About the Author: T.T. Trestle lives a stone’s throw from Parliament Hill in Ottawa, Canada (assuming you have the strength of ten men and an exceptionally aerodynamic stone). His stories have appeared in various anthologies, magazines, podcasts and film festivals. He has received a couple of Honorable Mentions in the Year's Best Fantasy & Horror and been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He has never solved a Rubik’s Cube.
On July 7, I woke up with a tremendous set of breasts. Although there was a woman in my bed, these boobs were attached to my chest not hers. Three problems occurred to me as I stared down at their curving roundness. One really big problem and a couple of pretty bad ones.
Problem #1: I'm a man.
That was the biggie. So big that, when I first saw the breasts, I cried out—a weird, awful noise somewhere between a choke and a howl—and sat up in bed. I'm what you would call a man of few words and, before this morning, a man of no weird noises. So the choking cry thing was almost as shocking as the boobs.
Problem #2: I work as the Loans-in-Default Manager for an outfit called Tide U Over Loans Inc.