Friday, October 24, 2008
Most women have a couple of good male friends who treat their female friends like one of the guys. No topic is forbidden territory. They have no cover for their mouths; in matters of sex, love and romance (with romance often the least of these) anything that comes up, comes out.
This past summer I hung out with a group of friends, both male and female. We hadn’t seen each other for a while. As always, rum and “ole talk” (trash talk) flowed like the River Niger. So did laughter, due in part to one man’s confession. It takes a real man to make fun of himself and his relentless, hilarious (and often unsuccessful) pursuit of women under 30. He’s the polar opposite of a gray-haired Don Juan I remember from some years back. With his cap cocked to the back, draped in gold chains and baggy jeans, he beat the bushes for young women like a big game guide on safari. “The only thing an old woman could do for him was show him where a young woman went.” Unlike our friend, nothing about this man made me laugh. Instead I felt sorry for the old desperado. Still, neither of these men wanted a big woman.
In case you’re thinking Big and Beautiful, or Fabulous and Thick, not this time. Today I’m defining her Caribbean style. To our brothers and sisters in the tropics, a big woman is a woman of a certain age; a grown woman; a seasoned sister.A few weeks after our gathering I had an “interesting” conversation with a younger man. It may have been the memory of past pleasure, but his whole demeanor changed when he described the lure of the big woman. He didn’t stutter, stumble or half-step; his appreciation for the seasoned sister was sharp, smooth and sweet like soursop ice cream. I declined the hands-on demonstration (lol), but I listened well as he spoke of the big woman’s sense of confidence, accomplishment and sensuality. According to him, she has nothing to prove to anyone – she’s been there, done that, and on this go-around, can do it even better. To the surprise of some, and the joy to others, it’s not all about looks or sex. Apparently, he’s not alone. A friend jokingly referred to herself as senior citizen to a younger man looking to check her out. I’m taking bets that right now he’s signed up for early admission to AARP. It gives new meaning to the phrase “big girl panties” – on or off (lol).
So the next time a man of a certain age wants to put the Big Woman out to pasture, let him know who’s got the upper hand. Refer him to From Dusk to Dawn, page 6, paragraph 3, lines 4-6!
Friday, October 3, 2008
First, a disclaimer. I color my hair. When it’s too dark, I look like Bela Lugosi. That’s why I have no problem with improving the hand that nature dealt us (to a point). And neither do television talk show hosts – in the past two months I’ve seen a whole posse of plastic surgeons and their greatest creations cheesing from the front row. They talk about collagen, botox, restylane and some stuff made out of pig skin. There’s a lift, a tuck, a sucking out and a plumping up for every part of a not-quite-good enough body. Eager audiences applaud for women who were renewed by surgery or non-surgically “refreshed.” They squirm at big-screen shots of oozing injections. They’re shocked and sympathetic to guests with scary stories (and the scars to prove them) of surgery that made them wish they’d kept those thin lips or that A cup.
Most of the shows were mildly interesting. But when talk turned to the perky booty, one particular show became fall-down funny. So listen up: if you want a high round butt, but don’t want it cut and stuffed into a Brazilian Butt Lift, there’s a Butt Bra in your future. When I finished laughing, I had to search the net for a picture. It looked like the unholy marriage of a chastity belt and a horse bridle. What sadist created this contraption? And what woman is so desperate for a book shelf booty that she’d walk the streets bound up in an instrument of torture? I was a little ticked; there was nothing comparable for men. But before I could work up a good head of steam, I found a figure in boxer briefs, sporting “The Package Booster.” I laughed so hard I expected a knock on the door and a charge of disturbing the peace.
So here’s a question: What happens at the moment of truth when the clothes come off and the woman’s apple bottom butt drops to the back of her knees? Or when that long limousine (as promised by the Package Booster) turns into a "tiny little Volkswagen with two flat tires"? In sue-happy America I can just see these people in front of Judge Joe Brown claiming false advertising, misrepresentation of goods, bait and switch, or whatever it’s called in legalese.
The real question is “what price beauty?” And when does this craziness start? Here’s one answer: it begins when a 7 year old girl is replaced by a lip-synching stand-in because she’s “just not pretty enough.” In the words of my mother, it’s a sure sign we’re going to hell in a hand basket.