If you’re a fairly regular reader of my blog, by now you’ve probably picked up on the fact that I’m not particularly keen on Parisian men. In fact, you could say that 99.999999999% of my blog material is dedicated to bashing them to bits.
So to change things up a bit, in honor of Mother’s Day, today I will highlight an aspect of Parisian men that I LOVE: their remarkably glorious behinds.
What makes Paris so great for tushie-gazing, you ask? Well, unlike the American scene that I left when I fled the country in 2006, the men here consistently wear nicely fitted (and sometimes too tight) trousers. This is wonderful for a seasoned seat-gazer like myself, since this means that their rear goods are perfectly displayed for my viewing pleasure!
There are many things about Parisian men that I detest, most of which seem to stem from their effeminate habits and mannerisms. However, I can’t fault the fit of their trousers. And if being a pansy guy on a pansy diet means that they give good butt, so be it. They may not be date-able, but that can sometimes work to my advantage.
I can reject them just so that I can ogle their bums as they walk away.
But what constitutes a particularly nice butt? In my opinion, it must possess the following characteristics:
- proportionality — I’m not a big fan of a disproportionately large bottom on a man (e.g. Bunny Colvin on The Wire). That’s just my personal preference, as it affects the grace of a man’s gait. Parisian man-derrieres are consistently proportional to the bodies attached to them, which works just fine for me!
- cuppability — A guy’s posterior needs to be well-rounded and — well — cuppable. Ideally, I should be tempted to go in for a grab. Yesterday I actually reached my hand out toward an especially nice specimen before I realized what I was doing.
- perkiness — It could be the Parisian apartment buildings and the absence of lifts, but Parisian man-butts usually sit nice and high on the body — not unlike a well-executed boob job.
- seamless packaging — Parisian men don’t store anything in their back pockets. I’ve a feeling that a “wallet-line” is a punishable offense here, which explains the pervasive and abhorrent “man purse” phenomenon in Paris. I may detest the man purse, but I’ll tolerate it for the time being, since it enhances my bum-gazing pleasure.
Unlike their female counterparts in Paris, which are more or less two-dimensional, the male booty here is very much worth pillaging, so to speak. While I have yet to converse intimately — in the nude — with these well-shaped Parisian nether-cheeks, and while I certainly can’t vouch for the goods in the front, I can at least enjoy the sight of these tight little tushies as they parade past me every day.
Happy Mother’s Day.