The oldest of my three aunts was plain old Janet: her breasts would precede by several beats the tip of her nose when she entered the room…
She wore slimming black drapery from her shoulders outward and over the top of those twin beasts down to the shadowed earth below…I don't know what kind of support system she used to help these growths extend perpendicular to the person buying…
In the width of her shoulders and spread of her wings she could affect the look of perpetual pregnancy... But her age was betrayed by the turkey neck below her double chin; she didn't give away the day, month, or year, but her spent fertility-
You couldn't see the sides of her face as it was curtained by an evenly cut hennaed shag laid atop and around the overturned pear shaped head; down to the last thread, her mop formed an absolutely perfect symmetry; parenthetically, her cheeks blushed, certainly from a bottomless thirst rather than a counterfeit modesty; her ears were hidden from whispers of her legend by the overhanging sides reaching past the ear lobes; a distaff Franciscan monk sans the ice cap Tonsure… Her pupils were pinholes centering foggy green discs; the odd hue appeared like thumb smears of finger paint across the surface of her flame tinged glassy orbs; the spokes of these alien irises seemed to spin like wagon wheels in an old movie, appearing to run backwards to a tricked eye; a matched pair of rotary blades buzzing around in concentric circles- or when stoned, her twin bulbs floated in a leaf bowl of water; sweating fruit dropped from the tree; the skins singed from dehydration…
There should be in this portrait a row of tiny teeth in her smirk; corn kernels smoked brown…My guess is that as a young child just past the dying days of the war, she was eating so little that her metabolism was still holding on sixty years later to every spare speck of nutrition, as if she was still squeezing out the last trace of nourishment from whatever sticks and pebbles she dug up from the mud and rubble of her wasted homeland- and so when she did eat actual food it would take weeks, like a Python, to digest and whatever was retained found refuge in her massive mammalian carriage draped in that flat black, a tone so dense that it swallowed light, reflecting nothing back: a gateway to a negative dimension. This ensemble was the only thing she wore in front of my memory. Either she washed the black muumuu every day or had a closet full of replicas, or yards of material and would section off 12 feet, cut a hole in the top and stick her head through, secure the wrapping with a stapler, plastic black clothes pins, inked snaps, and leave her dungeon with those blessedly obscene whoppers locked and loaded…
A Second Thought:Our Jaunty Janet, the late one, the aunt that we know for certain is dead; she may have actually been the inspiration for the porn loops her younger sister essayed.
Janet was a prim with an actor’s false arrogance and even finagled a summer internship at the Pasadena Playhouse back when the stage was still what we’d now label a trend indicator. Lifted from her natural habitat of flat horizons, predictably Janet went off the rails, though never losing her instinct for exhibitionism- and not far enough off into the weeds to turn her professional failure into glorified prostitution like her younger sister, Auntie Yo Yo. Janet was not exactly a card carrying sex industry worker- but then maybe we have to describe her as such- at least the tale told by one of her exes befriends such an interpretation: By the time Aunt Janet was my uncle-in-law Jack's ex-wife (number two for him), he described her to me as being basically a dinner whore- she got travel and shopping privileges to boot- the three things women dig most. And what did she do to earn her portion? According to Uncle Jack Masters (he was her second as well) (and isn’t that a name made for porn-?) Well, Captain Jack, he claims she had a shaving strop for every day of the week and an assortment of powerful male asses to use them on. A dominatrix is what he was describing, if he knew the term at all. His best sell of this defamation was the detail that she “dated” the Federal Government’s top expert on inter-dimensional time travel. I won’t repeat that but apparently tax dollars are spent on every conceivable form of dementia and this guy and his rank- likely not much more than a stipend and a name plate, with an office temp for quarterly appropriation justifications rather than a staff, nor even an office to stage this legal swindle in- had enough of our money coming in to be one of Janet's stable who could afford the feeding of this fetish. What twitch of excitement she derived from this kind of therapy I can only guess- my best estimate is she got nothing beyond an occasional taste of luxury and a return on her conviction that men are basically trash but hold the cards- (she was older than Betty Freidan which might explain the generational reluctance to update her resentments). But she nurtured these power swap rituals, apparently finding in them justifiable compensation.
A digression, but the gorging on guilt and shame this play acting at physical restraint enabled in these clowns was the manifestation of the nervous system's demand to balance the cold blooded suffocation of reality that all governments are bred for and which during the day these men in black enforced. Reversing roles like a private Saturnalia, complete with verbal incantations (a litany of insults written out in advance for her to recite as only a great actress can), spiked libations, and pleas to the gods from these worms to absolve them of their genetically predestined presumptions at superiority, these clients were not working out kinks in their psyches; these rituals of debasement were designed to maintain the continual justification for beating truth into bloody submission as instructed by the elites. Believe me, the twisted ways of the mind benders are fueled, not disarmed, by this so called sexual healing... And Janet, she also got to eat fancy, shop Paris, and if the need arose, have bail thrown and convictions tossed. For all we can surmise, that office of parallel universes could just as easily be another government store front for drug running. What her role had been if that were the case, I won’t speculate, but in the main it doesn't matter. Her nervous system demanded and received its due.
She’s dead, we can properly assume by the open casket funeral I barely remember as a child, though if she slipped through a crack in the cosmos while assailing her john, the complete inversion of reason that plagues our collective cognition might lend credence to that theory. Something has swapped the reality principle for the pleasure principle and a deliberate rending of the cosmic fabric is as good a cop-out as any for assuaging the blame for our species’ self-destruction. 
