TITS AHOY

  October 3, 2019

Hello lovers. It has been a while, so I wanted to give you an update on all things CMQ – and No 1 with a bullet is my sick new body. Believe me, taking the zen approach of patience will be oh so worth it in the end.

Over the last few weeks I have pressed pause on my business, and most aspects of life, to attend to a new procedure on the mighty cleavage you have come to know, love and splash your man spray over. That’s right, it’s time for an overhaul. CMQ is a Ferrari of a woman, a mighty beast with an engine that can rev you to 100kms in a matter of seconds, yet purr in idle like a whisper. She needs to stay exquisitely tuned, which is why I needed to take substantial time off to course correct with a fresh pair of boobs, and a recovery time chaser.

When it comes to cosmetic surgery and the marketplace, I always get a huge spike in that ‘ta da’ post-recovery period when I am previewing a spectacular new rack. Some one-time-only gents actually book in with the specific intention of jizzing on my boobs, wanting the power rush of seeding on the new ‘girls’ in town, so that they can then move forward. It’s a guy thing. A box they need to tick. I have honestly never met a woman who thinks like this. Chicks don’t say, ‘You know what? This guy I like just renovated his house. I’m going to go over there and smear my pussy juice all over his balustrade.’ It just never comes up. But for the male population, the news is just as mammoth as the boobs themselves: they’re all going to have a crack.

So far, so sexy. But a wrong choice of cosmetic practitioner threw a spanner in the works. I went back to the surgeon that had done my previous boob job. They weren’t the best tits that I had ever had done, but they were good: big, bouncy and boobalicious (remember the fun we had with those boys?) I also decided to pump up the volume, enhancing size from 800ccs to 1010 ccs per implant, a sizeable difference. I had come out of a brief period of mental issues and depression (#soznotsoz). I never lie about things like that. Who gives a fuck? But after this ‘mental flu’ I just wanted to stick it to the world and face it with two kilos of strapped on silicon.

After this revision surgery, I woke up on Day Three of a four day surgery stay and went to look at the mirror for the first time, happily off my face on pain meds. As I undid the medical bra, boy did the sight staring back at me wipe the goofy smile off my dial. It was like the Ice Bucket Challenge. I was devastated to see two boobs that didn’t resemble each other – at all. One was a round shape and pointed up; the other was more of a teardrop shape and headed south.

I showed my people and trusted friends, who agreed that the boob job was a total cock up.

Don’t get me wrong – seen on their own, each boob was not bad. But unless there is some cyclops fetish that I haven’t heard about, a boob that looks great in and of itself, on its own, doesn’t do jackshit when paired with a different one, which now looks like a total joke. And asymmetry only worsens as time goes on. I was in shock that I couldn’t show my fans, lovers and clients boobs to make their jaw drop, to simply enter a room and make their dick hard. This incompetent bufoon of a doctor had completely wasted my time and impaired my ability as an escort; his negligence had also caused the very personal, emotional trauma of distorting my body aesthetic. I didn’t cry. It was more a mystified loop tape of thinking, how could you cock this up so badly?

This situation reminded me of that classic escort who enters into the sex ndustry and is just wodeful in carrying out her occupational duties. Mama Christine has learned this the hard way: just because someone wants to be something, doesn’t mean that they should be. Was I going to just lie back and take it? Fuck that noise.

This bozo who gave me subpar boobs should not be an aesthetic surgeon, straight up. He’s a mechanic at best. I don’t want to name names mind you, or ruin the man’s career. Doctor Dufus needs to repatriate the money – and add a little extra for the grief. But I’m not out to financially rape the guy. I have my paypigs for that.

Anyhoo, I had to save the day, so I chose cosmetic surgeon Dr. Rastogi to fix the mess, the same pro who had done such a great job on my first three boob jobs. The only reason he didn’t do my subsequent 4th and 5th procedures was his unavailability in the timeframe. So I now asked him to rescue me with the new, 1 kilo breasts of my dreams. He admitted that working with a half-baked, broken boob job would be tough – a salvage job in fact, that would hamper his ability to create his own artistic work.

Three weeks ago, we reversed the previous job completely and started fresh with a different implant and a whole new procedure. This had to work. I was reeling from a high drama period in which previous management had fucked me royally (and not in that great way), I had become embroiled in a costly, grossly unfair trademark dispute involving the rapacious demands of a global corporate empire, and had now been ripped off with substandard body work from people who know that I make my entire living from my rig. Plus I had just sold my place. Let the record state however, that fans and clients had been awesome too, sending money and messages of support when this surgeon robbed me of the symmetrical, beautiful boobs that I had paid damn good money for.

The great news is that the boobs that I have been given are so gorgeous, I just have to tell the world. They are astoundingly beautiful. When I stand in the mirror and do the reveal, it takes my breath away. I cannot wait to show my body off again to the people who come into my sphere, giving them the visual feast that I am famous for and they have been waiting for.

I know that the timeline for my sabbatical leave has now exploded, and everybody is worrying where the fuck I am. If the surgery had gone according to plan the first time, I would already be in training, honing my body to create the Christine McQueen experience. I’d be just shy of doing bookings again.

Trust me, I would love some dick. I want to reach that sexual nirvana peak state when my vagina becomes my entire body, and I am reverberating with pleasure as the waves of orgasm crash over me. I miss Christine Mcqueen too. She is my professional identity, which is under restoration. I do not want to front up in a quasi Christine state.

Healing is an important part of the journey that leads me back to business though. It’s a really big deal and there are no shortcuts: I am not allowed to go jogging, raise my heart rate, use weights, or dash around town on beauty maintenance. So I am going to use this me-time to rejuvenate, catch up with friends, admire my jewels and play with my chihuahuas. No, that’s not a euphemism for masturbation, I actually am the proud mama of adorable new chihuahuas.

As soon as I can, I will hone the rest of the body to match the boobs and bounce back, better than ever. The return of Christine McQueen’s reign over the Australian sex industry is imminent – watch this space. Then, I am going to return and eat you alive. I am going to suck out every bit of your gravy and not miss a drop.

Come ready for titty.

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