I’m an ass man, scrate up. Even today, when I see one, I take technical note of its curvature, its design—nature’s hand, of course—its bodaciousness, its sheer voluptuousness, wavy… ahem, excuse me. I like them. MInd you, I’m not looking to meet any new ones, as the one that’s just inches away is prime… rib, seared medium rare with a vat of butter on top, rosemary optional.
But, you know, it’s like how I don’t enjoy going to these dudes’ hip hop shows because there are no women there. Again, I’m not looking to meet one, but estrogen in the room, in my experience, is always better. Women bring an ease to masculinity that shapes things into something more peaceful. Also, it doesn't matter the color, because if it’s in jeans, biker shorts, spandex, or leggings, if it’s gonna shine through, it’s gon’ shine through, period. That’s just me theorizing about the views I like to see and the rooms I like to be in.
The point is, I like big butts and I cannot lie. I hate that song, but word to Mix-a-Lot anyway, because if nothing else he gave us a summary, and he made “Posse On Broadway,” so he gets a forever pass.
I mention my fondness for something round because it coincides with when I understood I needed more from a woman. She needed an “and.” She has to have something behind her that I like watching and doing things to AND she has to be interesting. I have to be able to talk to her after. Sex is sex, really. A woman’s willingness has always been the separator for me, but all things being equal, it pretty much feels the same: something hard meeting something soft, vigorously and repeatedly. Shit, it even sounds good. Why? Because it was designed to feel good, which is why I’m always baffled when women talk about how good their pussy is. Umm, of course it’s good, but what’s beyond that?
How do you represent yourself in the afterglow? Once he’s seen your “O” face and now can’t refer to your mean, mad face as anything but “cute” (a word he never used before), what happens when that big ole booty no longer matters? Can he talk to you? Can he lay still in your presence and feel comfortable? Can you stimulate his left and right brain while y’all blow something? Y’all just sinned seven ways from Sunday—does he still want to be there? Do you?
Circa ’94, University of the Pacific: Young, dumb, and full of cum. Same old trope, huh? But nothing could be truer. I ain’t gon’ even hold you: on this day, the one where my life shifted, I was horny as shit. And not your normal horny, the kind you can fix with a cold shower or rubbing one out. Nah, this was different—a deep uproar stemming from last night’s total crash-out.
You see, I had a big booty thang over just last night. I won’t detail it because that’s not important; I’d just be doing it for theater. What’s important—and crucial to my development—is this: her ass was huge, you couldn’t palm it with Shaquille’s hand. It seemed like she had the whole world in her pants—word to Scarface. She didn’t let me ride it though, that’s the long and short of it. Me, ever gracious but mad as shit, played it cool. I said she could stay; she chose otherwise. Thank the Lord. No way I would’ve been able to sleep next to that, all out and shit, just moving around.
As she tugged those jeans back on, I stood in awe. As she sashayed her ass out the door, I stood mesmerized. In the end, I still didn’t sleep. All I could think about was that slope. Damn.
Next day, horny as shit, pacing, knowing I’m so out of sorts that I can’t just call anyone. If I don’t care, it’s going to show in the call, and she doesn’t deserve that. I could call her—she’d be using me like that—but shit, ain’t no pussy like raw dog pussy or new pussy, so of course last night would have been new pussy. Ahh, goddamnit, this is a new day. It was all I could think about and then the phone rang.
Like a movie, I eyed the phone and on the other end was a redbone with a hoop nose ring, a dimple and an ass wider than all outdoors. She was that PYT from last night, just about 11 hours ago, but who’s counting? She said she enjoyed herself, that my smothered potatoes were very well seasoned. Aww, shucks. We small talked, the mood was clear and the direction obvious. She asked me to slide through—Merced? Sure, all good.
As the phone clicked, I thought: man, I’m finna go handle business. But then something happened. Merced, I thought. That’s kind of a ride for someone I really don’t even like, especially since she didn’t give me none. I’d really just be going to get some, period. What about the afterglow? I’m sure that big ole booty is gon’ be all that a big ole booty can be, but then what? Can I tell her my dreams in the afterglow? Or am I laying there trying to think up some reason to leave? And is she doing the same?
I didn’t go. I didn’t even call or answer her call. For that, I apologize. I entered maturity immature. If she reads this, my apologies. It wasn’t you, and it certainly wasn’t that thang behind you—well, maybe it was, in a way, but not your fault for sure. From that point on, I never traveled a distance to hang with someone in that way if I couldn’t remain in her presence when we weren’t joined in rigor.
I like them interesting. The one I married is exactly that. When that strange position ends, when that eighth sin becomes the ninth’s closing, I enjoy that space—just there doing nothing, just there talking, just there rubbing on one another, just there plotting another run or drifting off to sleep. Just there. That’s peace. That’s longevity. That’s when I realized it’s never just about the body. It’s about what’s left when the sweat dries, when the shape becomes familiar, when desire finds its rhythm. It’s about that steady hum of connection that outlasts the pulse of the moment.
So be interesting, because that’s what lingers. That’s what survives the fade of the orgasm and the cooling of bodies. That’s what makes you want to stay, want to talk, want to listen, want to see what tomorrow brings. It’s the difference between a quick fix and a lasting impression, between a disposable fling and a steady warmth you can return to long after the lights go out.
So, remember, provocative is fine, desire is natural, but interest—that spark of personality, wit, depth—is what separates a passing fancy from a lover you remember. Be interesting. It lasts longer.-Shit I tell my daughter
*Final thought: The curve and the shape draw you in, but the mind and the magic in the aftermath keep you there. If someone can’t move you beyond that physical spark, you’ll always be looking for the next ignition—and that’s more hustle than harmony. Life’s too short for surface-only connections. So, if you plan to bring that old head energy, do it with someone who can chill with you in the cut, get deep in conversation, and still make you laugh when the music ends.
His or her body might be a masterpiece, sure, but the real masterpiece is what happens when two interesting souls collide. That’s where the story really starts. I got a story to tell. Word to Biggie.
One Love
-Smirk
