On Booty

Many women, usually white – though of any “race,” except black — mutually lament that they don’t have large or larger booties (also known as rumps, junk [in the trunk], badonkadonk, etc.), an unfortunate example of women obliquely imposing abstract standards and subsequent judgment of one another, because men – again, except black – aren’t necessarily drawn to, in fact, are somewhat scared, of the extreme convex tautness and manifest physical hyperbole of a booty.

This is not to say “we” (however tentative and strained my allegiance to my gender is) are not anthropologically hard-wired to enjoy the natural curve of a woman’s ass; it’s just that a booty — perhaps, in its ebonic capacity of demographic attribution — is simply too much to deal with, and by “deal” I mean figuratively and literally grasp. Size is relative, so let me break it down with poultry: may a big butt be two turkeys, and a regular butt be two chickens, and a small butt be two cornish hens. May these birds not be frozen.

This may have all started in 1992, when Sir Mix-a-Lot via ass-anthem Baby Got Back proclaimed “[he] like[s] big butts and [he] cannot lie,” leading women to think that all men liked big butts. Ladies, we are not so shallow. All we want is (a) an adequate ass, (b) a kind/warm, somewhat maternally nurturing yet playfully subversive personality, (c) at least a high school diploma and preferably college degree, (d) public handjobs within a 50 yd. radius of a park ranger or security guard, and (e) a mental peer and/or spiritual mate. That is all we ask for. Can somebody please write that down? Do not think we all want Beyoncé; she can put my belongings in a box “to the left [ad infin]” that’s fine I don’t want to date her anymore anyways.

The pleasant aesthetics of “doggie style” rely on a gentleman witnessing his dong’s intra-face with a lady’s ass in “real time” as each abdominal thrust distributes “ass ripples” traversing her ass to lower back, whose occasional sporadic syncopations touch upon jazz’s most enlightened moments. Such ass ripple imagery evokes being lost at sea among waves of soft ass, perhaps after a tempest, the air still humid with putang. But if a woman’s ass is a booty, he will get “lost” inside the acute crevices of such a large rump, and it is far from a coincidence that only black and Latina women host these formidable booties, as their prime suitor demographic is the Black Male, whose dong’s girth and length is rather unlikely to get fucking “lost” anywhere.

And so, in the final moments of our rump ridden inquiry, let me just say that I respect all black people, and it is not about that. This is about me, as I am your esteemed writer. This is what I want: for you to come to my place with dainty panties whose visible hem offer the profound “panty line.” I want you to tease me with the pain of plausibility. I want not a jiggling rap video booty, but just a butt. A nice anthropologically sound, soft, woman’s ass. I want to calmly rest my snifter on the counter, to hell with the rest of my Rémy Martin XO Spécial ($141.99, 750ml). I want the walls, in our final embrace, to melt around us like home bukkake. I want to hold, in my humble deserving hands, the still warm bounty of that lush ass, behind the prosaic clothing that only turns you away from me. I shall have your behind, graced with wisps of that weeping willow hair, leaving my past, that tumor of failed imaginings, behind.