Kaz S. Matamura

Here’s something that may totally change the way you think about Japanese women.

When you watch old Japanese films, pay attention to where women are walking. They ALWAYS walk behind men, and they are not looking up when they walk, but they have wandering eyes.

The reason for this is that they are checking out the men’s ASS.

I don’t understand why some women get upset when men are only attracted to big bosomed women, instead of seeing the person inside. It works both ways. If it didn’t, advertisers would never spend so much money designing the perfect packaging for detergent and chocolate. Women have equal right to check out all packages.

Whoever invented the magazine PLAYGIRL was a moron. Great news for gay men, but we girls are not interested in what’s obvious. When a woman sees an erect penis, she doesn’t get aroused, she gets suspicious. We are more complicated than that.

There are girls who like abs, wide shoulders, a deep voice or a pretty face. But me, I’m an Ass Girl. Doesn’t mean I’m a jerk. I enjoy watching tight buns, not the wiggly kind, but the swishy kind.

When it comes men’s buns, I am as picky as Goldilocks, except three isn’t a magic number for me. And no matter how much I adore my own race’s intelligence, tidiness and sweetness, I cannot take 65% of Asian buns. They remind me of a flat computer monitor. Not too exciting. And if their owners don’t workout when they get older, their buns look like the face on Edward Munch’s painting, “The Scream”.

Then there are Black men’s buns. This is what I call the “real deal.” They are beautifully puffy. I especially like them when they shine like black pearls. But for my tiny hands, they are often too overwhelming. I often have the urge to just to grab on, but I refuse to look like I’m trying to climb a coconut tree

White men’s buns are friendly and non-threatening in my eyes. But I’ve noticed that when white men get fat, their buns don’t droop or puff out, but grow side ways.

So I decided the worked out Spanish buns are most ideal to my hands.

Regardless of race, I do not like petite olive colored buns or fat Tofu buns. Peach is okay, but I like it shiny not fuzzy.

I have found that my FINGERS are the best way to judge comfortably cushioned strong buns. When they’re squeezed, you may see dimples on both cheeks. I call these ideal buns “tomato asses”.

When you are looking for the perfect tomato to pluck, proper assessment is key. It will make it easier if you give the subject a hug to be certain he has the goods. First, act friendly. Give the subject the kind of a hug that shows that you are not frigid, but more of an open free-spirited type of person. If you are short, take advantage of it. If you are tall, stand a step below the subject. Do not let him hold you under your arms. You must let his arms go over your shoulders. Then, step into his tummy area, and slowly hug him. If he is big, like a mattress, and if you have short arms like me, it’s your lucky day. You should be able to land one hand on each cheek. Gently pat the material. Do not hold it for too long or squeeze too aggressively. Don’t get frightened or you may also frighten the subject. It may take a few tries to get the technique down.

The packaging is equally as important: Underwear.

To be honest, looking at a man in his underwear, even without socks, is definitely not a turn on. We are more into feeling and touching than watching. And when you see tight bikini briefs on a man, you feel like releasing “it” so “it” can breathe.

Elephant pants – they makes me want to drop everything and go home. This is what I call Jerry Lewis humor. You are sacrificing your pride to get a laugh.  Men without pride is like a sugar free cotton candy. What’s the use?

No silly trunks – unless you are playing strip poker. I do not want my man to feel obliged to make me laugh all the time.

My favorite is the classic. A sparkling brand new pair of “Tighty Whities”. Younger women may be afraid of these; for fear that they may indicate that he is a “mama’s boy”. To me, it tells me he is a man who’s not afraid of letting go – he can throw them away once they start to thin, if the rubber waistband loses its elasticity, or turn yellow.

I don’t mind men not wearing any underwear at all as long as it’s with jeans, and safely worn, and nothing gets caught in the gaping maws of the zipper.

No matter what kind of underwear he uses, when you get married make sure your hubby switches to the tighty whities for laundry reasons.

I’m hoping this may open a window of opportunity for all couples to have a conversation that may start with something like, “Honey, what do you think about my underwear?” I just want all women to be able express their tastes, because I had to learn the hard way.

My expertise on this subject didn’t come easy.

When I was young and fresh, I dated a baseball player. It was during baseball season, and he was storing and using his energy for games ONLY. In the beginning, it was exciting and it was enough to just go out dinner or shopping to pick out shirts for him. After a while, just doing the “nice going out thing” was killing me. Later, I couldn’t even bring myself to the games, because I felt like a diabetic woman in a candy store.

We broke up in one September afternoon. We were both heartbroken. I was able to say, “Can I just touch your buns?” It may have saved our relationship.

But if this pain has taught me anything, it is that I have learned how to set boundaries, while communicating each other’s needs. You cannot live on tomatoes alone. Balance of need, want and what we can have is the key to any healthy relationship.

Now that I’m older and wiser, I look for intelligence and nice conversations – at least while he is sitting. Conversations with men who can speak their minds without thinking about what others think, or those that do as they please, is what I love most. There are too many men who prefer to be liked rather than to be heard, and I can’t trust those opinion benders. I like men with guts who can fight me, argue with me and tell me I’m wrong. I know in the end I’m always right. And, because I am always telling them what to do, I like a man who tells me what to do. I never do what he tells me to do, but again, I respect that the man has the guts to be an asshole.

Yes, that’s right. I love assholes, as in he’s a jerk. I can trust that breed of men, because I know that they are being up front and honest. Maybe I’m looking at their behind instead of their front because I feel like many men are castrated. I seek passion – the kind of passion that there is between a matador and a bull. Like Maureen O’Hara and John Wayne – the “table-flipping” and “throwing-water” kind of passion.

Why do we try to act so civilized anyway? Why do we have to feel guilty when anyone if offended by any thing we do or say? We are too nice to let the whiners and complainers get what they want. Taboos and rules are making us paranoid, and we need to be told what not to do before we figure out what we need to do. We are numbing our own judgment. We accept lies or double talk because that’s what civilized society does.  If the wheel squeaks too loud, replace it.  Don’t oil an old and bitter wheel.

But wasn’t it the civilized people that were supposed to rise above from the uncivilized society, and lead the example of ideal society? It surely looks like other way around nowadays.

Maybe we should be little bit wilder, willing to break the rules. We have been tamed too long. We need to release our animal side and do something that feels right.

So here’s my message to all men kind:

Be an animal. Go wild. Speak the truth. And shake your asses. Eat tomatoes.