Thanks for all the cool photos! I know that this is going to sound sappy, but I can’t think of a BETTER birthday present than having you come to this site and actually READ the nonsense I write. So, thanks.
I have no idea where this is going, or if I’ll ever finish it, but just knowing you’re reading it makes me laugh —
The Royal Bra by Neil Kramer
Chapter One
“I can’t believe I’m actually here,” Sarah said, pinching her own arm. “Me, lil’ Sarah Rothberg, here in Manhattan at the British Consulate at an exclusive party for the Royal Family.”
She closed her eyes thinking it all a dream, but when she reopened them, the amazing reality had not disappeared. The whole night had been a whirlwind for Sarah, from the moment she entered the British Consulate. What glamour and elegance! And so far from her typical dorky life of a Brooklyn-born working drone/editorial assistant for Science Interest Magazine.
Sarah knew she was out of her element from the moment she was announced at the door, and saw all the well-dressed guests and the lush 19th Century interior. She immediately ran to get a glass of champagne to calm her nerves. And then another. And then a third. Since when did she become such a lush? She knew she was getting a bit tipsy after that third glass of champagne.
“Sure,” she rationalized, “I was hoping to become a little more comfortable and social by having a few drinks — it is a party after all — but how in the world did I end up in the second floor “library” making out in the darkness with a virtual stranger? I’m a good girl. Sarah Rothberg doesn’t do one night stands.”
Although she couldn’t make out the books on the shelves, she was sure that Jane Austen was there, watching her.
“Would she scold me for being so brazen, or would she say “You go, girl!?”” Sarah wondered, giggling to herself.
Maybe tonight will be the night.
Sarah’s mind drifted back to the man on the sofa who was kissing her so passionately. And what a kisser he was! If this is wrong to do, let it be.
“No jury would ever convict me, ” she thought. “I would tell them about his lips, the way his hands tenderly feel my body. Oh, he’s good. Real good. Not guilty. By reason of insatiable.”
Sarah’s impure thoughts were just getting good when they were rudely interrupted by the alarm blasting from her iPhone.
“Oh no, I have to go,” screamed Sarah, gathering up her clothes and running out the library door.
“But wait…” said a deep male voice. “Don’t go. I don’t even know…”
But Sarah was already halfway down the stairs. She was feeling dizzy. The champagne. The man. The emotions. She had to stay focused. She had to leave the Consulate before the stroke of midnight, when her Guy Larouche sapphire-blue gown would dissolve back into a pair of Levis.
It’s what the fairy godmother told her.
Back in the library, His High Royal Highness Prince Robert of Cornwall flicked the light to the library, revealing a shirtless man with the toned chest of a sportsman. Rushing to the window, he hoped to still catch a glimpse of the woman he has just met, but he only saw her for a second, until she disappeared into the New York dark.
“Please come, back.” he whispered to the night air. “I don’t even know your name.”
In all his years, Prince Robert had met many women — specimens of the gender who were thought to be his “equal” — beauties with exquisite taste, proper upbringing, well-travelled, pencil-thin daughters of billionaires who knew how to place a baccarat bet in Monte Carlo or what wine to order at Alain Ducasse in Paris. But never has he met a woman like the women he just kissed. What passion. He could still taste her on his lips and feel her skin next to hers. Had she even known that he was the Prince? Did it matter? The more he thought about her, the more he could feel the Mountbatten of his loins saluting at full attention. Hail Brittania!
He must find her. But how? If only he had some sort of clue, some information that can lead him to the woman… the one who he must make the Princess!
And then he saw it. The clue. Hanging on the edge of the sofa, was… her bra. He remembered how he gently unclasped the back of the bra and it fell down, away from her, like falling leaves during Autumn in Hyde Park.
Prince Robert walked over to the hanging bra, savoring the feel of the material, remembering how her breasts responded to his caresses. It was a purple bra. He read the label. It was from a company that he had never heard of mentioned in his social circles, where bras are usually tailor-made in France.
“Playtex Cross Your Heart,” he read out loud to himself. He took it as a sign from God. “I DO cross my heart that I will find you.”
Prince Robert dressed and went downstairs. He saw his father, the King of England, deeply in conversation with his friend, the new President of the United States, President Obama.
The King waved Prince Robert over.
“President Obama, this is my son, Prince Robert.”
But Prince Robert was not in any mood for pleasantries or chit-chats. He had something more important on his mind.
“President Obama, I know we have just met. But I have something very important to ask you that will play a significant role in Anglo-American relations. I need your help.”
Then, in one strong, swift, upward gesture, Prince Robert lifted up the purple bra for all to see.
“We need to find the American woman who fits perfectly into this bra!”
Within hours, there was a frenzy in the media, both on TV and in the blogosphere. Twitters were being sent all across the world, spreading the news. New York was in an uproar. The New York Post was the first to announce an open call with their headline:
“Prince Robert to New York: BRA-VA!”
“An open call will be held tomorrow afternoon at Madison Square Garden. Women will be expected to try on a specifically-sized bra. Only one woman will fit perfectly in the bra.”
By morning, there was chaos. Women of all shapes and sizes lined up outside Macy’s on 34th Street and little by little, the line grew. And grew. The line snaked it’s way uptown, past Central Park, past the Upper West Side, past Harlem, and into the Bronx. Many of the women, knowing that they were going to try on a bra once they reached the Garden, made a point of just wearing a bra in the street — hopefully catching the attention of the Prince before they even got to the Garden. Some women dispensed with bras completely, going topless, thinking the Prince would appreciate their resourcefulness. And besides, it was a beautiful day.
It was a sight never seen before in New York, and probably never again. Thousands and thousands of women of every religion and color, shape and size, standing in line, the fresh air hitting their exposed bras and breasts. For once, women found themselves free to talk about their breasts in public. Some talked about breast-feeding. Buxom women were supportive of women with A-cups, saying how athletic they looked. Flat-chested women spoke of their envy of full-breasted women. Big-breasted women complained about back pain. Women started taking donations for breast cancer research, and gave each other bra-buying advice. Some women wore special, elaborately-decorated bras for the occasion, and New York’s artistic community came out in force, with female artists constructing their own bras out of unique materials, such as felt and tin cans.
For men, it was a major holiday — a day every male New Yorker will remember in happiness for the rest of his life, much like VJ Day, or the Mets winning the World Series. Throughout the city, women were walking around, taking the buses, eating hot dogs — just wearing their bras. By afternoon, men began to even see it as normal and just enjoyed the view, without making such a big deal over what God gave women.
Of course, for many men, it was overwhelming. Ronald Boxner, age 78, had a massive heart attack and was rushed to Mount Sinai Hospital. As he was being rushed by ambulance, he knew his time on this Earth was up. He asked the emergency worker if he help him lift his head, so he could just watch the women with bras walking in the city.
“Of course,” said the EMT.
Ronald Boxner died a few moments later. His final word were, “This is the happiest day of my life.”
Of course, this outpouring of women into midtown Manhattan was not all for noble reasons. For many women, this was all about MONEY and POWER. They were there to snag a rich husband. These golddiggers would never truly love Prince Robert.
Sadly, New York City is filled with these golddiggers. Like Shirley and Jackie.
Shirley and Jackie have always been on the prowl for men. They also have no respect for the male gender, thinking them as horny dumb creatures, who are only after sex. Shirley and Jackie use whatever it takes to nab a wealthy man. Both are owners of the latest in breast enhancements, created by — and they would be proud to tell you this — the older brother of the doctor who worked on Pamela Anderson’s boobs in Los Angeles. This is not the first time that they have had surgery on their breasts, or their lips, or the thighs.
“There’s no way I’m gonna be stuck with a loser guy from Brooklyn.” is Shirley’s motto. “If wealthy guys like big tits, that’s what I’m gonna give them.”
It was a typical evening at home, when Shirley and Jackie heard the news about the Prince. They were in the middle of their daily “Wheel of Fortune” showing, when Eyewitness News broke in with the news the purple bra and the big event at Madison Square Garden sponsored by the Royal Family.
The newscaster showed a photo of the bra.
“From all accounts, the “Royal” bra is a 34B.”
“Hell, I CAN fit my DDs in that, if I really squeeze them tight.” announced Jackie.
“Not if I get on line first,” said Shirley.
Jackie and Shirley adjusted their huge breasts and rushed to the door, each hoping to get on line first, passing their youngest sister, Sarah, on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor with Ajax.
“You stay here and keep cleaning, pancake chest.” said Jackie to Sarah. “We have important business to attend to.”
As Jackie and Shirley slammed the door behind them, a tear fell from Sarah’s eye onto the already perfectly clean kitchen floor.
Sarah IS the owner of the purple bra.
(to be continued or not, depending on my mood)
