“About Yogi Marcel,” she asked, not realizing how silly she sounded. I couldn’t help but chuckle.“Yogi? Is he smarter than the average bear?�... I fired back, sure that my wit would win me some Brownie points.“Huh? Bear?” she had an angry look on her face until she figured out my joke. “Oh. Yogi Bear. Cute. He’s a yoga master, so he is known as a Yogi. It’s a title, you know, a sign of respect.”“Yes, I know what a title is,” I replied, then went on, giving her my very best attempt at a Yogi Bear. But while still growing, my breasts felt as if there was a new, unusualkind of activity in them. A bit like a wheel turning inside each of them,rotating relentlessly. I wrote this feeling off to the effect of the herb,which had indeed been miraculous, and when I told Mustapha about it heconfirmed my impression and gave me the usual shower of nipple kisses asmedicine. The funny sensation, however, wouldn't go away. One morning,while he was kissing me in the kitchen, my then huge breasts became. More

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