Now, poppets, you know I'm not one to talk about my bum. Well, not really, anyway. Not a lot. Not a whole lot. Right, well I may have mentioned it once or twice around these parts, here and there... I may even have possibly griped about the size, shape and general consistency of the bottom. Maybe. Or perhaps I may have shared some mild joy if the buttocks were behaving in an aesthetically reasonable fashion. Perhaps I parlayed the Dance Of Bumbum Joy into words that day. Perhaps. I mean... it's a possibility...
Now, you're all familiar with Operation Mini-skirt, of course. And you're familiar with the how of the Operation Mini-skirt... with the needles in my butt, and the needles in my stomach, and the B6 and the B12 and the Very Little Actual Food Allowed Into My Body. And of course, you're all familiar with the subsequent fall-off of said Op:MS, where I decided to eat anything that wasn't nailed down or growing it's own set of mushrooms.
Well. Well well well. There was some gain. And now, there has been some loss. However, last year, when I was this weight, my arse was noticeably smaller. Because that's what happens when you pay evil nurses to jab hypodermics full of vitamin B into your butt. The vitamins break down carb and fat, and metabolise everything really quickly - starting with the first bit they find. So my bum? Became lovely and delicate and petite. It started to disappear. It was wonderful. I've always been cursed with the shelf bum, the bubble butt. Those with less junk in their trunk eyed it in envy, and I always took the opportunity to offer it to them, if they had any connections in the World of Magic and Impossible Feats.
And now it's back. I've started, slowly, to lose weight again, but my arse, unaided by needles, stubbornly refuses to shrink. The shelf is back. You can't rest a whole tea service on it anymore, of course, but it is, unfortunately, back.
My cousin, the lovely Zoolander, has told me many times to enjoy it, to welcome it, to be greatful for it. "Embrace the ass!" he'd say. He says Sir Mix-A-Lot wouldn't have written that nasty little ode to the female behind if men in general didn't prefer a little somethin' to hang on to. Yeah, yeah... men want a something they can rest a pint on and park a bike in. Ew. Except, try telling that to the makers of couture. If there are male designers out there, why don't they want to accommodate their own tastes? Do you have any idea what it's like to buy a pair of pants?!
Saturday, for example: I had a party to go to that night. That Mike Person was going to be there, and since he hadn't called, there was no way I was just going to show up wearing any old thing! I mean, if you're going to be coolly civil to someone, you have to make sure you look good first!
So off I went to buy a new outfit. I didn't have a thing to wear... and after trying on approximately 46 pairs of pants, I was ready to give up. My butt was huge! Bulbous! Bulging! Globular and swelling! Gi-Nor-Mous. Finally, I settled for the lesser of all evils, picked a pair with a faint silver thread pinstripe that camouflaged the sticky-outness of the bottom a little, and trudged home.
All day long, I stressed over the fact that no matter how much weight I lost, I'd always have an ass, and I'd never be able to truly hide it. I'd never look good in clothes; I'd never look truly thin; I'd always have to worry about not being caught sideways in a picture... the list went on and on. Damn the injections for having given me a taste of a bumless existence, I thought.
That night, with hair just so and make-up a'plenty, with the new black satin Chinese-style blouse, with hose under the pants to keep everything together, and with the highest pair of power heels I own, I made my entrance. And fell into immediate and unexpected lust.
Oh... Lord. The Man was... lovely. But, like, lovely in a way that was hot and sweaty and needn't be wearing clothes. He was sex on a stick, poppets. He was a charisma sundae with sex on top. He was put on this planet to go forth into the world, and bring as much happiness as possible by the very act of fornication because oh my GOD that's how hot this man was and Lordy would somebody get me a drink because Jaysus it's gettin' hot in here! (I got all that, ladies and gentlemen, from shaking his hand and introducing myself. See how astute I can be?) So I started to flirt... because after all, my mamma didn't raise no fool.
The drinks were flowing, the music was pounding, and the ratio of men to women was magnificently unbalanced, and totally in the good way. It was a great party.
And a little while later, when everyone was good and sloshed, when inhibitions had long been tossed out the window, when The Man and I had engaged in several shared glances too many... he leaned over, indicated my despised backside with a nod and said, "Now, that is a nice ass."
Now, I've never been one to accept a compliment that I didn't specifically ask for with grace. But this time around? Well, let me put it to you this way, poppets. I used to think I was the expert on such matters pertaining to the seat of my pants. I'm now willing to cautiously allow the possibility that there are those who just may have a better grasp of the situation.
Because Iím a girl. And most of the time? Not an idiot.
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