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The Senior Center Concert

A true story - Medicine for enlarged prostate has me growing man boobs - Moobs?
The Senior Center Concert

It was hot. It was always hot in those places. They had the air conditioning on, but because old people are always cold, it wasn’t set low enough. It felt like it was set at about eighty five. I was sweating as I set up my stand, and unpacked my bari sax. I fingered a few notes without playing, just to be certain all the keys were still functioning properly. They weren’t. There was a broken spring on the B flat side key. Great, I thought. That’s just ducky. I didn’t want to play this gig, especially on bari, since this horn is so ratty, I’m hot and sweaty and uncomfortable, and to top it all off, my boobs hurt again today.

Maybe I should explain about that last part. About three years ago, after drinking probably more beer than I should have, I had a long drive home, and really had to pee, but clamped it down, and drove like a maniac. Finally I got into the house, and raced into the bathroom, unzipping my trousers as I ran. I got to the commode, and stood there, my penis in my hand, and willed myself to relax and pee, now that it was okay to do so. But I couldn’t! A few drops came out, and it burned like fire, and my penis immeadiatly closed off again. I also felt like I was going to poop, so I dropped my trousers and sat. But nothing came out! I was in real pain by now; my abdomen felt as if it would burst.

Well, to make a long story short, after a visit to the ER, I came home with a catheter, and instructions to see a urologist. He pronounced me as having an enlarged prostate, and put me on something called Flomax. Within three days, I was peeing like an eighteen-year old.

Then, about three months later, I had a hot date, and we wound up back at my place, in bed together. She was incredible, with a body like Venus de Milo, but I couldn’t keep it up. After about half an hour of trying, we gave up, and she went home in disgust.

I tell you, this aging business isn’t fun.

The next day, I went to the doc, and told him my sad tale of woe. He was great. First thing he did, of course, was stick his finger up my ass. That wasn’t so great, but then he got on the intercom and told his assistant to get the urologist on the phone. He put the phone on speaker, and we had a three-way conversation. The final outcome was, they took me off the Flowmax, and put me on a daily combination of 1000mg of saw palmetto and one Maximum Strength Estroven tablet.

That kept the enlarged prostate at bay, and allowed me to get and maintain an erection. But there was a minor side effect. The reduced testosterone and increased estrogen caused what the doctors call “gynecomastia”. I call it “growing boobs”. I didn’t notice it until one morning when on my daily bicycle run, I hit a pothole, and thought my left boob was gonna rip off! Talk about pain! I called the doc, and he suggested I get myself fitted for a bra.

I went to the local department store, and with some embarrassment, asked the lady at the bra counter about being fitted.

She was in her mid sixties, and was very understanding. “Oh, Dearie,” she said, “My husband has the same problem. Trust me, you aren’t alone. You’re the third or fourth man our age who has come in here for this. Come with me to the dressing room, and we’ll see what we can do.”

She had me remove my shirt, and stepped back, looking at me intently.

“Turn around and face the mirror, Hon, while I show you what is happening.”

I did as I was told, and she stepped behind me.

"Men and women really have the same breast anatomy.,"she said. "The only difference is, in males testosterone and lack of estrogen at puberty makes the mammary glands atrophy, and keeps the breast tissue from storing fat."

Reaching around, she cupped my breasts in her hands, and held them up slightly.

“See that?” she asked. “You really do have boobs, and they are sagging, pulling on the upper chest muscles. They aren’t finished growing either. See how the aureolae are slightly cone-shaped, and standing out from the rest of the tissue? That is an indication that they will continue to grow a bit, until the rest of your breast grows up to meet them. You’re like a puppy dog, with big feet. You will just have to grow into them.”

Then she giggled a little, and went on. “I think you’ll find, though, that in a way it is fun. Are your nipples sensitive?”

With that, she raised the thumb and forefinger of each hand, and gently squeezed just behind my nipples, at the swollen aureolae. It was as if a bolt of electricity went through me. I felt the pressure deep inside my breasts, and down across my abdomen to my groin. My cock immediately sprang to attention. Still cupping my breasts, and holding the areolae, she began moving her hands in a circular motion, massaging deeply.

My breathing became more ragged, and all I could think was, Touch them! Take my nipples between your fingers!

Then, as if reading my mind, she moved her thumbs and forefingers to the nipples themselves, and began squeezing and rolling them. Suddenly, I felt my cock twitch, and felt my cum soaking my boxers. “Oh shit!” I cried out, as my knees buckled.

She was strong, though, and held me upright until my orgasm subsided.

“See?” she asked. “Bet you didn’t know you could cum that way, did you?” Suddenly, she was all business again. “Okay. Let’s get you measured.”

“That was incredible,” I said. “How did you …”

“Know? Most girls discover it while they are going through puberty. Our breasts grow and we play with them. The only reason men don’t discover it is they are trained to think it is too “girly” to have their nipples played with, so they never get to that point.”

“Thirty one inches. Hm-m-m-m … add five – that makes you a 36. I’m guessing B cup, but let me get you into a bra that is close, and then we’ll double check.”

I started to reply, but she had turned, and with a swish of the curtain, was gone. I sat down on the bench, and inspected the front of my trousers, to see if there were any telltale wet spots. The boxers were pretty baggy, so fortunately, there weren’t. That was amazing, I thought, and incredibly hot. I felt my cock starting to engorge again, and thought, Cut that out, you! Jeez! You’d think I was a teenager again.

Presently, she arrived back in the fitting room, carrying several bras by their little hangers. The first one she tried on was a lightly padded under wire. I caught a glimpse of the tag as she removed it from the clips. “Bali,” it said.

She passed it around me, and hooked the band. “Put the shoulder straps up,” she said, and then stepped around in front of me.

“Bend forward, so your breasts hang free, and adjust them in the cups.” She said, and then, “No . Not like that. You’re not trying to pull them straight up. Bring them in and upward from each side.”

She put her hand inside the cup of the left breast and adjusted it as she was talking. “Like that. Now, stand up straight, and let’s have a look-see.”

I stood up, and looked in the mirror. I could see a bit of a gap along the top edge of the cup, and she said, “I thought these might not be right. Some styles and brands are cut fuller and are more structured than others. You’ll have to be careful about that. There’s no point in wearing one of these harnesses if it isn’t doing what it is supposed to do.”

She took it off and selected another. It, too had under wires, but the cups had no padding, and were lacy. She turned the tag to me, saying, “This brand is advertised as a bullet bra, but that isn’t really correct. It certainly isn’t anything like Madonna’s. You wouldn’t want that, I shouldn’t think. “

I looked at the tag. “Promise poirette Style 8888 Size 36” it said, next to a round ILGW Union label. I liked that it was made in the United States. I try to buy American-made items whenever possible.

Handing it to me, she said, “You may as well get used to putting these things on yourself.”

I took the two ends, and reaching around behind my back managed to catch the single hook on the first try.

“Good Lord,” she said. “You’re more adept at that than I am. Have you been cross dressing, when no one was looking?”

We both laughed, and I replied, “No, but I had lots of practice undoing these when I was in college. It’s like falling off a bicycle; once you learn how, you never forget.”

She caught what I had said, and replied with a twinkle in her eye, “Yeah. Falling off a bicycle. Or riding a log.”

Then she was all business again. “Stand up straight. That’s better. Now, raise your arms over your head, and lower them. I want to see if your boobs stay put, and I want to see if the straps need adjusting. Remember, it isn’t the straps that provide most of the support. That comes from the band and under wires. The straps keep the cups from gapping and moving about as you twist or bend over."

She passed the tape measure around my chest again, this time, right across the highest part of my now-supported boobs. "Thirty eight inches,"she announced. "I thought you'd be a B cup. I am not usually far wrong on my guesses." 
 
"And another thing,” she went on, “Don’t think that if you are wearing a white shirt, you should be wearing a white bra. It will show just as if you had no shirt at all over it. Wear nude or very light tan under white. You can wear any color under a solid opaque top. This particular brand and style are hard to find in nude. We have two in stock, so I suggest you buy them both. They will last longer if you rotate them, and don’t wear the same one every day. I own three everyday bras that I rotate throughout the week. Of course, I have some special ones, too, but that is for my husband’s pleasure, not yours.” She winked, then added. “ He has special ones he wears for me, too. That is our little secret.”

But this day, I was wearing a very open weave linen shirt. Since I didn’t want strange looks from my fellow musicians, and wasn’t expecting to do any activities that would bounce my boobs, I had not worn a bra. So my boobs were giving me growing pains.

Between that, and the broken spring, and being overheated, I was not a happy camper. I dug a rubber band out of the case, and tied it around the key as an emergency repair, and began to get my music in order. I had just gotten it all set, and looked at my watch, to see how soon we were to start playing, when I suddenly realized the conductor was calling my name. I looked up, inquiringly.

“The first trombone player isn’t here,” he said. “Would you mind transposing and playing that part tonight?”

“Okay,” I replied, and reached behind me to get the music from the guys in the back row.

The folder was an absolute mess, with the music stuffed into it any which way. Some of it was backwards, and some upside down. I fussed a little under my breath about people who couldn’t keep their music in alphabetic order, as I pulled out the pieces to be played.

Then I saw her.

She was about 5’5” tall, wearing a scrub top with some kind of small print on it. She had steel gray hair in a long heavy braid down the center of her back. She didn’t seem to be wearing any makeup that I could tell, but she had nicely arched eyebrows, and eyes with very dark irises. She had large breasts, C or D cup, I guessed, a slight tummy roll, and wide hips. I was reminded of a woman with whom I once lived for several years. After one of her annual visits to the gynecoloigist, she announced, “He says I have ten-baby hips.” We had both laughed about it at the time, but I liked them, They gave her a nice hour glass shape. This woman has ten-baby hips, I thought to myself, and then, I’d like to see them without that skirt on.

She was staring straight at me, and smiling slightly. I kept thinking that I knew her, and thought maybe she was someone with whom I had gone to high school, or college. But that was so many years ago, and we had all aged, and while still looking similar, looked at the same time, different. I could not place her.

She stepped forward then, and turning her back to us, announced to the audience that they were so glad to welcome our band back for another concert. She stood straight and tall as she spoke, with her feet together, and I sat there, admiring her broad hips and rounded ass. I’d like to play with that, I thought to myself. I wonder if she likes to be fucked in the ass?

All of a sudden I was glad that I had come to play tonight, even though I really hadn’t wanted to. I played well. Trombone parts are easier than saxophone parts, and except for the hassle of having to remember to move accidentals in the right direction, and remembering to add three sharps to the key signature, it was relatively easy. Consequently, even though I was sight-reading, I was able to glance up often.

Every time I did, she was staring straight at me.

I noticed she was not wearing any rings, but wasn’t sure if that meant anything. Often, nurses and attendants take off all their jewelry when dealing with patients. I have seen that to be true especially in geriatric situations, where the patients have so much thinner skin, and are easily bruised or cut.

After the concert, I packed up my sax, and was hoping to have a word with her, but she was busy with a patient who was having problems understanding, and I thought better of interrupting. I stood around for a while, but she was totally occupied with him, and wheeled him out of the room and down the hallway out of sight. I watched her ass as she went, and liked what I saw. She had good strong upper thighs, and firm buttocks. The muscles rippled slightly under her skirt as she bent forward, pushing the wheelchair.

I will be playing again there in two weeks, and hope to see her again. Maybe next time, I will get a chance to tell her some of what I was thinking.

Epilogue:

Well - it has been quite some time, and my boobs seem to have decided they are going to remain a B. That is good; I don't need to run out and buy new bras. I have gotten used to them, and they no longer hurt. And they really are fun to play with. My nipples are much more sensitive than they used to be, before all the changes.

I have played several more times at that senior living facility, but never again have I seen the woman I was fantasizing about. Life is like that; a passing image, a fleeting glance, and a chance encounter - or not, as the case may be. A missed opportunity? I think not. It simply was not meant to be, and that's okay; when the time is right, and the person is right, we will both know.

Meanwhile, I got a new (to me) bari sax, a 1933 Selmer, and it is an absolute dream to play. Life is good.

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