urbino and two fashion-magazine tear sheets: a bare-breasted Christy Turlington and a Turlington look-alike in a tight pink dress. I live in Manhattan. It&amp;#039;s a chic place; fashion matters here, and to me it \u00ADreally matters. Euro\u00ADpean designers cut small, and I like very fitted, figure-\u00ADrevealing clothes. The trick is to reveal less, not to bare \u00ADexcess cleavage, though clearly I want more to reveal less of. But jugs spilling out uncontrollably, screaming for attention\u2014that&amp;#039;s Miami, livin&amp;#039; la vida en el string bikini. &amp;quot;What about cup size?&amp;quot; Hidalgo asked, calmly steering me toward a more fixed means of measurement than urban sartorial differences. &amp;quot;Perhaps a C cup?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Oh my God!&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s enormous! I wore a C when I was nine months pregnant!&amp;quot; Bolting upright, I flashed open my gown: &amp;quot;Look, here I am, 5&amp;#039;3&amp;quot;, 103 pounds. My bra size is a solid 32A.&amp;quot; Hidalgo cleared his throat, averting his eyes and motioning for me to cover up and close my gown.  &amp;quot;Going up one size, to a B, won&amp;#039;t make much of a difference,&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;In my exper\u00ADience, women more often than not wish they&amp;#039;d gone bigger after they&amp;#039;ve had the surgery.&amp;quot; Were the upper third of my face not Botoxed, I would have been able to arch an eyebrow, conveying my skepticism for his bada-bing theory of boob greed. &amp;quot;This isn&amp;#039;t an exact science. A lot has to do with judgment,&amp;quot; Hidalgo explained. &amp;quot;During surgery, I ultimately determine \u00ADimplant size based on your build and breast anatomy. And the implant doesn&amp;#039;t even come pre-inflated. It gets filled during \u00ADsurgery.&amp;quot; He retrieved a Mentor sample, handing me the wobbly, round, softball-size saline-brimming bag. &amp;quot;It has a valve,&amp;quot; he pointed out, showing me the teensy outer plastic stem.   After my hands-on lesson, I received a brief education in the surgical nitty-\u00ADgritties of breast augmentation. Of the three types of incision\u2014periareolar, around the \u00ADnipple; inframammary, under the breast fold; and axillary, under the arm\u2014I would be the lucky recipient of the latter, the ne plus \u00ADultra, as the scars are virtually imperc\u00ADeptible half-inch marks hidden within each armpit. In addition, between the two implant placement sites\u2014the subglandular, beneath the breast tissue but above the pectoral \u00ADmuscle, or the subpectoral, behind the \u00ADmuscle itself\u2014I qualified for option number two, which would guarantee optimal concealment, minimizing the telltale fraudulence of a too-round, too-firm appearance and thus making for the most natural-\u00ADlooking enhancement.  &amp;quot;Ultimately, I want to achieve balance and symmetry and proportion, all relative to the individual patient&amp;#039;s anatomy,&amp;quot; \u00ADHidalgo concluded. &amp;quot;My goal is to please the eye.&amp;quot; His final verdict for me: &amp;quot;A small C or a full B.&amp;quot; On January 18, 2000, with my cup size up for grabs, I lay upon Hidalgo&amp;#039;s \u00ADoperating table, located in his fully accred\u00ADited in-\u00ADoffice operating room, where an anesthesiologist mainlined my IV and the snooze potion started to drip. Smiling up at my surgeon, I slurred my last words: \u00AD&amp;quot;Rememberrrrr...smalllll....&amp;quot;  But when I awoke several hours later in the blush-pink recovery area, there seemed to be two one-ton torpedoes ready to launch from my chest. &amp;quot;What size?&amp;quot; I demanded, terrified, the instant Hidalgo appeared. &amp;quot;Two hundred cc for both left and right,&amp;quot; he said. Although it takes about 200 cc to increase your bra size by one cup (and 440 cc equals approximately one pound), my 200 cc must have consisted of Wonder Molecules, as my new bra measurements doubled from a 32A to a 34C\u2014a full C.  My wardrobe mounted a full-scale \u00ADrebel\u00ADlion, the jackets and blouses refusing to button or their closures bursting off, the flying shrapnel turning my walk-in \u00ADcloset into a war zone. My Gaultier suits, their military tailoring the ultimate in sexy sleekness for the androgynous physique, now practically refused to salute my new reign of curves. The Ala\u00EFa unit, presumably loyal to an ultrafeminine cause, rejected mine as too radical, demonstrating, without any wiggle room to spare, that knitwear, by and large, is better served by a less commanding \u00ADfigure. The mutiny gave me no alternative but to surrender the whole lot to eBay.  Sexual encounters left me cringing\u00AD\u2014no, they began with me cringing. One night at a party at the Frick Museum, I flirted madly with a confirmed bachelor, an upper-crust guy whom I&amp;#039;d known back in high school when he had been but a scrawny prep, a hopeless virgin. Now he&amp;#039;d become a dashing \u00ADLothario, his irresistibly devilish grin \u00ADinstantly firing up my libido. &amp;quot;Let&amp;#039;s cool off outside,&amp;quot; I suggested, holding his hand while we walked to Fifth Avenue, where, under the dark cloak of a moonless night, the steam rose off our bodies as we made out feverishly\u2014until his imminent pawing of my duplicitous duo drove me to blurt out a preemptive warning: &amp;quot;They&amp;#039;re fake.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Uh, duh!&amp;quot; he observed. &amp;quot;No woman your age has tits like these.&amp;quot;  I was mortified. Soon, my ramrod-straight, \u00ADballet-trained carriage started caving forward, hunching over due to an incipient case of excessive body-conciousness. I had knockers! As a little kid, I used to shove \u00ADwater balloons up my Danskin tops, mincing before my bedroom mirror, pretending to be my top-heavy mother. Ironically, my implants, these arch appendages of hubba-hubba femininity, came to seem like a dissemblance of womanly sexiness, my body feeling as if it had backslid to my childhood chest games and I had reverted to the girl playing all-grown-up. I stuck it out for nearly two years, until finally, on October 16, 2001, I went back to Hidalgo to get an oxymoronic breast-augmentation reduction. Only 13 percent of augmentation patients seek \u00ADre\u00ADoperation within three years, and though the most common reason is a size change, I \u00ADbelonged to the sliver\u2014less than half of one \u00ADpercent\u2014who opt to scale down. (Which also made \u00ADHidalgo&amp;#039;s boob-greed theory not so bada-bing after all.)   As my implants were in perfectly good shape, Hidalgo chose a more prudent and expedient procedure than simply replacing them: This time making periareolar incis\u00ADions around my nipples, he was able to attach a syringe to the teensy two-way valve protruding from the outer shell of each \u00ADimplant in order to withdraw a portion\u00AD\u201430 cc\u2014of their saline content. On the plus side, the one-inch scars along the bottom curve of my nipples faded nicely, without any sacrifice to my sensitivity, and my bra size ebbed to a full B\u2014an improvement. But my breasts remained uncomfortably taut, still feeling and appear\u00ADing pumped up. My patient satisfaction level overall: just good enough. But fate wouldn&amp;#039;t have it. On April 22, 2003, as I awakened in bed, my right hand fell onto my left breast. The landing felt wrong, the slackened surface creepy. My fingers ran back and forth, searching for something missing: my mound manqu\u00E9! I bolted from bed, grabbed my phone, ripped off my top, and gaped in the bathroom mirror. Dialing Hidalgo&amp;#039;s office, a number I knew by heart, I gulped, &amp;quot;Emergency, yes! My left breast is g-gone!&amp;quot; Within 72 hours, he swapped out both implants, the dud and the not-dead, for a fresh, more diminutive duo. In the recovery room, an O.R. nurse dressed in blue scrubs greeted me, her gloved hand cupping a milky white plastic pancake: my sorry left implant. Holding it aloft, she squeezed; an arc of saline spurted out.  &amp;quot;Puncture&amp;#039;s tinier than a pencil point,&amp;quot; she declared, turning on her rubber heel. I never got to ask Hidalgo about the puncture because he, anticipating my usual size-centric line of assault and intent on beating me to the punch, announced his \u00ADarrival by calling out the count: &amp;quot;175 cc! Size and fill: both 175!&amp;quot;  And third time&amp;#039;s the charm! My newbie boobs were just right. Despite the funny math, my new 175 cc implants\u2014as compared to my 170-cc-by-\u00ADdepletion set\u2014were truly a sigh smaller, the sweetest sigh! My 34Bs were so perfect that I couldn&amp;#039;t conceive of my faux-credible breasts as other than rightfully my own, my \u00ADfigure \u00ADreconfigured into the shape that now seemed always meant for me. Besides, I had racked up enough surgical redos between my reduction and my premature deflation that I figured my cleavage should finally be in the clear, its shelf life \u00ADextending well beyond the typical 10 years. I&amp;#039;d go to my grave with my ancient falsies pertly afloat in their vintage 175 cc.  So it was truly the bitterest woe when my right implant broke open that doomful \u00ADSunday dawn last May.  &amp;quot;Am I a statistical anomaly?&amp;quot; I asked \u00ADHidalgo, referring to my two deflations and a size change\u2014necessitating, after factoring in my \u00ADimminent surgical fix, a total of four procedures over the course of one decade.  &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;re skewed toward having more \u00ADissues than most,&amp;quot; Hidalgo answered. &amp;quot;Sometimes it&amp;#039;s just the luck of the draw.&amp;quot; But the luckless demanded a \u00ADreason, so Hidalgo enlightened me about the breast implant&amp;#039;s insidious foe: fold flaw. A crease sneaks up the implant&amp;#039;s outer shell, its crimped edges rubbing together as a woman&amp;#039;s body moves, eventually wearing a hole in the envelope. Accordingly, an underfilled implant and possibly even one filled to normal capacity are most vulnerable to fold flaw and deflation. The best defense may be an overfilled sac.  Pausing to peruse my tattered inch-thick medical folder, Hidalgo then conjectured a few causal connections. There&amp;#039;s no way to know for sure, but perhaps my \u00ADdeflation in 2003 stemmed from my first reoperation back in 2001, when he \u00ADremoved the 30 cc of saline. And my \u00ADcurrently \u00ADcollapsed right \u00ADimplant might have been averted seven years ago had he added a touch more \u00ADsaline to my (impeccable!) 175 cc. As for my currently cockeyed poitrine, he proposed changing both implants (as my not-yet-kaput lefty had done enough time), though he&amp;#039;d stick to my present size\u2014but how &amp;#039;bout topping off the new set with an extra 20 cc of saline, just to play it safe?  &amp;quot;No way. I loved my breasts the way they were. I want them exactly the same, saline implants, just like before.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Then silicone implants might be a \u00ADbetter option,&amp;quot; he countered. They&amp;#039;ve been FDA-cleared since 2006 and are more \u00ADpopular today than saline. They&amp;#039;re now filled with Jell-O\u2013like silicone called cohesive gel. This material is expected to remain inside the shell if it ruptures and not migrate out of the implant site. &amp;quot;Never!&amp;quot; I snapped, still leery of the stuff. &amp;quot;All righty, then\u2014saline, just as \u00ADbefore,&amp;quot; Hidalgo noted, scribbling on my chart \u00ADbefore bolting out the door.  Despite my urgent predicament, the soonest he could schedule my surgery was at the end of June, a full four weeks away. I would have to sweat out the wait with my no-longer-identical twins, my tipsy twosome\u2014one tanked up, the other passed out. Their disreputable state demanded immediate concealment, which left me in \u00ADcomplete dishabille. I had a closet full of clothes, but suddenly nothing to wear\u2014nothing \u00ADsufficiently figure-forgiving, that is.  Intermix was only three blocks from my apartment. However, between the warm weather and my makeshift burka of layered garments, I arrived with perspiration pouring from my every pore. &amp;quot;Can I help you?&amp;quot; asked a pretty young saleswoman. &amp;quot;I need casual, for everyday, but I can&amp;#039;t show off my chest, you see, there&amp;#039;s a problem, one of my boobs, is... um....&amp;quot; &amp;quot;A mastectomy?&amp;quot; she whispered. Yikes, did she really say the M-word? &amp;quot;\u2009&amp;#039;Cause the other day, I helped a woman who&amp;#039;d just had one, so I understand.&amp;quot;  To set her straight, I went into morbid detail about my deflation, which moved her to hunt down a cute Stella McCartney tunic and, for extra coverage, a drapey Helmut Lang cardigan. I bought them both, saying goodbye with a smile, and yet I was profoundly shaken and sobered. I now recognized my ordeal for what it was: a drag\u2014a transient inconvenience, not a dire diagnosis (thank you, God, over and over and over). The fix would come soon enough, but meanwhile there was no \u00ADtaking my good health for granted. Were my prior\u00ADities shifting? To me, physical beauty and well-being are inextricably entwined, yet now their antagonism was all too clear. At what point do vanity and health conflict?  The monthlong surgery delay also gave me sufficient time to reappraise my tiny breast. Without realizing it, I&amp;#039;d started to clasp one hand over the tender mound of shrunken tissue, finding it cozy to the touch. Putting on a bra, I would take a minute to appraise my deflated breast, its shy slope pitifully sheepish-looking within the cup&amp;#039;s sturdy support structure. However, it wasn&amp;#039;t long \u00ADbefore I had bonded with my little bundle. She was darling, really\u2014rounder and fuller than what Nature had originally furnished after years of being puffed out by an \u00ADimplant, but without any sag or droop. Best of all, in ballet class my boob\u00ADlette bounced right along with me, while my \u00ADother one tugged, pulled, and dragged. Never in sync, it lagged behind for a split second, like a Looney Tunes character who runs off a cliff and hangs in midair before looking down: Oops\u2014too late!  Except it wasn&amp;#039;t too late for me. Instead of a redo, I could get an undo\u2014have my \u00ADimplants totally taken out. Did I really need them anymore? In the 10 years since my original surgery, my lifestyle had taken a 180-\u00ADdegree turn\u2014for the better. My \u00ADhusband, my young love during my coed coming-of-age, was now the coming-into-middle-age love of my life. Never \u00ADdivorced, we eventually reconciled and since September 2008 had been living together in a new place, our romance having endured more than a few saline-implant life spans. Either way, augmented or unaugmented, I could count on him, ever steady, ever strong, and always the one to keep me laughing.  My mind ranged back to the decade just past. Was it a delusion that hooters held hypnotic powers? That implants, however sublimely crafted, could bewitch an eligible bachelor into a committed relationship? The truth was, having bigger breasts failed to alter my sense of femininity\u2014and nothing torrid, no stirring of passions or slaying of hearts, ever came of my ta-tas.  My imitations did convince me that femininity remains mysterious, but not \u00ADbecause the genuine goods\u2014gobs of \u00ADnubile flesh, fleetingly gravity-defying and therefore completely captivating\u2014are magically charged. Rather, it is the mercurialness of being a woman, which for me has proven to be ever-shifting with age and circumstance. The extra curves could be accoutrements or encumbrances, while internally, I struggled for a delicate balance, though it felt more like a raging battle, \u00ADbetween vulnerability and strength, needing and nurturing, self-love and all the other loves. In the end, boobs mattered beans.  That said, once my figure was refitted with the right-size implants, they were nothing less than transforming, rendering my anatomy, from head to toe, from boob to butt, immaculately proportioned (if I do say so myself). This harmony granted a quiet pardon to my plastic parts. In fact, my breasts failed to receive male flattery for their own sake, as separate and secondary sex signi\u00ADfiers; instead, the reception from men was most often limited to two tremen\u00ADdously welcome words: &amp;quot;Great body.&amp;quot; Talk about wish fulfillment.  My joy beyond \u00ADmeasure is dressing. The experience of slipping on any Prada silhouette hugger, or a Dolce d\u00E9collet\u00E9-gusher, or something nipped and tucked by Dior, or Vuitton or, most of all, Chanel: Forgive my Rachel Zoe rip-off, but really, I die!  As the upcoming surgery stared me down, I grew more conflicted daily between my erstwhile ersatz B cups and the notion of a natural, worry-free, why-bother-with-a-bra insouciance. With 48 hours to go until O.R. time, I had a last-minute mammogram. After the X-rays and the ultrasound, I met with my radiologist, who was ready to send me off, having already determined my breast \u00ADtissue to be fine. But my mouth had a mind of its own, and despite my expectation of her veto, I dumped out my dilemma. &amp;quot;Get the implants replaced,&amp;quot; she \u00ADadvised, without hesitation. &amp;quot;I think you&amp;#039;ll be sorry if you don&amp;#039;t. You already have a body image based on your breasts with implants. You&amp;#039;ll probably miss them.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Are your boobs real?&amp;quot; I asked, fishing for the only seemingly plausible explanation for her response. &amp;quot;Yeah, of course! And yours are all clear. Good luck with your surgery.&amp;quot; And that was that. On June 24, Hidalgo \u00ADperformed the big overhaul. And man, did I ever \u00ADregret it! If only for the next 10 days, it was a bitch of a recovery. My right breast, the deflated one, was especially painful and swollen. Cruel though it was, I was also forced to reflect on the potential reality of another future surgery; faced with a 45-day deadline for enrolling in Mentor&amp;#039;s Enhanced Advantage Limited Warranty, I hastily bankrolled my boobs.  And six weeks later, after the mess of my convalescence faded in a narcotic mist of memory, my breasts emerged like deuces ready to roll. I felt like a snappy roadster, racing with the top down, the wind rushing over my revved-up body, vanity plates boasting all mine. Holy smokin&amp;#039; rubber, what a ride! I sped along to the beeping of car horns\u2014honking and tooting for a tootsie, no matter the mileage under her belt, full of moxie and shamelessly spanking her set. So totally next-level, right? Real beauts, fresh from the package but still as fine as ever, this happy pair of hello-fellas, always raring for an encore. So, one more time, for the ladies, please, may I present my latest runaway hits: my two new breasts! "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.elle.com/beauty/a11433/the-big-bust-life-breast-implants-513683/>