Jena Reflects on the Very Foundation of Existence:

The Butt

Jena's all consuming obsession with the rounded hills gluteal all began when she was thirteen and her English Literature education in its formal sense began: her English master. His desk was on a raised platform. He used to stand in profile to the class, leaning forward with elbows resting on the desk, foot resting on the platform, knee bent and - aa-aah the lines of that curve... Oh that parabola! Jena's mouth dried just writing this. JJJ

Less so miraculous, or so Jena considered at the time, was his sensitivity level. He was patently underwhelmed by the overwhelming yearnings of nubile thirteen ear olds:

`Jena, would you agree that in this instance Puck's reaction was a metaphor for-`

He'd take in the blank expression and the next moment Puck of Pook's Hill would be flying through the air, Jena would hastily duck and Angela Higginbothom who had the misfortune to sit at the desk behind her would let out a howl of anguish, `Sir!`

Jena would have no problems interpreting the look that followed. Shades of, `You'll keep...`

Interesting don't you think that the image of that butt is engraved indelibly on her pituatary, but his name? Mr Something or other...

But on the hockey field. Oh my...

Twas his doubtless painful duty to take us for hockey once a week. The things a man will do just to guarantee a fortnightly salary cheque

Imagine it if you will. Those late spring, halcyon days in the Garden of England, Mr Something or other loping around the field in those little fitted white shorts. Clinging. O-oh how they clung... Beautiful, endless, powerful yet elegant thighs - blonde hair glinting gold in the sun...

And those sorcerers' thighs leading to- Phew! Yes, you've got it. That Butt.

You've probably also got by now that he was less than impressed as the ball would whizz past Jena yet again. He, after all, knew damned well that she was the County Tennis Junior Champion. Twas also established fact that in rounders she'd slug the ball way over first base to the adjacent Boys' Grammar playing field and then amble around the pitch thinking up whacky limericks for entertainment as she strolled. Yes, twas definitely more than a cynical English master could be persuaded to accept that Jena had no eye for a ball.

`Sorry, Sir.` J

But the sad truth was that every Wednesday afternoon throughout that golden spring it is indisputable that the only objects of the Jenaeye were those thighs and that exquisite butt redefining and transforming her pubescence, her psyche, her all.

Some things take root you know. Jena was for ever afterwards butt bonded. (You know, I presume, of ducklings - first thing apparently that they see they imprint on. Follow it around slavishly for the rest of their natural.) Well, that's her: Jenabuttinsteadofduck. Where was I?

Yes, the situation admittedly wasn't ameliorated when some five years later she was advised by a far more sophisticated-dedicated-and-amiably randy-than-she student nurse, salacious gleam in those all-knowing eyes, that a girl should always bear in mind that you need a good hammer to drive a good...

Yes, well.

(Seems obvious when you put it like that, doesn't it?) JJJ

So. Any fellow connoisseur buttophiles click here to get your daily fix. Any of you philistines who still think you are not quite sure just what it is that defines a butt as opposed to a backside here's your opportunity to find out.

Ahh, dose schveet 'ills of paradise...


The END!