Last Chance

* * * * *
Yesterday she heard about a wet t-shirt contest. Ten thousand dollars for the woman with the best rack.
Tomorrow her breasts will be gone. Good riddance. She's always been ashamed of their large size anyhow. Goddamned diseased breasts. They never even fed a child nor procured her a husband.
Last night she stood topless in front of the mirror and wept. A sudden manic urge made her grip her breasts tight. She'd never felt attached to them before now.
Today she stands atop a pub counter soaking wet, eyes wistful, as the bartender hands her a check for ten thousand dollars.
* * * * *
This was written for Lance's 100 Word Song challenge over at My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog. The song I needed to be inspired to write 100 words about was Runaway by Jefferson Starship:

So I was distracted from the lyrics by the seemingly unintentional eroticism in the montage of images. The wet t-shirts and whatnot made me laugh and at first I decided to just write a raunchy sex scene, but then I got the idea for the thing above.