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Shorts
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| Bum Steer | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| 22 November 2006 | ||||||||||||||||||||||
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This is fiction. Fiction. I am not the narrator of this story. OK, yes, I had a delegate last week that wore the legend jeans that inspired the story. And, yes, maybe once I was frightened at the urge to straighten a seam. But before you start, I do not go around drooling over women's behinds. Not at all. Honest. Besides, I'm more of a boob man. And I'm sorry about the title. It wasn’t his fault. His eyes were just naturally drawn there. Surely it was designed to do just that. The young woman walking briskly in front of him had emblazoned in white across the rear of her black jeans ‘LEGEND’. The seam split the word neatly in two. ‘LEG’ on her left cheek, ‘END’ on her right. How odd. Surely it was obvious to every heterosexual male that followed behind her that that was exactly where her legs ended. He smiled to himself, wishing he could share the clever wordplay with someone. Should he approach her and show her his clever sense of humour? A whole world of no! The jeans weren’t tight, but underneath he could see the suggestion of her buttocks, working to the rhythm of her no-nonsense stride. First LEG would raise itself, then END. See-sawing together down the road. See-saw, Marjorie Dawe. He found himself matching her gait, walking to the beat of the nursery rhyme. He wondered who Marjorie Dawe was. What had she done to deserve a song dedicated to her? Had her bottom been so spectacular that it had become legend? Legendary leg ends. The tops when it came to bottoms. The legendary jeans were joined by a denim mini skirt. The two bottoms knew each other, and far above them their owners chatted to each other as they walked on. The mini was tight across her bottom, curving in under the roundness of her buttocks, before loosening their grip on her lower thighs. Was the material specifically shaped like that? Did they have a bottom-shaped steam press to shape it? Did it adjust to fit different shapes and sizes? Not that there was anything wrong at all with the shape and size. Pert. That was precisely what the word meant. It meant a bottom that was the exact shape and size revealed by the straining denim in front of him. That shape could not be achieved by low-fat yoghurt alone. It was an exercised behind. She probably spent hours on the treadmill. Or possibly she was a sportswoman. Tennis, he would guess. He could see her leant over, poised, bouncing from foot to foot, waiting for the serve. It was a bottom that cried out to be held in his hands. Hello, Buttercup, may I cup your butt? Oh this was so wrong. In this day and age, and with him being a new man, and spoken before besides. He shouldn’t be walking along the street staring at women’s bottoms. But why had she chosen to wear a mini? It was chilly this morning. The season’s first frosts had descended last week. Surely, if the intention was not to attract stares, surely she would have worn something less revealing. He thought back to his grandmother, much missed now. She had a home philosophy completely untouched by correctness and the modern world. “If it’s not for sale, it shouldn’t be in the shop window” she would say, whenever she saw a ‘brazen hussy’. But the bottom was not perfect. Not quite. The seam lay an inch to the right of the valley shrouded in denim. Now that he saw it, it was irritating in the extreme. It was like seeing a label sticking out of the top of a sweater. He had an almost overpowering urge to take hold of the skirt and give it a sharp tug, just to line it up properly. It frightened him just how strong the urge was, and he stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. Your Honour, I was just lining up her seam. I was trying to do her a favour. And the magistrate would look over his glasses sternly and sentence him to five years. Perhaps it had started off straight, and had worked its way round. Was one buttock greedier than the other, the skirt equivalent of a duvet-hogger? He was amazed it didn’t work itself up as well. Was there sellotape involved, he wondered? Velcro underwear? He followed them into the building, and they waved their passes at the electronic turnstiles. He stopped short, looking nonplussed. The man in the blue blazer at the reception desk called out to him. “Sir? Sir? Can I help you at all?” “Erm… no, not really. I’m afraid this is the wrong building. Sorry” He hurried outside and looked around. After a moment he turned and re-entered the building, approaching the receptionist shame-faced. “Actually, you can help me. Where the hell am I?”
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