I grew up rather quickly after the incident with Jana - much quicker than any nine-year-old ought to have, that is. And it seemed that everywhere I turned, I was faced with reminders of that day. I found myself watching strangers: women, of course. Watching carefully for the slightest hint of that rounded softness at the front of their shirts. I wanted to know what it would really be like to possess something like that of my very own.

What had happened that day at my friend's house was just the beginning for me. I began experimenting with just about anything I could find to try and recreate that day. At first, I would wait until I was alone in my bed, after the household had gone to sleep. Then, and only then, would I slowly slip the extra pillow from its resting place beside my head, fold it over, and cram it up the front of my nightgown. Once it was there and I was fairly certain no one in the house was awake to hear any excess rustling of the sheets, I would slowly run my hands over the enormous bulge resting on my chest; marveling at the size and softness I had created. Lying back, I closed my eyes and remembered that hot, sticky day in Jana's bedroom when she single-handedly turned my world upside down. And once again, the warm, flushed feelings swept over me as I arched my back and bit down on my lip to stifle my cries of pleasure mixed with confusion.

And there were other attempts as well. Remember those spongy Nerf balls that were popular in the 70's? Well, my brothers had nearly every kind available, and they worked quite well. Just the right shape and consistency. And only the biggest ones I could get my hands on would do. Let's see... sofa pillows, socks stuffed into a very large bra which I swiped from the neighbor's laundry (we lived in an apartment, so it was quite easy to sneak it out of the laundry room), inflated balloons, and one of those large rubber balls -- you know, the kind that are about 2' in diameter. Sure, I only had one, but by kneeling in front of it and leaning forward until my whole body was resting on top, I found that I could balance myself quite well with the tips of my toes. I'd lie in the back yard like that for the longest time, rocking ever so slightly back and forth, with my mind filled with round, bouncy images.

My hands would shake with excitement whenever I'd slip off to my room and try out a new "enhancement". But the real thrill would come just after I'd get everything in place. I'd stare downward at the floor; then walk over to stand in front of the mirror. Then and only then would I look up at my reflection. The sudden change was electrifying, and my legs would turn to water. Then I'd slowly inhale as deep as I possibly could, while pulling my shoulders back causing the front of my shirt to stretch and strain under the pressure. I lost many a button during this routine and quickly figured out how to sew them back on before my mother discovered any of them.

But the bedtime ritual, as well as the others, soon lost the appeal it had had. And I came to realize that while my creations were visually stunning, they lacked a certain amount of, oh, shall we say, nerve endings. Sure, I could feel the fabric of my tightly stretched pajamas and the contents therein, but there was nothing beneath to respond to my caresses. The sensations were all one-sided. And before long, it became obvious that playing with pillows just wasn't going to cut it for me. But what now?

After that, I decided that only the real thing would do, and I began a daily inspection of myself to see if there had been even the tiniest change since the previous morning. I would turn this way and that in front of my mirror, scrutinizing every inch of my nonexistent bustline, searching for the slightest hint of curve. No such luck. At least not yet. Any real growth on my part was several months away. Day after day, I was met with disappointment. And that disappointment turned into depression. I had stopped seeing my friends and my appetite dropped off. Fortunately it was summer, so there was no school work to bother with. And I would spend hours in my bedroom, lying on my bed berating myself, trying to understand why I was feeling the way I did. It couldn't be normal, could it? To want something like this? Most of my friends were still at an age that consisted of Barbie dolls and hating boys. And here I was, wanting to look like the women I had seen in magazines my dad had hidden under his bed. But it went well beyond just that. I wanted bigger; I wanted better. I wanted the outrageousness I had experienced that day in Jana's bedroom.

Several weeks of this went by before I knew that something had to be done. My parents were beginning to worry about me, and quite frankly, I was miserable. I needed to act on this now. Gazing again at my reflection, but this time without the benefit of my artificial endowments, I leaned forward until my forehead rested against the cool glass. Now all I could see were my eyes. The hazel-green orbs that stared back at me looked tired. And so I was. Tired of fighting something I couldn't beat. Tired of the sleepless nights over something I couldn't even name. I inhaled deeply and my breath made a silvery fog on the glass as I spoke: There's something wrong with you, you know. This isn't normal. Nobody else has these thoughts. You're sick...sick in the head, and this has to end now.

It was a long, long time before I looked in that mirror again.