April 23, 2009
I ❤ my big bottom
Okay, I don't have a big bottom. (But I have a laundry list of other issues that I work to not fret about if that makes you feel better.) So it's not my big bottom I'm ❤-ing. See, I was at a thrift store over the weekend, and the woman in the dressing room next to me kept saying, over and over, in an ever-increasingly desperate voice: "I love my big bottom. I love my big bottom."
She wasn't shouting. She wasn't whispering. She was just repeating her personal mantra: "I love my big bottom. I love my big bottom."
You know me. Curious doesn't even begin to describe what I was feeling. I mean, she sounded really heartfelt. And yet a little wee bit manic. So when she went out to show her husband the jeans she was trying on, I peeked. Big? I guess. Compared to mine? Yes. But I'm 5'4" and sort of a pixie. She was a tall, tough-looking woman with a round, noticeable, nice ass. And her ass was packed—I mean, shoe-horned the hell into a pair of skin-tight bejeweled jeans.
I believe she had repeated those magic words over and over as she'd tried to get the jeans on. Now, I watched through the slit of the curtains at the big reveal.
(Don't worry, pumpkin. This story has a happy ending.)
Her Prince Charming was literally weak-kneed at the sight of her. "Oh, baby. You look so good in those." Going into a crouch and checking her out up close. "Oh, man, so damn good." Touching her. Stroking her. Patting her. You could tell that he thought she was red-hot in the jeans, and that he could not wait to peel them off her and get at that nice juicy ass of hers.
When she turned to head back to the dressing room, I saw a flush on her cheeks. A glow. Pure happiness. Plus the knowledge that a night of fierce fucking was in her future. She was, trust me, quite a bit more beautiful right then than any Miss America I've ever seen.
I stepped out next, to check my sun dress in the mirror. I love my small tits, I said in my head, imagining Sam pawing at them. I love my silver-streaked hair, I thought next, envisioning him wrapping the length of my curls around his fist. I love my small, tight ass... Well, you know. I do.
Now, you tell me.
The good, the bad, the ugly.
What do you love?
P.S. My spacebar, as I may have mentioned, loves its big ass. No, I mean, my spacebar is sticking. So off goes my computer this morning to the repair shop. If I am momentarily quiet, it's not that I've been gagged. (Although, who knows?) But that my little PowerBook is undergoing necessary adjustments. Bear with me. Or bare with me. Whichever you'd like.