Mirror Mirror on the Door by Paul Germano

Dumpy pharmaceutical salesman Douglas Mulhern took a good hard look at himself in the full-length mirror affixed to the bathroom door of a musty overpriced room on the fifth floor of a rundown hotel in a seedy section of Baltimore.

“Son of a bitch,” he said right out loud. There was a lot about his body he had grown accustomed to. His hairline was receding; his skin flaked up if he stayed in the sun too long. His fingers tended to swell, at times, making it extremely difficult to slip his wedding band back on, and at other times, nearly impossible to get the damn ring off. He had always been on the short side, but now he had all this sloppy extra weight added to the equation. He was, to put it kindly, portly. His face was getting rounder. He had a tire around his waist and an ass the size of Montana. He had gotten used to it, all of it. But this latest discovery really floored him. He wished his eyes were deceiving him, but his 20-20 vision was one of his few attributes that remained intact. There was no denying it; Douglas Mulhern had grown himself a genuine pair of man-boobs.

Douglas glared at himself in the mirror. How in God’s green Earth did he let this happen? And just when did this happen? The last time he looked, the last time he had paid any real attention to his flabby chest, that is exactly what he had seen, an ordinary run-of-the mill flabby chest. But now the flab had officially turned into breasts. Douglas Mulhern had a set of boobs to call his very own. With his right hand, he cupped his newly discovered left breast. And then with his left hand, he cupped his right breast. With criss-crossed hands, he jiggled these new-found playthings of his, really getting a good bounce going. He felt gleeful and giddy, then in the next moment, disgusted with himself. What was he doing? He shifted his eyes away from the mirror; but still, he kept his hands firmly gripped on his man-boobs. If it wasn’t for the hair on his chest, they would feel like an honest to goodness set of woman’s breasts.


In fact, these breasts of his, had a lot more girth and bounce to them than the sorry set of sagging boobs on the hooker who had been in his hotel room, just a few hours earlier.

She had entered his hotel room with a sense of bravado, strutting around like she truly believed she was something special. She has long brown hair, pulled back in a grown-up pony tail and held in place with one of those red flowery things. She had on a low-cut black dress and long glittery earrings. She shook her head a whole lot when she talked, making her earrings dangle, apparently thinking the gesture was visually alluring. She looked to be in her late-thirties, Douglas had guessed, though he would not have been too surprised to find out she was younger, maybe still even in her twenties. In her line of work, a person tended to age early, this Douglas knew to be true. She was scrawny and drenched with cheap sickeningly-sweet smelling perfume. He was thinking to himself that she smelled like a cheap French whore and realized how redundant his thoughts were, when, in an unconvincing French accent, she said, “yewww can call me Renee.”

Make no mistake, Douglas Mulhern had no regrets for the time he spent with the so-called Renee, nor any regrets for the money he had laid out for her services. She showed him a good time, more or less, sagging boobs and all. But her pitifully droopy rack was no match for his own set of buoyant bouncy man-boobs.

Finally, Douglas removed his groping hands from his own body. “I got me a bodacious set of tatas,” he said, forcing out a laugh. Again he looked at the spectacle of himself in the mirror. “Face it Dougie boy,” he said right out loud, “you gots to get yourself to the gym. Yep, yep yeppers, gots to get your big ole’ butt to the gym, gots to get rid of these puppies.” Again, he cupped himself. Once again, he began bouncing these newly discovered playthings of his that he still couldn’t quite believe were actually part of his own body.

His thoughts drifted back to Renee and how he had jiggled the whore’s  sagging boobs. He had been standing on the bed, in nothing but a pair of plaid boxers and black socks. He was jumping up and down on the mattress, treating it like a trampoline. He always liked to have a little bit of fun when he was on the road. He had bought a bottle of Jack Daniels from a liquor store three blocks down from the hotel and had already knocked off a third of the bottle by the time Renee arrived.

“C’mon sweetheart, hop on up,” he said to her, holding out his hand.

She laughed. “Whatever you say hon’; it’s your nickel.” She kicked off her heels and took his extended hand. Her black dress, short and tight, crept up, revealing, pink floral panties, as she stepped onto the bed. She laughed just a bit as she tried to get a good footing on the lumpy mattress. He stepped behind her, hugging her waist and helping her steady herself. She was facing the TV set, which was spewing forth local late-night Baltimore news. The grim-faced anchor bellowed about a disturbing crime incident in West Baltimore. The hooker, seemingly more focused on the TV screen, than on the groping hands pawing away at her breasts, shook her head at the grim news.

“What’s the point,” she asked breathlessly. “People, they have triple locks on their doors, but then they got all these large windows all over the house. How safe is that? When there ain’t but nothing more than a pane of glass separating you from the criminals?” Again, she shook her head; her earrings dangled.

“Hey sweetheart,” Douglas said, his hands still firmly gripped on Renee’s tiny sagging breasts, “don’t be worrying about such things, I mean, well, do you live in West Baltimore?”

Again she shook her head. “No, no I don’t, but it makes no never mind hon’, there‘s crime everywhere and it sure as hell ain’t isolated to West Baltimore. It’s all over the city; it’s way past the city limits out in the suburbs, over in Goat Town; it’s just everywhere.”

Douglas snuggled in a little closer, breathing heavy. Her hair smelled of strawberry shampoo. “Well sweetheart, crime like that, it surly is not here in our little Baltimore hotel room,” he whispered, trying his best to sound sexy. “No ma’am, no crimes are going on in here.” He let go of her breasts and reached down on the night stand for the remote and clicked off the TV.

“No crime in this here hotel room?” she said coyly, her eyes still fixed on the now-blank TV screen. “Well actually what we are doing here hon’ is considered a crime by the Baltimore police.” She said “poh-lease,” the way they like to say it in Baltimore, letting the word roll around on her tongue.

He laughed. “Well sweetheart, I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.” Again, he straddled her from behind, reaching his arms around her waist in a bear hug, then moving his hands quickly upwards and cupping her breasts and bouncing them playfully.

“Bounce little titties, bounce,” he chanted, which she seemed to find amusing. Or maybe she just acted amused since he was, after all, paying her to be attentive. She was on the clock, so to speak.

“You’ve got the cutest little set of tomatoes there Miss Renee,” he told her in a positively giddy voice.

“Why thank yewww so much monsieur,” she purred, slipping back into her less-than-authentic French accent.

So there they stood, spooning in an upright position on a lumpy mattress. She began to dance, her body swaying from side to side; he held on tight from behind, keeping in rhythm with her movements and continuing to play with her breasts. He started to sway a little faster, then spun her around so they were face to face. Her breath smelled of mints; his own was a mix of Jack Daniels and toothpaste. He smiled, gave her a peck on her cheek and then guided her down to her knees. He thought it quite gentlemanly of himself to have her do it this way, her knees being on the soft mattress. Oh Douglas Mulhern was so proud of himself for what a gentleman he could be.

He even told her, “Au revoir mon cheri,” as she was leaving. He figured, what the hell, if she wanted to pretend she was French, he could play along.

She was a fine little piece of ass, sagging boobs and all, he thought to himself, his eyes again fixed on his own reflection in that full-length mirror that was affixed to the bathroom door. He had one more night in Baltimore. Tomorrow he was back on the road for a few stops in Washington and then some of the DC suburbs, mostly on the Virginia side. He would make a point of buying something real nice for his wife when he got to DC. Maybe he could find a nice set of bookends with Thomas Jefferson on them or something classy like that. Bookends would be good for all those books of hers. She was always reading John Grisham novels, one after another. Those damn Grisham novels! He would walk into their house and instead of asking about his day, she would greet him by shoving a book in his face. “Oh Douglas, look,” she would say, holding up the book like it was some kind of treasure, “it’s the new Grisham; I just can’t put it down; it’s so good!”

He wished she could be as enthusiastic about him as she was about those damn books of hers. Lost in his thoughts, he startled himself when he realized his hands were still firmly gripped on his newly-discovered set of buoyant bouncy breasts. His wife in her day, she had a real nice rack on her. But those days were long gone. Oh they were still big, big as ever, yes, big, but lifeless, just like her.

He shook his head at himself in disgust, removed his right hand from his breast and slapped himself hard in the face for being such a pig. But his left hand was still cupped on his boob. He just couldn’t let go. Again he thought, if it wasn’t for the hair on his chest, not only would they feel like a real set of women’s breasts, they would also even look the part. He tried to remember the last time he had his wife’s breasts in his hands, but he couldn’t recall. He was trying to decide how his wife’s rack measured up, compared to these man-boobs of his. He thought about it, stroked at his chin.

“Well,” he said out loud, “as they might say in one of those damn Grisham novels, the jury is still out!” But one thing Douglas was absolutely certain about, was that his own set of fun bags stacked up better than Renee’s real pair. Yep, no question about it, his own boobs felt more vibrant than the sagging set on the allegedly-named Renee; his were bigger and bouncier. Yeah, if it wasn’t for the hair.

And then a ridiculous idea popped into his head. He flung open the bathroom door and dashed over to his suitcase. Quickly unzipping it, he splattered its contents all over the bed, rummaging through the mess for his razor and shaving cream.

It took him a good fifteen minutes, but it was done. His chest was smooth and silky, just like a woman’s. Now his man-boobs really lived up to their name. “Look at these puppies,” he said out loud, cupping them and wiggling the hell out of them. He giggled like a little school girl and felt as excited as a little school boy at second base and ready for more.


This was his last night in Baltimore. Earlier in the evening, he had Renee. Tonight it could be anyone he imagined — Pamela Anderson, Christina Ricci, Jenna Jameson or maybe the French-looking hottie in the red bra on page 27 of the Victoria’s Secret catalog. Tonight was up for grabs, he could be with anyone he damn well pleased.

He had little more than a whisper of whiskey left in the Jack Daniels bottle. But he still had two full bottles of red wine that he had picked up in Annapolis. For good measure, he’d make an emergency run to that all-night mini-mart right across the street and get himself a six-pack; that would do him just fine he decided.

Tonight, Douglas Mulhern planned on getting himself rip-roaring drunk and then taking advantage of his own liquored-up self. Tonight, Douglas Mulhern would be taking himself to bed. And he already decided that when he woke up in the morning, he would roll over in bed, give those shaved man-boobs of his, a hearty squeeze and he would even tell himself “bonjour” in a French accent that he was certain would sound far more convincing than the one Renee wasn’t quite capable of pulling off.


About the Author: 

Paul Germano lives in Syracuse, NY; with his dog April, a strong, muscular and lovable Pit Bull. Germano’s fiction has been published in roughly 25 print and online magazines including The Aroostook Review, Fiction 365, Hobart, Marco Polo Arts Magazine, the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette, the Vestal Review and VIA: Voices in Italian Americana. Most recently, his story, “Nine Times Out of Ten,” was published in April 2014 in the Journal of Microliterature.