Folks I have something to confess. I have an obsession, or better yet an addiction. I'm addicted to crack. Not cocaine crackel-pop-crack, but Female crack; phat ass crack; booty crack. I desperately need your immediate assistance in this matter. I've tried to go cold turkey on my own since the age of 7 or 8, when I first caught myself staring at a girls phat ass for a longer than normal period of time, but my attempts to rid myself of this addiction have constantly failed; nothing seems to work. I've continuously attended A.A.S.S. (Ass Anonymous Stop Staring) meetings, but I immediately start staring at the instructor's phat ass and am asked to leave within the first 15 minutes of arriving to the session. If only they would listen to what I had to say, maybe they could help. Can somebody help me? Anyone? Please help me. I'm obsessed with the booty!
OK, maybe most of the introduction was a bit fabricated, you know the whole attending A.A.S.S. meetings business and all, which by the way you must admit was pretty clever, but the reality of it all is that I do have an unhealthy obsession with the “butt”; "junk in the trunk"; "onion"; "badunkadunk"; "phatty"; “back”; “buns”; “wobble-wobble”; "sweet-tweet"; "cabinet"; “pancakes”; "ass"; "booty".
You see, it all started in 1985 or 6, right around the time my uncle exposed me to a second-hand copy of Michael Jackson’s Thriller album. Up until the age of 7 or 8, my life was filled with sweet and heavenly innocence. I mean I wasn't an angel, but I was a good kid; my eyes were veiled. Unfortunately for me, this veil came burning and crashing down when I was exposed to my first event of some watermelon jolly rancher tongue action.
She was my 1st floor neighbor and I was 3 yrs her minor, and she must have had cable back then or something cause the girl was highly sexual. Every once in a while we kept each other company, playing one-on-one games of: MOTHER MAY I, RED LIGHT-GREEN LIGHT-1-2-3, TAG and I DECLARE WAR; the card game. We never did any of that touchy-touchy stuff cause for ONE, she was a girl and therefore an automatic carrier of the cooties, and TWO, I was a younger, inexperienced and shorter boy, and a love relationship between us was socially forbidden. Yet, one lovely summer day, this memory will stay with me 'til death, she looked me in the eyes, it was a different kind of look, and asked me to play HOUSE with her. She placed the rules and regulations: she would be the mom, the caretaker of the home and I would be the hard working dad. She clarified that because we were now "a couple" we were obligated to act like one; the veil was beginning to burn. She found two huge cardboard boxes and we built a cozy home to our liking; the veil was beginning to catch on fire. All of a sudden, she asked to speak to me outside of our home, which was situated by the stairs leading to our basement. She quickly grabbed me by my t-shirt, and pushed me against an adjacent wall. Her hour-glass shaped, well nourished body, suffocated mine as her overdeveloped breast pressed against the upper portions of my bony chest.
The scent of her watermelon-jolly rancher breath was absorbed and savored by my nostrils and lips; the freaking veil burned. She took my soft Johnson & Johnson baby-lotion hands and wrapped them around her round, lower mid section and forced me to squeeze and hold; the veil quickly burned. She then slowly leaned towards my face, puckered up and gave me a watermelon jolly rancher tongue-flavored French kiss. Honestly, at that time, not knowing what a French kiss was, I thought it was an alien kiss with candy bliss. You see, her tongue was all up in my tonsils, and it was sort of wrestling my tongue and teeth; it scared me shitless. For starters, I wasn't expecting “it” and secondly, I wasn't expecting “that!” When she finished, she leaned back, my hands still firmly gripping her larger than humanly normal assets, and she asked: "Did u like it?" Liked it? I hated it! I did! Well, I hated everything about it except for two things. One, the warm watermelon jolly rancher (my favorite flavor) that she had purposely transferred to my mouth as a token of completion, and was now being nervously tossed around by my tongue, and TWO, the wonderful feeling of her boombastic and amazingly virtuous badunk-adunk-acrunk soft Dominican ass, still within the grips of my tiny baby-lotion hands; the burning veil came mother-freaking crashing down.
Five minutes passed and we stood there motionless. Well, motionless except for one specific part of my body, which has always had a mind of its own, literally. I stood my ground and maintained a firm grip. What happened next would change my life forever. She gently loosened the grip I had on her trunk and slowly walked away, speaking into my mind saying: "you felt it, now pay attention to the way gravity helps it move". Good lawd! I surely did pay attention. So much so, that my eyes were transplanted to the back of her Adidas wind-breakers. Chick's ass was a sweet-a-lee, tweet-a-lee and I followed the rhythmic movement of them cheeks. It had been there all of this time but I never noticed it. How could I have missed that? Feeling the "phatty" was an amazing and ground breaking event, but staring at it, with the movement and sounds of her wind-breaker pants, was overwhelmingly spectacular. True story.
So thus began my years of torment as a result of "the booty". A boy prematurely introduced to the "ass realm", "por una maltida" (by a damn girl). I was hitched. Hitched to the round phat ass of a woman; an obsessed individual. The life of ongoing days of whiplash and eye cramps had begun. Twenty-three somewhat years later and I still can't resist the cravings of a harmless peek, an undercover look, a reflection, a tease. The view of a bikini, a thong, a pair of booty shorts, a tight spandex dress, a pair of pajamas with little Mickey Mouse faces in the corner bodega, some tight denims on the 6 train, khaki slacks at Best Buy, a nice two-piece business suit, some SWEATS. A glimpse of a phat ass in any of these garments is like White Castle to me: "It's what I crave".
Now, am I the only sicko in this world that suffers from this disease? Au contraire (French: On the contrary), I am not alone. Out of random curiosity, as it always occurs with me, I conducted a survey via text messaging and e-mail, in which 50 NYC males between the ages of 21-51 were asked the following question: If you had a chance to choose, what would you go for, nice teeth, beautiful hair, or a phat ass? The results were astonishing. Out of the 50 surveyed, only two men answered something other than a PHAT ASS. One of them said teeth, you know who you are, and the other male, said Tits, which was not even part of the f*&cking question. What does this quick survey show? That for one, I’m not the only addicted individual, but most importantly, that it’s not just about the beauty, it’s ultimately about the B-to-the-double-O-T-Y! Yes sir! It’s all about the booty!
Honestly, having nice teeth is a plus. It would probably, and I mean probably, get you a few compliments here and there and maybe even a Colgate commercial, although very unlikely. A nice set of hair would have your girlfriends going on and on about what products you use and how you gave your hair so much volume, but it would pretty much end there. But, a phat ass? A phat ass you say? A phat ass can get you a record deal, hook you up with a professional athlete, get you a mansion in the Hampton's, a shoe/sneaker contract, your own perfume: “Le Bootylicious Eau de toilette”, an instant modeling career, a starring role in a box office hit, your own talk show, appearances in more than your fair share of hip-hop music videos, and more than a few filthy rich baby daddy’s supplying some form of child support; and you don’t even have to be all that cute.
There are times in a given week when an addict's craving for rear “pancakes” doesn't even take into consideration what the girl looks like. The chick could be a “butaface” (everything looks good but-a-face), shit, she could have a chest made up of two large nipples and an eye in the middle of her forehead, but if she has a nice-round “sweet-tweet”, someone, will turn around and stare at her “wobble-wobble”. Strangely enough, the chick becomes equivalent to a Taco Bell Crunch Wrap Supreme; "Good To Go!" The truth is, that being ugly and having a phat ass, justifies your man’s choice in YOU. His friends will tease him and say, “that bitch is ugly…(pause)…but she got a phat ass though”.
So, do I really have a serious problem here? Maybe so. Do I really want some help? Maybe not. I just wanted your attention. I take this time to send a shout out to the legend, Mr. Sir Mix-A-Lot, for his contribution to the music industry with his powerful “Baby Got Back” song, and I leave this blog dedicating a song to the booty, in the words of Ryan Leslie:
I’m addicted to you, I’m addicted to you, I’m addicted to you, you’re my addiction!
Berry Merry, Live, love and laugh. If you have a chance, take a peek at what this world has to offer. There’s booty everywhere!
It’s a Celebration Bitches!!!