BUTTS

So a while ago Andrea and I were talking about butts, as you do, and it came up that I saw more of them than most people. Not in the conventional setting (i.e. before/during/after sliming the banana Doing The Deed (although, ok, also then)) but rather in situations where most people would manage to avoid seeing someone's bottom. I have either amazingly good or amazingly bad luck, depending on which way you choose to look at it.

Story of the week is from a lovely friend of Andrea's and new friend of mine. Am not sure if she wants to be named, so won't name her, but during a generally ass-related conversation she told a great story about how she was on the gondola going down, and there was another gondola carriage coming up, "And as it went past," she said in a rather scandalised tone, "I saw a bottom." "What was it doing?" we asked. "Mooning me!" Poor thing. My mother was also once presented with a "large Samoan brown-eye" that was being thrust out the window of a passing car. Anyway, enough about other people's butt tourism.

I thought that as Andrea seemed intrigued by my chance encounters with random pairs of buttocks (or, as I call them, Accidental Bum Sightings), that I would write a book about these. Below are some excerpts. Do you know any publishers?


Tales from the Rear
Adventures in Butt Tourism

I remember my first ABS as clearly as if it was yesterday. I woke, slightly muzzy about the head, to the rays of the midafternoon sun streaming through my window. I flared my nostrils, sniffing at the stale, nicotine-streaked air. Something had woken me - an unnatural rustling sound, disrupting the peaceful noise of car engines and children's screams drifting in from the school outside. It was only much later that I found out that my flatmate, James, had woken midafternoon with a powerful thirst, inspired perhaps by the previous evening's debauchery. Under the impression that he had the house to himself, James had scampered down the hallway and into the kitchen to fix himself a drink and snack, clad only in hunger, hair and the skin the Lord gave him. The rustling noise that had woken me was, in fact, the destruction of the seal on a box of graham crackers. I was unaware James was in the house, and thought perhaps we were being robbed. Grasping a stiletto in my hand, I set out to investigate. Carefully, so as not to startle the intruder, I rose from my bed and donned my robe, then tiptoed to the doorway. The creaking of the door startled the snacking James, who bolted from the kitchen just as I stepped into the hallway. I glimpsed a pale pair of hastily bouncing buttocks as he skidded around the corner and disappeared into his room. Some five minutes later as I was updating my field notes, there came a knock on the door. "Enter," I said. James entered, now clothed and looking sheepish. "I am sorry," he said, "that you saw my bum." I reassured him that a naked arse between friends was no matter, and that perhaps some day our situations would be reversed. Luckily, this never came to pass.

One of the more traumatising ABS of my career took place not so long ago, in a small townhouse where I thought I would be safe for an evening from the ravages of the bare-assed. I was visiting a friend who, for the purpose of discretion, we shall refer to as Peter Pickle. It should probably be mentioned at this point that Peter Pickle and I had previously engaged in sexual congress, and that therefore he may not be entirely to blame for his misinterpretation of the situation - however. I had retired to the ladies' room to powder my nose, and when I returned to the boudoir of Peter Pickle, where we were watching a DVD and drinking rather heavily, I found that in my brief absence he had removed his trousers. He had risen from the bed and was staring out the window, and so it was that I was confronted with the sight of his naked buttocks. I enquired, politely yet frostily, why he had seen fit to display his rear. He shuffled awkwardly and, casting around for an answer that did not imply he had presumed sex was forthcoming (pardon the pun) declared that he felt like taking the air, and did not want to wear pants for this expedition. And so it was that Peter Pickle and I walked pantsless through suburbia at three in the morning on that chill Sunday.

Oh, the tales I could tell you! The buttocks I have accidentally sighted! But alas, dear readers, no more can I relate tonight, for I have to go and write a haiku.