Even as a toddler I was celebrated for my appreciation of a beautiful woman's ass. As a matter fact, I became somewhat famous for it in the early 1970s. Random adults would gather around my stroller and watch me mutter dark oaths to myself whenever a particularly plump posterior passed me by."That boy, why, he's a dumper daredevil," they'd proclaim to my parents, who never failed to beam with pride. "Maybe someday he'll be the greatest one of all!" And I did. It has made me the toast of Al Gore's fabled Interwebs and has been the source of endless self-regard. I understand that pride is a Deadly Sin, but there are things that would sinful to overlook, and my skill at pinpointing a delectable derriere is one of them.
Of course, nothing comes without certain drawbacks. My gift has been known to take a physical toll on me from time to time. For example, when I see an ass as beautiful as Raymi the Minx's ensconced in and lovingly separated by a particularly saucy thong, there's a profound and frightening reaction that builds within me. I've been told that it's not unlike witnessing an exorcism.
First, my eyes roll back in my head and all of my body hair stands on end. My entire body begins to quake as if it had been passed through a particle accelerator. If you listen closely, you can hear the boiling and bubbling in the cauldron of my nutsack. Finally and unavoidably, everything within ten metres of me is caked with my genetic stew. Okay, the last part could be avoided, I suppose, but I'm allergic to pants. I have a note from my doctor, dammit!
Never let anyone tell you that the life of a libertine is easy, especially one such as myself who, like Jesus, has enough love for everyone. It's more ... draining than you can ever know.
Anyhow, that's one of the reasons I read Raymi. How about you?
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