Humans, human males, aren’t the only ones who respond to women bottoms up. Sure we like the face, and sure we like the boobs, but in liking the bottom we’re right in the midst of the pack: not just of humans, of mammals. Look at dogs, horses … (Indeed look at horses: cheez, what haunches! But human males who respond to the female derriere aren’t just in the midst of the mammalian pack: lizards, insects mount from the rear. Birds do, dinosaurs did.
I mounted yet another image of Christina Ricci in her white panties from Black Snake Moan a few minutes back. The next thing I know my.yahoo.com is showing me a little ad pic for the zillionth time of a woman’s rear in a white bikini. There’s water, and a cruise ship in the background: you know the one I mean.
The other day yahoo had a pair of asses in bikinis: one white, one black (one blond, one brunette) …
I hate advertising. I love information. I believe in the social right to notification, I believe in my right to tell you who I am, what I offer (or at least what I claim), how to reach me, what I’m looking for … But I do not believe anyone has a right to advertise: to show boobs, or ass, and then foist a pitch for snake oil. I believe in my right to say I’m an English teacher; I do not believe in CocaCola’s right to put a billboard on the highway no matter how zoftic the model. I believe in Nixon’s right to say he’s running for president; I don’t believe he had any right to raise money to buy TV time.
Notice, that’s what my Free Learning Exchange, Inc. meant in 1970!
When I open a dictionary I expect to be able to look up the word “advertisement”: without a Coke ad popping up between me and my target dictionary entry. If I’m trying to check on “artificial respiration” I don’t want a spread-eagled girl to intrude, however she’s dressed or undressed. I hate advertising.
But I’m impressed to hell and gone by some of the ad pics that do pop up. There are some very clever agencies, photographers, designers, some very appealing models …
The Straight Dope site is chockablock with well-composed pictures accompanying snake oil ads. One girl makes numerous appearances: what a face! what coloring, what a wardrobe!
I can’t embed examples because I can’t find URL sources for such pix! But you’ve seen them. (A link would jump you to the snake oil, not to the girl.)
The one I love and admire, however much I hate its use, is of a blond and a brunette grooming each other in the field of a farm. The girls wear short shorts, have loong legs … The girls have their legs open from the knees down, closed between crotch and knee. Brilliant.
All this female fanny, everyday of my surfing life, and all the female fanny of my life before … Being invited in the seventh grade or so by Doralee, my fabulous dance partner, such a cute sixth grader, over to her house, her living room cleared as a studio, to choreograph a new number for her already well-established show business, her dad told me she was upstairs in the shower, she’d be right down. And I saw Doralee, in flesh tight terry cloth panties flash from bath to bedroom, then come down the stairs wearing almost nothing else: her ballet practice outfit … and the first thing she asked me to do, was to hold her leg out, like from behind the curtain, her yet invisible assistant, by putting my hand between her legs … God, I almost fainted dead away, right then and there. I was paralyzed!
I’d had my eyes on a lot of fanny before then, and a lot since, but I’ve never seen a cuter tush, a cuter crotch … a better female package: and Doralee was barely beginning puberty!
Anyway, a memory came to me yesterday morning, at my girl’s house, after fondling her adorable fanny all night long, before I fired up the Mac and went online to my.yahoo.com …
My high school had an all-female-student-body competition, the girls were divided into teams for the Red and Blue Meet. Seventh, eighth, ninth grade, my fellow male marauders and I didn’t just plan to attend the Meet, we peered through the widows of the gym the whole week of rehearsals before hand. And a girl in my class, a Carol, tallish, whom I’d never paid a bit of attention to before, bent over: and stuck her fanny out, I mean really stuck it out, and I just happened to be at an angle where it was as though I could look right through her stretched Blue shorts, look right up into her rear, into her pus, into her womb, look all the way up the tubes and hollows of her body, up through the nether eye, into her throat, inspect her tonsils …
Cheez, I can still see Carol, all bent over, and flexed: dilated: puckered!
Funny, years later I ran into her in the West End Tavern near Columbia. We chatted, a bit, for the first time, ever. In school I’d never said word one to her. Now I was telling her personal stuff, but not a word about those rehearsals for that Meet.
This girl isn’t dead on, but you get the idea.
Now: what is it about bosoms, about legs, bellies … lips, buttocks that’s so arresting? First notice: not all bosoms, not all behinds are attractive! Most are not! Well, a little bit attractive, but not enormously attractive.
For one thing I, pk, say it has to do with how much empty space is implied. The woman who’s ass goes from here to there, or boobs from there to here makes one want to puke.
But most of all it has to do with how convex interplays with concave. The flesh goes in, and goes out … Mmmm, hmmm.
Vision is a primary way the male “sees” the in and out of the female, makes him want to feel, to fill … Meantime he smells her, and so forth. The girls swishes, the guys look.
The girl lowers her eyes, so the male can look his fill. She avoids the confrontational look. But women see a lot more than they let on: and with more senses than eyes and ears.
Did Carol feel my penetrating gaze back in 1954 or so? I doubt it. But of course I don’t know. I’ll r(e)tell a different story: where I do know. In the mid-1970s I moved to Long Beach. One day I’m at a stop sign at a Long Beach Road intersection: just a few blocks from my apartment, in no hurry, and there, walking toward the beach, is a perfect pair of buttocks. I can see them flex as clearly today as I see the above images of female perfection. The perfect ass was accompanied by the hips of a little girl, ten or twelve: undeveloped, not even flared yet, utterly uninteresting. Ah, but the first girl, woman: perfect. What a heine! Marilyn Monroe, in Long Beach. I was mesmerized. My thoughts penetrated her rear with every every step, every swish.
Suddenly, she knew! She turned, knowing exactly where to intersect my line of vision.
I’d figured the Wow was the mother, at least old enough to have a ten year old. Of course she could have been a much older sister. She could have been a baby sitter: employee and charge out for a walk. But of course the first microsecond of her turned glance refuted all those maybes: the two females were of an age: both were ten or maybe eleven. Except the one little girl was just that, a little girl, and her companion was a bombshell.
Her companion was a bombshell, looking right back and me, and brimming into a radiant smile. And I’ve been in love with Heidi ever since.
I didn’t even know I had a next door neighbor yet, let alone that the girl of the South African family was this girl: Heidi. I became friends with all of them: especially Heidi, and her younger brother, Michael.
Heidi van der B at twelve
holding another kid
(The boardwalk, beach, and ocean were just the other side of our building.)
But never mind that. Heidi felt my gaze penetrate her rear. She was about ten at the time, she was twelve when they moved away (she was thirteen the last time I saw her, come back to visit). (Her mother had decked her out bra-less. Aiyaiyai!) She didn’t respond with any feeling of violation, her response was pure friendliness.
But she knew. She knew exactly.
All women know.
One of the rears above is Ana Kornakova’s: very cute, the world agrees. (She’s cuter than my college girlfriend but only slightly. Very much the same rump.) Well, I recently 2017 01 30 saw a doc on her brother as a golfer and their mother. Boy, she, Ana, is not the only one in the family!