The front butt is the worse butt of all.
The low roll, the pouch east to west and sitting at the hip bone. Endless crunches, reverse curls and fewer carbs will tame it, make it manageable, but it’s a committed partner. I’ve always had a round belly. I find it in old Kodak Instamatic photos, those 4 x 4 square snaps with rounded corners; age 7 or 8 in pink polyester shorts with the sewn-in front seams, it sits high and tight, like a fanny pack turned to the front.
Gorgeous female creatures are those with hips, plump cheeks, rounded edges and dewy skin soft to the touch. Yet the front butt is the hate in the love-hate body relationship. Just a bit flatter, please. Still like a pillow one can rest a head one, but less…obvious. Because of sex.
Some activities require a good deal of focused attention in focused areas, carefree and uninhibited. Could I lay flatter on my back, make it appear less like the pink fleshy plains I envision, a vast frontier awaiting the Lewis and Clark expedition? This is not the time for distraction, covering up body and soul. At times, the hate in the love-hate wins out. But to proclaim hate for any part of your physical being is to hate yourself.
Love the belly. Rub it for luck like a Buddha. Give in to the attentive touch of a big hand, warm skin on skin. Like perspective drawing, the bigger the hand, the smaller the point of view.