Moderate

I must admit that part of the fun of being a balloon girl is the attention. Recently I was called to do a small radio spot for a station in town. I arrived at the radio station and was guided to the broadcast booth. The place was rather warm so I slipped out of my blouse, revealing the tank top I wore beneath. I sat comfortably in the seat with headphones and a microphone hanging before my face. The headphones would be used so I could hear the radio announcer and the callers questions once the broadcast started.

A man sat in a booth at the dark end of the bar, a clutch of balloons drifting back and forth above his head as air currents from the heating toyed with the pretty rubber globes. His posture and alert response every time the door opened denoted he was waiting for someone with great eagerness. The perfect victim.

It wasn't something she considered rational. It wasn't something she was going to pretend was safe. And it certainly wasn't anything that she expected anyone else to understand.

It was a ridiculous idea--she knew that. It was a ridiculous operation to have. And ridiculously expensive. The doctor--not that she saw any degree of note--even tried to talk her out of it. Why not just have children? Why not just gain weight? That wasn't what she wanted. He didn't understand. But then, nobody did. It was all about control--hers. And immediate, breathtaking results.

“Well, Ted, this looks like a promising match: The Olsen Twins against some pervert I never heard of.”

“That’s right, Mike. There’s nothing interesting about the set-up, particularly, but you can’t go wrong with a couple barely legal teenage blondes.”

“You got that right, Ted. I’m just going to shut up and stare at those shorts now, okay?”

“You do that, Mike.”