How It Felt to Watch My Wife Get a Boob Job

Photo by Matt Sharkey

Dir: Brett Brando
Rating: 9
Brazzers.com

In the opening scene of this porno spoof of Martin Scorsese's ode to the excessive 80s, porn star Dani Daniels (the film's equivalent of Leonardo DiCaprio) gets head under her desk while trying to sell penny stocks on the telephone. The actual The Wolf of Wall Street opens with an equally engrossing scene—a wild party inside a brokerage firm that includes midget tossing, a shirtless marching band, and topless hookers. Somewhere in the mix is a man walking down a flight of stairs on his hands.

Just minutes before my wife had her boob job, I was surprised to learn that this character was inspired by her breast surgeon's brother, who worked for the real Jordan Belfort and had a penchant for scuttling around the office on his palms. I was also shocked—even a bit appalled—to find out that back in the 80s my wife's doctor and his brother used to be a break-dancing duo who would choreograph their own dance routines. The surgeon shared this information with my wife because in her former life she was a jazz and tap teacher, and because doctors like to chat with their patients to earn their trust and calm their nerves before cutting them open. The dance anecdotes were very effective in my wife's case and helped relax her before the invasive procedure.

His stories, on the other hand, had the exact opposite effect on me. And I'd been completely carefree on the way to the hospital. After all, I wasn't the one getting sliced. My wife's doctor was the best in New Jersey, and boob jobs are as routine a procedure as there are (to the best of my knowledge I've never heard of anyone dying from a tit job).

But once he told me the dance stories I started to sweat and panic, recalling that shitty show Nip/Tuck and how they were always playing music in surgery. All I could imagine was the rhythm hitting my wife's doctor and his hips starting to sway, his head beginning to bob, his hands catching a groove, and then suddenly he's dancing like Hannibal Lecter, slashing the scalpel across my wife's tits to the beat.

The next three hours were the longest of my life—longer than actually sitting through the last hour of The Wolf of Wall Street. When they finally called my name to go back and see her, I knew she would be dead, her boobs cut off, every inch of the room covered in blood, with Lisa Lisa playing on the stereo system. I was certain I'd find the good doctor, lost in emotion, still doing the running man over my wife's cold, titless corpse.

Instead I found my wife drooling silently under heavy sedation. The smiling, proud doctor stood over her, admiring his work and blocking my view. He asked whether I wanted to see them. I didn't. But before I could say no, he swung on his heels to give me a clear shot at his handiwork. That's when I fainted and hit my head.

In my days I have seen some shit that is forever burnt into my psyche: I have see two small people walk right out of my wife's vagina. I broke my leg in four places and looked down to see my heel in the front of my foot. I have fireman friends who send me snapshots of people charred to death in home infernos. None of that prepared me for the sight of my wife's areolas cut off and sewn back on. I knew it was part of the procedure—I was warned well in advance—but I never expected to actually see Frankentits. I figured I'd wait a few months until the stitches were removed and her tits were all healed up, until they looked spectacular and not straight out of a MASH unit.

When I finally came to, my wife was crying hysterically. She took my reaction to mean she'd just made the worst mistake of her life aside from marrying me, which was a great feeling after cashing in the kids' college funds on funbags.

More stupid can be found at Chrisnieratko.com or on Twitter @Nieratko.