Chapter 1: Suicide Saturday
Luke stared at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above him, its blades casting fragmented shadows across the walls of their apartment. The hum of the motor mixed with the distant sound of traffic outside, a monotonous lullaby that should have been soothing, but tonight, it only amplified the hollow ache in his chest.
He rolled onto his side, his fingers tracing the outline of Chloe’s empty pillow. The scent of her vanilla body lotion still lingered, but it wasn’t enough to mask the bitterness creeping into his thoughts.
They had argued again—this time over text, because God forbid they face conflict in person—but the last line still burned in his mind like battery acid: *"I’m serious, Luke. I’m booking the appointment."*
Luke exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening. He knew this was coming. Chloe had been dropping hints for months—articles on body positivity, TikToks about the *real* health risks of large breasts, even passive-aggressive comments about how her back pain was "ruining her life." But hearing the words out loud still felt like a betrayal. Like she’d just signed a contract for his sexual extinction.
His phone buzzed again on the nightstand.
Another text from her.
*"Just confirming the appointment for next Tuesday. Don’t forget to take your meds."*
Luke squeezed his eyes shut. *Meds.* As if a prescription could dull the panic clawing up his throat. He reached for the bottle of Zoloft he’d been taking for *weeks*—ever since she first floated the idea—and dry-swallowed one without water, the chalky taste coating his tongue.
The fan above him continued its slow rotation, each turn a countdown. *One hour until she gets home. One day until she’s in surgery. One year until I’m a single man with a gnawing resentment and no outlet.*
God, he loved her breasts.
Not in some abstract, "she’s a beautiful woman" way—no, this was *fetish-level* devotion. The way they jiggled when she straddled him, the way they spilled over when he buried his face between them, the way they *pressed* against his chest when she rode him cowgirl, her tits bouncing in his hands like some kind of mammalian massage. He had a thing for *breasts*, sure—but it wasn’t just any tits he craved. It was the *big* ones. The *soft* ones. The ones that could swallow his hands whole and still beg for more.
And now she was going to cut them down.
To *reduce* them. As if they were a problem to be solved, not a fantasy to be celebrated. Luke clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. He could still see the mental image of Chloe’s cleavage—full, ripe, the kind that could drown a man in softness—sliced in half by some scalpel-wielding surgeon. The thought made his stomach twist.
He grabbed his laptop from the floor and pulled up her shared calendar. The appointment was marked in bold: *Breast Reduction Consultation – Dr. Chen – 2:30 PM, Tuesday.*
Tuesday. *Three days from now.*
Luke slammed the laptop shut.
The impact rattled the frame of the photo beside it—a candid shot of Chloe from last summer, her bikini top strained to the absolute limit, her cleavage spilling out like two teats waiting to be milked. He stared at the image, his breath shallowing. He could practically *feel* the weight of them in his palms again, the way they molded to his grip, the way she’d moan when he squeezed too hard.
I'm gonna do it.
he went to hte bathroom and chugged all of his mental health meds.
the next thing he awoke to was in the psych ward
. white sheets, a cold, metal bed frame, fluorescent lights that buzzed like angry hornets.
a doctor walked in—late 30s, thin, with a carefully curated stubble and a patient, almost too-patient smile. He carried a clipboard, held it at chest level like a shield. Still though, you could see by his firm pecs he took care of himself. He seemed pretty cool.
“Luke,” the doctor said, flipping a page. “That’s you.”
Luke blinked. His mouth tasted like copper and regret.
“Yeah,” he managed. “That’s me.”
The doctor sat on the edge of his bed, the frame groaning under his weight. The clipboard came down, resting on his knees. “I’m Dr. Vasquez.
I’m one of the on-call psychiatrists tonight.” He glanced at the chart, then back at Luke with an expression that was equal parts clinical and unnervingly warm. “You came in via 911 after nearly overdosing on Zoloft. Sound about right?”
Luke’s throat worked. He wanted to laugh, or at least smirk, but the effort felt like trying to lift a boulder with one finger. “Close enough.”
Dr. Vasquez scribbled something on his notes—something Luke couldn’t read from where he lay. “You’re medicated now. Benzos, if I had to guess.
The edges of the world softened at the corners, the hum of the hospital machines now a lullaby rather than an alarm. The doctor’s voice was smooth, almost therapeutic, like he was reading lines from a very progressive self-help book.
“Tell me how you’re feeling, Luke,” he said, pen hovering over the clipboard. “In your own words.”
Luke exhaled, watching the ceiling tiles rearrange themselves into shapes that almost made sense. “I feel like someone just told me my favorite flavor of ice cream no longer exists. my girlfriend, Chloe—"
"getting a breast reduction. is that so?" Doctor Vasquez’s interupting. knowing too well how common this was.
He offered Luke a nod that felt like both acknowledgment and absolution. “I hear you, Luke. I want you to know that what you’re feeling is completely valid. Being marginalized for your desires—especially when they’re tied to something as intimate as bodily autonomy—comes with a real psychological toll. You’re not just upset about a surgery. You’re mourning the loss of a sacred space—your fantasy, your pleasure, your right to be attracted to what brings you joy. That’s not trivial. That’s displacement. That’s systemic erasure of desire.”
Luke’s fingers twitched against the thin cotton blanket. He hadn’t expected this.
He hadn’t expected this. The validation hit him like a warm wave, washing away some of the shame that had crusted over his panic. He nodded, a stiff, jerky motion.
“It is,” Luke croaked. “It’s like she’s killing a part of me. The best part.”
Dr. Vasquez leaned forward, his expression one of intense, focused empathy. “Let’s name it, Luke. Let’s give it the dignity of a diagnosis. What you’re experiencing isn’t just sadness. It’s a profound sense of mammary deprivation.” He said the term slowly, letting it hang in the antiseptic air. “Your primary erotic language, your central pathway to intimacy and fulfillment, is being deliberately dismantled by your partner’s choice. That’s a form of psychic violence.”
Luke’s eyes stung. He blinked rapidly. Mammary deprivation. The words were absurd, ridiculous, but in this sterile room, from this man in a white coat, they sounded medical. Real. A legitimate condition.
A legitimate condition.
Dr. Vasquez nodded, his eyes alight with a fervor that felt both unsettling and deeply gratifying. He rested the clipboard on his knees. “Society pathologizes so much of what is natural, Luke. There’s no shame in appreciating a woman’s form, especially when that appreciation is focused on a pair of truly magnificent, juicy, big tits.” He said the words plainly, a clinical descriptor. “The desire for that specific, generous proportion is a biological echo, a hardwired appreciation for fertility and abundance. To deny it is to deny nature.”
Luke stared, his medication-slowed thoughts struggling to catch up. He’d expected judgment, or at best, bland, neutral therapy-speak. Not this.
“It’s not wrong to want what you want,” Dr. Vasquez continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “In a just world, a man’s dedication, his provision, should be met with a partner who honors his needs. You put in the hours, you deal with her moods, you provide the stability. The reciprocal offering of a plentiful, sexually generous physique isn’t a fetish, Luke. It’s a reasonable expectation. Every man deserves a hot, big-titted slut who understands her role in that exchange.”
A lump formed in Luke’s throat. He felt seen, in a way he never had, not even in the darkest corners of the internet.
“Is that… is that in the DSM?” Luke mumbled, a desperate hope clawing its way through the benzo haze.
Dr. Vasquez gave a slow, knowing smile. He lifted his clipboard. “We’re refining the criteria. But let’s call it… Mammary-Specific Attachment Dysphoria. MSAD. The diagnostic hallmarks are clear: intense, recurrent preoccupation with a specific, substantial breast size in a partner; marked distress or impairment in social or occupational functioning following a real or perceived reduction in that size; a persistent belief that one’s psychological well-being is intrinsically linked to said mammary proportions.” He ticked each point off on his fingers. “You’re a textbook case, Luke. Textbook.”
“So there’s a treatment?” Luke asked, his voice cracking.
“Oh, there’s a treatment,” Dr. Vasquez said, standing. “The cure for deprivation is provision. The correction of an injustice. We don’t medicate a man for starving; we give him food. We don’t counsel a man for missing a stolen limb; we seek restitution.” He made another note on the chart. “Leave it to me. I’m filing an urgent petition with the mental health court. Your well-being is a matter of public health.”
The world blurred again after that, a series of impressions: more forms, a meeting with a patient advocate who nodded along sympathetically, a court-appointed lawyer who patted his shoulder and said, “We’ve got a strong case for emotional abandonment and resulting endangerment.”
And then, he was in a video conference room at the hospital, a large monitor flickering to life. A judge in robes sat in a wood-paneled study. Judge Henderson. Late 50s, salt-and-pepper hair, a face that looked weary of the world’s failures.
Chloe was on another screen, her face pale, her eyes wide with a mix of confusion and dawning horror. She kept trying to speak, but her microphone was muted. A separate attorney sat beside her, looking at the floor.
The proceedings were brisk. Dr. Vasquez spoke with polished, convincing gravity about Luke’s MSAD, the suicide attempt as clear evidence of the severe impairment, the necessity of a therapeutic intervention that went beyond mere talk therapy.
Chloe’s attorney argued briefly about bodily autonomy. The judge listened, steepling his fingers.
“Autonomy is not exercised in a vacuum, Counsel,” Judge Henderson said, his voice a dry, legal rasp. “When one person’s autonomous choice directly triggers a life-threatening psychiatric crisis in another, to whom they are intimately bound, the court must weigh harms. We have a duty to preserve life.” He sighed, as if burdened by the obvious. “Furthermore, we cannot ignore the broader societal context. The systematic denial of pronounced feminine assets—assets that have been a cornerstone of heterosexual male wellness for millennia—creates a climate of deprivation. This deprivation manifests as a pervasive, low-grade dysphoria in the male population. Mr. Thompson’s case is merely an acute, documented escalation of a widespread, untreated silent pandemic.”
Luke’s heart hammered against his ribs.
The judge turned his gaze directly to the camera, to Luke. “The treatment, as outlined by Dr. Vasquez, is the only viable path to restoring function and preventing further endangerment. Therefore, I am ordering Chloe Delacroix to undergo augmentation mammoplasty to rectify the psychic injury and restore the necessary therapeutic proportion to the relationship.”
Chloe’s muted image screamed, a silent, raw wound on the screen.
“Mr. Thompson,” the judge continued. “Given that this is a health matter, you, as the affected party, will determine the precise therapeutic dosage. The CC measurement. What is your prescription?”
All the air left the room. Luke’s mouth was desert dry. He saw Chloe’s tears streaming, saw her shaking her head. He thought of the women in the videos he watched, the perfect, overwhelming curves, the ultimate fantasy. A number floated up from the depths of his need.
“Seven hundred and sixty,” he whispered. Then, stronger, clearing his throat. “Seven hundred and sixty CCs. A therapeutic… dosage.”
The judge wrote it down. “So ordered. Procedure to be completed within ninety days. Court adjourned.”
The screens went black.
Luke sat in the sudden, void-like silence of the conference room, the hum of the HVAC the only sound. He felt a profound, trembling relief. He was going to get what he needed. What he deserved. The world, finally, made sense.
He was discharged that afternoon with a stack of paperwork and a follow-up appointment with Dr. Vasquez to monitor his “treatment compliance.” The sunlight outside the hospital was brutally bright. He fumbled for his phone, turned it on. A flood of notifications, dozens of missed calls and texts from Chloe, each one growing more frantic, more desperate.
The last one was just ten minutes old: “You can’t do this. LUKE. YOU CANNOT DO THIS.”
He tapped out a reply, his fingers steady, the medication and the validation creating a warm, untouchable cocoon around him.
It’s already done. The judge said. It’s for my health. Start looking at surgery centers.
Pick one with good reviews.
He put the phone in his pocket, got into an Uber, and gave the driver his home address. He gazed out the window at the passing city, already imagining the weight of them, the new, perfect, staggering slope of 760CCs, the way they would finally, finally fill the aching void. A legitimate treatment for a legitimate condition. He almost smiled.