Ass

I’ve come to appreciate girl’s butts.

I used to be a fan of the beanpoles. The tall, lanky, athletic types or, of course, the tiny porn star types who look like someone’s little sister and get carded at the liquor store well into their 30’s.

But, as I get older, I find myself enjoying the shapelier girls, and admiring a nice, juicy ass bound by a tight skirt. There’s been a slow shift, through my 30’s, from beanpole to hourglass.

I assume that this is biological in origin. Some reptilian mating command settling in and telling me to impregnate every bitch I see for the glory of the clan. More sons means more warriors which means more victories which means more bitches which means more sons…

Of course, the veneer of civilization that’s been applied to my reptilian cortex knows that children are a sin. A selfish and greedy indulgence. The last thing the Human race needs is an increase in population. In fact, I’m an advocate of exterminating at least 25% of the Human race and, if you all are too afraid to do it, then I’ll gladly spearhead the program. I have no qualms about killing a couple billion people. It would be for the greater good. We can all get together and pick who we’re going to kill. Criminals, conservatives, Mormons, pencilnecks who smell like shit and spray on Right Guard who sit next to you on the Metro…

But let’s not dwell on genocide! Let’s return to the subject at hand – girlbutt. I used to be pretty strict about what I found attractive. The foolishness of youth, I suppose. Instead of fucking everything in sight, I allowed myself to be selective and critical. I wanted the whole package. With maturity has come the realization that, where women are concerned, it’s not about the completed package. With women, it’s about the journey (appreciating their bodies) and not the destination (the pussies they don’t know how to use and the subsequent post-coital emotional mania). What I’ve come to notice is that the package comes with infinite variations. Each woman has a unique assembly that probably makes IKEA jealous. It’s particularly thrilling when the not-exactly-beautiful women have a certain oh-my-god-the-room-just-lit-up quality, and when the shorties with a mom butt walk by and you fall down to your knees in near religious hysteria.

Hand-in-hand with this new appreciation for beauty, and for women in general, is a more clear understanding of their inherent evil. I see, now, that beauty isn’t all about looks. It’s some sort of power generated deep in their black hearts. Here, I’ll say it – It’s witchcraft. And I don’t mean the cuddly reimaging of witchcraft we have today, I mean old school witchcraft. I mean that, everytime I fall in love – which is, distressingly, fairly often – I just know that I’m going to end up inside an oven in a house made of gingerbread.

It’s the pursuit, I suppose. The need to pursue. Back to that reptilian cortex that’s not at all silenced by a few thousand years of lawgivers. I distrust women, I may even despise them, but I must have them. I must explore every inch of their lovely flesh, lose myself in their shiny hair, and wake up to them on a beautiful, lazy spring morning. Hold them close as songbirds fuck rigorously on top of the window unit AC.

I feel compelled to make even the one night stands breakfast in bed. Wake them with a mimosa and a kiss. Welcome to the new day, you fucking witch, if you don’t have anything to do let’s stay in bed and fuck like those songbirds and drink champagne. Then, tonight, we can marathon Stargate and move on to bourbon and get in a fist fight with one of the neighbor’s children.

Ah…to be in love.

When you start to see the beauty in non-traditional women, the one night stand is a bit more relaxed. The porn starlets and true beauty queens are, by nature, soulless demons. They know to leave in the night, or escape quickly the next morning while I lie in bed and ignore them. But get the underdog in bed with you and it’s all fun and games. (Until…someone loses an eye.)

Disconcertingly, though, I’m encountering underdogs who don’t know that they’re underdogs. They’ve come to either believe in their own propaganda, or have been polluted by a strange vein of media rebellion. The billboards, TV, and ads all demand that women clock in at six foot and 100 pounds and slink around in silk. This, in recent years, has become the anti-woman. A challenge. A sub-conscious sort of social statement about how women should not look. Where once models were revered and imitated, they’re now (correctly) viewed as freaks of nature and simply instruments of the media – not human beings or personalities, but a tool as mundane as the ink and the paper that make up the ads.

This Great Liberation has resulted in two camps of women – the ridiculous clowns who still admire models and the underdogs who have convinced themselves that they’re the standard of beauty because they’re unique, cool, different, and/or human.

Both are wrong. The standard of beauty comes from that deeper, darker place. That nefarious witchcraft that assaults more than just the penis. It’s in the air. A scent, impossible to place or follow. It’s in the eyes, where vision becomes crisply focused when you look at the whole being and not just the smoke and mirrors of the body. It’s in the feel. That strange warmth that all women have, and the way they hold themselves against you. There are no standards. All these things are on an animal level that surpasses civilization. We become beasts of the field, rutting in a hollow with tall grass all around. We become denizens of the night, loping along together. There’s no Humanity there. There’s no understanding of what the billboards tell you to do, or what Oprah wants you to read.

Just put that ass in the air and forget everything, girly-girl, because here comes Nacho…

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