You'd think the best things in life would be the easiest to advertise, or at least the ones with the best publicity, but as time went by Joanna discovered that wasn't the case. Starfleet press trumpeted the humanitarian effort, the noble adventure, and even her dad eventually admitted, "It's worth doing." But there's no propaganda devoted to the satisfaction of being light years away from everything that's ever hurt you or made you feel trapped, the strange kinship you develop with emptiness itself. "FUCK GRAVITY" — a new ad campaign, courtesy Joanna McCoy. Starfleet could have that one for free.
They didn't advertise the joys of space booze or space babes, either, though Joanna suspected those were omissions her dad had made on purpose.
And so it was with boobs, too. She knew they were supposed to be great, the pinnacle of human female anatomy, but they weren't much more than annoyances for her until she got her hands on a pair that wasn't a practice model under her knife and wasn't weighing her down when she went jogging. She traded in seventeen years of male gaze bullshit — boobs attached to women, never part of them — for personal perspective and they turned out to be awesome: her own at the light touch of a caressing hand, her first girlfriend's smaller ones beneath Joanna's uncertain tongue, Professor Imahara's sheathed in her black officer's uniform.
Freedom from an atmosphere that had only ever kept her down; keeping the galaxy safe from xenoviruses and rogue warbirds alike; shucking soft-focus fantasies for delightfully real and firm-to-the-touch boobs: Joanna fucked gravity as often as possible every way she knew how, and if it wasn't the experience she thought she was in for, at least she'd come prepared for a lifetime of surprises.