"Let the Jelly Roll!"

Call me shallow. My name might as well be BootyMan rather than BabyMan cuz, frankly, that’s what I am: a booty man. SugarAnne’s bottom inspires me! I mean that. It inspires me sexually (you know what I’m sayin’?). It inspires me socially (can you say “trophy wife”?). And, dare I say, it inspires me spiritually (as in, “OmG is she frickin’ hawht!”). Psst…I think she’s become a milf! (I hope that’s complimentary).

Lately I’ve been as protective as I am desirous of SugarAnne’s gorgeous behind. In fact, I’m on a mission to save the right amount of bottom fat because I need (yes, capital N-E-E-D need) to see some mature woman jiggle with this youthful new wiggle she’s got going on.

Since we began “this thing we do” nine months ago I’ve watched SugarAnne go from really good looking, to looking really good, to really great looking! In that time she has managed to span the full spectrum of what I prefer in a woman physically. At the beginning if she had put on just nine more pounds she would’ve risked dousing the home fires. Now, here it is nine months later and she's 25 pounds lighter. If she takes off nine more pounds she’ll land her booty in the same hot water (although cold might prove more soothing).

Just to prove that I’m not completely shallow, over those same nine months I have not fail to observed and deeply appreciate a mature grace that has swelled and is flowing from within SugarAnne. A kind of grace that rarely comes without the benefit of years.

She said to me recently, “I still can’t get over the fact that each one of those people are going to die”. When she said it (more than once) she wasn’t watching the devastation of an earthquake or some other natural disaster. She wasn’t tearing up, as she is wont to do, at the 4th of July season’s tireless replays of 9/11. Nor was she being befuddled by the memory of hurricane Katrina, which has found its resurrection in the darkened waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

Nope, she was just watching people. Everyday people doing everyday things. People at an art fair. Sitting in a stadium. Sunbathing on the beach. No specific catastrophe had invaded her existence to warrant the sober thought of death. No tragedy – save the pervasive calamity that time will swallow all of us into the vacuum called eternity.

The statement, although tinged with darkness, is not only revealing in its compassion for others but it also brought with it a flood of clarity to what I’ve been seeing in SugarAnne. SugarAnne appears more alive than at any other time since I’ve known her.

Over the past nine months, her episodic depression have gone from a weekly horror series to a once a year comedy special. She’s divorced herself from “Camel Joe” and his nicotine laced lung darts. She is more comfortable and at peace with herself than ever before. And more confident with others too.

Her vibrancy is attractive; her radiance magnetic. The benefit of years has been a blessing. Side note: for some reason this maturity fails to manifest itself during a spanking. (Even though her biscuit has a radiant glow when it’s all over.) And, I submit, that getting in shape is just added gloss to SugarAnne’s shine. She “gets her sweat on” 5 days out of the week; she has a taken a firm grip on her diet; and, like I said, she has reduced the rate at which gravity tugs by nearly 25 pounds (actually accomplished in three months!)

I love my wife. I’m diggin’ all of her. But frankly, I lust (capital L-U-S-T lust) after her butt and I don’t want no narrow booty. I love her cello shape. I love to look. I love to see. I love the jiggle of maturity (rhyme not intended). I love that she has a four stroke bottom: eastside (right cheek); westside (left cheek); northside (upper cheeks); southside (sit spots).

Don’t get me wrong she’s not threatening anorexia. But I'll be watching every one of those nine pounds with an eagle eye. What can I say? I’m as shallow as the next guy. BabyMan needs some butt to buff. I'm not looking for rows of jelly, but my preference is still: “Let the jelly roll!”