Rebutting the Atomic Kitten
So the Atomic Kitten — my literary counterpart over on the Muscle With Attitude site — doesn't like it when we stare at her ass while she's working out.
She's downright indignant about it, snooty even:
Jeez... can you believe it? I mean come on! If you want a free show, just go home and download porn from the myriad of free websites available at your fingertips! While you're browsing, maybe you could even take ten bucks and spring for one of those anatomically correct silicone vagina devices with "new and improved super intense suction action."
I... I don't even know where to start. For one thing, those "anatomically correct silicone vagina devices" are called pocket pals, and that "new and improved super suction action?" It's a scam! Oh, it's a little tighter for the first couple of jerks, but like non-Dyson vacuum cleaners, they lose their suction soon afterwards.
But you didn't take the trouble to check that stuff out, did you, Kitten? You just flung that line out like it was one of those Ninja fighting stars, hoping it would embed in our forehead. Maybe you didn't know this, but words can hurt just as bad as a Ninja fighting star, only instead of piercing our forehead, they pierced our heart, Kitten, our heart.
Maybe it's a waste of time to appeal to your emotions. You sound so cold, so hard. Maybe I should try to appeal to you through reason. Very well. You have an issue with us staring at your ass and, I presume, any woman's ass while she's working out.
This, ladies and gentleman of the jury, I don't get. So I'm taking it upon myself to declare ass-staring rights. I am the Rosa Parks of butt, Kitten, and we will not give up the rights to your firm, fleshy seat, thank you!
Let's begin by stripping away the artifice of human sexuality. All of it. For starters, no one ever admits this but lipstick-covered lips are meant to make men think of a friendly hoo-hah. Exposed cleavage means, "Your offspring would never go hungry for I could suckle the very earth!"
And what is wearing brightly colored (labia pink?) molecule-thick curve-hugging spandex but a subconscious attempt to mimic the estrus cycle of your primate ancestors?
So if a female wearing lipstick, showing cleavage, and sashaying a "hello sailor" ass starts to do deep, deep, straight-leg deadlifts while wearing colorful Spandex, forgive us if our reptilian brain takes over and our eyeballs drill holes into her posterior. Most of us will try to catch a bank-shot stare off one or more mirrors, but if we didn't pass geometry, we're going to buy some popcorn and some suds and jockey for a front seat.
I'm sorry, Kitten, but you should be happy that we're only staring. If it weren't for the thin veneer of civilization and law and religious and/or social mores, our instincts would compel us to walk up behind you, peel off that clingy, cellophane-thick spandex and stick you like a moist candy apple.
You've got to admit you're flashing at least a tiny bit of hypocrisy here, right? You and many of your sisters think nothing of putting on a bikini or stripping down to your panties and inviting the camera lens to capture the glory of your ass for Internet poster-ior-ity, so why is it all that much different if we eyeball your spectacular declivities first-person without you wanting to slam a 70-pound kettlebell between our legs?
Does it really make you feel better if we feign indifference to your ripe butt and instead lock ourselves in a bathroom somewhere with our pants around our ankles, a pocket pal in one hand and a picture of your ass in the other with a look on our face that resembles one of those myostatin-gene inhibited Bully Whippets that just had his ear scratched?
If you don't want us to stare at your butt, do a modified Starsky and Hutch look and wrap your hooded Juicy Couture zip-up top around that peachy ass of yours. Or maybe buy some of that Amish workout wear.
If that doesn't appeal to you, you could always gain 30 pounds of fat. That way, the only guys who'd be eyeing your enormous protruding ass as it lumbers by would be the wide-eyed guy trying to set a PR in the squat who's worried that the junk in your trunk is going to knock him through the wall into the beauty parlor next door.
Listen, any fool knows not to walk down the street with hundred dollar bills hanging out of his pocket. By the same token, don't be draggin' that fleshy wagon in front of me if you don't want me to hop on.
I guess I should be honest, too. Part of the reason I'm lashing out is that you don't reciprocate, Kitten, you and your kind don't stare at my ass, or rather, our asses.
I just happened to read about a new study that says women prefer ogling genitalia of the opposite sex more than men do. Who, pray tell, are the pigs now, Moses?
Anyhow, given your apparent propensity to ogle genitalia, why is it that you don't ever cop a stare at our butts? It's at least in the neighborhood of the genitalia! Right next door, in fact! Often saunters over to borrow some sugar or just to shoot the breeze.
This is all the more vexing because — inspired by the words of Justin Timberlake — I've personally put a lot of effort into my butt lately:
I'm bringing sexy back
Them other boys don't know how to act
Come let me make up for the things you lack
Cause you're burning up I gotta get it fast
Take em' to the bridge
Man, the boomers can have their Dylan! Those words give me shivers.
Anyhow, I took the fair-haired soothsayer/truth sayer's words to heart. I decided to help bring sexy back, with my ass paving the way.
I loofahed. I polished. I waxed so that water beads up on it like a shiny new car. I applied mud packs derived from sea mud taken from the shores of Fiji. Had the hairs tweezed and shaped to get the close-cropped but not unkempt look of Justin Timberlake's predecessor, George Michael, circa 1990.
But do you even give an appreciative glance?
Since my favorite color is labia pink, I intuited that women would in kind like a color I call "blue balls blue," and that's the color of the shorts I wear to flaunt my ass and send the subliminal message that, like the corn stalks in late summer, my balls are laden. No effect. You just go on your merry way without so much as a thumbs up, an A-OK, or "Bitchin' butt, homey!"
Alright, alright, so it's all sour grapes, sour blue, engorged, congested, yearning for some sweet mother-of-god release, grapes.
But really Kitten, you retract your claws and I'll hide my fangs, but let us stare a bit. It's just a tribute to your ass. An homage. If you wiped the prejudice from your eyes, you might even see that in a manner of speaking, we're saluting it.
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