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    Black Girl.  Blue


    The Photogenic Ass 

    It irks me to no end to see women who have posed for the camera with their asses as the main subject:  Ass frontward looking coyly over one shoulder... back arched.  [I suspect that these chicks think that having a man tell them not to turn around ('cuz that pretty round thing looks good to me) is a compliment.]  It's not that I begrude the attempt to look sexy-I never have such a strong reaction to pursed lips or scrunched breasts.  There's just something particularly loathsome about the ass shot.  Help me work through this, y'all...

    A friend suggested that it's my bouginess that has given rise to my disdain.  She believes that the ass shot, unlike other sex-kitten poses, does not transcend class:  It is associated with chicks who aspire to nothing greater than video vixen status. Hmmm.... No.  that's not it.  But then she said something that gave me pause:  Perhaps I have issues with other chicks who possess the same trait as I... maybe I'm territorial about ass.  My friend gave the example of a good long-haired acquaintance who takes issue with weave-  she takes it as a personal affront.   Perhaps my contempt has more to do with my refusal to capitilze on my own ginormous ass--and I begrudge those who chose to do so... 

    Indeed, my ass has always preceded me.  As an adolescent I felt that Sir Mix-a-Lot had written an Ode for Me.  In college, Bootylicious was my anthem (though even back them I refused to dance to Beyonce in public).  In all likelihood I inspired Mos to proclaim that "she had ass so big that [he] could see it from the front..."  But, even so, I never felt comfortable putting my balls booty on the table, so to speak.  Doing so just seemed so.... trashy/tacky/flagrantly braggadocious.  Nevertheless, I saw (and still see), the benefit that girls who broadcast their ass receive:  Longing looks, the club speed pass and free drinks... (even if Nelly had been talking about them).  Damn those unprincipled broads!


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    Post-Orgasmic Reflections: On Porn. 

    I've often heard that it's only after an individual cums that they are able to again think clearly-and I am sure that this is applicable to porn-watching.  Only after the bust is one truly able to appreciate how disgusting this genre can be.  Almost immediately after getting one's rocks off, there arises the need to cast whatever smut that has been on "play" into the bowels of a closet.

    In discussing this phenomenon with other women, one of my friends shared that due to her Magic Wand's immense power, there is hardly ever a need to watch any more than 4 minutes of any given movie.  However, because I've watched mostly out of curiousity, whenever I do get past the obligatory nipple sucking, leg parting and grand unveiling of the Big Black Beige Cock, there arises a need to throw-up in my mouth. 

    First:  What's up with the tight shots featuring a fully immersed dick (with a set of balls rhythmically slamming against a broad's backside)?  Rather than turn me on, it reminds me of two dogs fucking.  Besides, I don't think that there's anything inherently attractive about the penis (like beer, it's an acquired taste). 

    And I'm always a little grossed out when the dude "hocks a loogie" in order to lubricate his partner's "lady parts."  It's always like he has to conjur up the stuff from his gut...I don't like it when a guy spits on the sidewalk-so the thought of spittle's congealed cousin landing squarely on my twat turns me off.  Completely.

    And, lastly--while there's nothing particularly disturbing about a man shooting his load on a girl's face or hair (well, except if she's Black...because then that likely means that she's going to have to go through the 4 hour process of washing and setting her hair, followed by sitting under a hooded dryer), I do hate it when a man, in total disregard, busts in a woman's eye.  After all that work he couldn't move an inch or two to the left?!


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    The Shortcomings of "Keeping it Real"

    The truth is overrated. 

    . . . Or, perhaps what I mean to say is that truth (like all good things) should be meted out gradually and with healthy doses of discretion and sense.

    Most women, at least the ones that I know, understand this; especially when it comes to their dealings with men.  The truth is that all of us Black girls (okay, those of us who don't have "blow" hair (n.1)) know that failing to wrap our tresses at night will result in certain tragedy the next day.  Yet, at least a few of my girlfriends, when dealing with that first sleep-over with a guy that they dig (n.2) will cast aside the silk scarf or nylon doo-rag (hereinafter, the "Rag") for one night (at a minimum).  Now, you had best believe that eventually the wrap will rear its ugly head . . . but only when it's safe to do so.  The truth of the nightly routine is borne gradually.

    One girl that I knew had this down to a science:  In the first stage of a relationship she painfully (and strategically) would do without the Rag.  Gradually, she would move on to wearing a cute bandanna:  At first at least 50% of her hair would remain in sight-but, over time, only a few tendrils will be allowed to escape. Eventually the ghetto Rag would emerge (n.3)

    n.1 Hair that blows in the wind without the assistance of chemicals and/or extreme heat.

    n.2 I should note that whether or not a girl fronts is sometimes in direct proportion to how much she's feeling a guy.  Chances are that if she only likes a dude a little, she doesn't care what he will think about the Rag.  Is the amount that we (both men and women) front proportionate to how much we "want" the other person?

    n.3 Years later this same girl got so comfortable with her man that, after many years, she would routinely keep the Rag AND shower cap on during sex.  She may look like crap during coitus, but she looks BANGIN' at work.


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