May 23, 2012
Okay. It’s my turn – again – to hit you up with a post from the furthest reaches of our archives, and tonight, I’ve decided to shine the spotlight one of my fave guest writers. A man I love almost as much as he loves ass, my buddy and the most lovable perv in the twittersphere, Ken.
In Praise of Not So Skinny Women
A Guest Post by KEN
Hi. My name’s Ken. ::extends hand::
I am tall, dorky, Irish, blue-eyed, tattooed, and an unrepentant perv (but in a non-threatening way).
Also, I love women.And today, I’d like to talk to you about women. In fact, I’d like to dispel a long-held myth about the subset of menfolk that I represent (that being the tall, dorky, Irish, blue-eyed, tattooed and slightly-pervish) and the type of women we desire.
See, popular culture (AKA Cosmo) would make you (AKA women who read Cosmo) think that guys like me are out there looking for the waifs – the tiny Hollywood starlet-types with the ripped abs, visible rib cages, long, sinewy arms and reserved parking at the methodone clinic. But for me, that just ain’t true. You see, I like my women looking more like the girl next door than the girl in the magazine. Brains and some meat on her bones? That pair beats a full house every time in my book.
I’d love to say that’s because I’m a guy who understands that true beauty runs deep. That the skinny-jeans sporting nymphettes crowded around the mirrors in the dance club ladies room are the sort of lost, vacant souls that my heart just can’t connect with. That as a sophisticated, refined and fiercely independent thinker, I refuse to succumb to other people’s definition of hotness.
But it’s actually much simpler than that. You see, a skinny chick once sat on my face and broke my nose.
I’ll spare you most of the details but it happened back in my freshman year of college. I’d had my eye on Nancy Markokovitz ever since she first sat down in front of me in Eastern European Literature. One night, in a moment of weakness, she agreed to go out with me, and we spent the night throwing darts and tossing brews until I somehow won a bet with the devil and coerced her back to my place. After several minutes of gratuitous groping and dry humping, I begged her to sit on my face. She agreed, and I eagerly laid down on the floor as she positioned herself above me, facing my feet, ankles on either side of my head. I was seconds away from realizing what was surely to become the highlight of my nineteen years on earth, when suddenly, without warning, she dropped her ass down on my face like an elevator cut loose from its cables, and a bone – which I assumed to be her coccyx – flattened my nose with a blood-curdling crunch. Then I blacked out.
Twenty-four hours and one trip to the emergency room later, I looked like I’d gone a couple rounds with Clubber Lang. My face was still fucked up the following weekend when I returned home for a wedding, where I explained to my horrified family that I got in a scrap sticking up for a friend in a nightclub brawl. The truth, I assumed, would have simply confused them.
Needless to say, it took some time before I was once again willing to let a girl use my face as her barcalounger. But the next time I did, it was a woman with an ample derriere.
When Sir Mix-A-Lot said he liked big butts, and when Abraham Lincoln proudly proclaimed that “women with big, round asses are fucking awesome” (from his earlier drafts of the Gettysburg Address), those fellas were on to something. In my line of business – that is, the business of asking women to sit on my face – the skinny women will literally kill you.
When I have my face sat on, I want to be buried in soft flesh. To the point that I can’t hear the radio or my neighbors or Jay Leno’s monologue. I want her backside to drown out the world so I can focus on what’s truly important: working my tongue like a motherfucker to show my appreciation.
Nothing against the starlet-types. They certainly look pretty. And weighing about as much as a balsa wood airplane gives a woman certain aerodynamic qualities that, I’m quite sure, can pay dividends in the bedroom. But I’m all about the ass. And as I see it, the bigger, the better.
In fact, forget that stuff I mentioned earlier about brains. A great big ass trumps all. Hell, I got plenty of time for playing Scrabble or discussing Samuel Beckett with my woman when I’m seventy-six and incapable of maintaining an erection for more than 36 seconds at a time. For now, hon, I really just wanna take you to dinner, buy you some flowers, and stuff my tongue up your ass in manners that would defy every component of the Geneva Convention.
If you’re game, hit me up.