End-Play

There are no straight lines in nature, which goes a long way towards explaining the female rump.

There used to be additional text in Genesis:

...and on the tenth day, He created lady rear-ends, and seeing that they were beautiful, named them buttocks...

...but scholars figured a seven-day work-week was sufficient for the the Almighty, and, anyway, the ethereal quality of these things was self-evident. So they dropped their creation from the text. Pity, really, because I feel it gives things a more recognizable character.

I bet you aren't aware that history is full of other, less grand stories testifying as to the way we men adore the curve of you ladies' backsides. You know the Mona Lisa? She's the one stuck in Le Louvre with 157,000 of her closest friends gawping at her every day. What's not well known is that Leonardo da Vinci originally wanted to paint a picture of her buttocks. She demurred, however, and said that she'd smile enigmatically and guarantee interest in the portrait for centuries if he captured her face instead.

I have it on good authority that her inspiring happy look came about when the painter gently caressed her bottom...

...Oh, Leo, you forward thing you. What a nice touch you have...mmmmm, just there...

...at which point he said

HOLD IT! That' perfect! Just the look I want!...

...neatly explaining why she looks that peculiar way.

Womens' buttocks are, clearly, the work of the divine. The curves are not of this paltry material world, giving many of us reason to spend our lives devoted to their admiration. Some guys will tell you they rank other aspects of feminine form higher, but in the end, we're all quiet lovers of your reverse.




Bottoms Up, Bottoms Lovers!

Heaven on Earth

With the female to male ratio of US colleges at 60:40, the obvious place to be is at a US college. Now, I had not the pleasure of attending university here in America. What I remember from my engineering undergrad days in Oz, however, is a sea of sweaty blokes - NOT a heavenly cloud of perfumed mademoiselles.

No wonder I dropped out.


If I found myself in one of these babe-rich campus situations today, I'd totally be considering, like, a four-year degree followed by some (not too taxing) post-grad work and then a little doctoral dabbling. What red-blooded bloke wouldn't want to exercise both his mind and his body for as long as possible before dealing with the real world?


Colleges are sufficiently like the real world in one respect: If we subtract the geeky, virginal, religious, frightened, stoned, gaming and clueless dudes from the student population, we're left with around three guys at each school getting all the action.

That's what I call winning life's lottery. Plus you might even get a job afterwards.




Bottoms Up, Education Firsters! 

I Smell Sex and Candy

Anna Holtblad pic credit.

 I imagine that, if pressed to quickly - hurry, hurry! - come up with the name of a sexual position, most people would say "missionary". Okay, men might say "doggy". But both answers are a travesty, because female superior loses out to missionary and rear entry for no good reason.

"Female superior" lacks the snappy nomenclature of the other two, granted. But as an all-around winner, FS takes the Gold Orgasm every time. Thanks to the Dummies Guide people, you can compare missionary v fem sup here. Link.
 
(Who'd have thought: a Dummies Guide to Fucking?)

However. I have been told by women that female superior makes them feel vulnerable. Vulnerable? Well, sure. I have access to your lips, your breasts, your clitoris, and all the other wonderousness on your front side, which goes a long way to explaining why I like it so much.

Isn't vulnerability (read: unfettered access) the whole point? We're naked and my penis is inside your vagina. So I'd say we're both pretty vulnerable, especially to having a really good time.






Bottoms Up, Or Fronts Up, Whichever.

All The Power. Women Have All the Power.

 Elisabetta Gregoraci photo credit.

I know she was testing me, because no other explanation works.


The casually over-opened blouse, the lingering lean-over, these are the weapons of war. It's not a conventional war - in the parlance, this is an asymmetric battle.

Winning and losing are fuzzily defined. For instance, do I win or lose by giving into temptation, allowing my gaze to drop below her neck?  The upside is that I see some bra, definitely, and some portion of breast.
 .
If I steel myself and exhibit self-restraint by not checking her out, does she notice and figure that she needs more firepower next time? Or is she disgusted by failure to compliment her with a gaze at her goodies? 

Either way, I am outgunned and suffer from hopeless intelligence.


Bottoms Up, Wandering Eyes.

Sex and Cabbages

Frankly, there's no guidance as to where souerkraut and sex meet.

You have objections as to the introduction of fermented cabbage into love-making, and I don't blame you: sauerkraut is as much an acquired taste as pussy, especially if you're young and inexperienced.

Soon, my young man, you'll be sniffing the air.


Bottoms Up, Sausage Eaters!

Dames I Adore - Sheetal Bhagat

Confession time: Indian women are hot - and fertile, if the sub-continent's burgeoning population is any guide.

It's an interesting question on its own, whether the viability of a woman's eggs or the spunk of her ovaries makes her more sexy. I'd like to research that sometime. Just how to equate the internal workings of a chick with her physical attractiveness is a mystery at the moment, but there must be a way.

Can one smell fertility? Is there a pheromone for ripeness?

Popular culture has it that men with balls are better, by which P-Culture means men with metaphoric cojones make for better men. This is the same P-Culture that gives us high points like Jon Gosselin and Ryan Seacrest. Tell me again why we take one goddam bit of notice of P-Culture.

I shall answer my own request: Because of women like Sheetal Bhagat.

Right, so she's not a Bollywood star, she's not the Indian Prime Minister and she doesn't have twelve kids...that we know of. What she does do is cook and be sexy, on a show called Masterchef.

Reality television participants aren't my usual oeuvre, but there's something about Miss Sheetal. I can't smell her, I can't taste her, I can only look at her from afar.






Pic of Sheetal from here [link]