he first time my booty was called out in public, was in middle school. Sporting tight, white, Levi’s 501s, I was strutting across the cafeteria when one of the most popular guys yelled at me:

—Hey, you! Nice ass!

I blushed and mumbled something indistinguishable, but most of all I was filled with an enormous sense of pride: Of all the asses in that room, he had called out mine! That’s when I realized the power of the bum, and that having a great one—whatever that means—was something to aspire to.

(Or shall I say ass-spire to?)

My first long-term boyfriend, who took both my virginities, was a huge Broadway musical fan. He’d sing along to songs, like the hit from A Chorus Line:

—Tits and ass can change your life. They sure changed mine.

My last, long relationship was with a dude from the Dirty South. The two of us threw booty dance parties with discounted entries depending on the length of your boothy shorts, (yeah, I know!) and would bounce all night to DJ Assault:

—Ass, titties, ass-n-titties. Ass ass titties titties, ass-n-titties.

Needless to say, my rump always received a fair amount of appreciation, but being far above averagely endowed in the upper-region, my ass was always overshadowed by the titties.

This changed a couple of years ago.

Never-ever did my derriere get as much attention as after I found myself deep in the BDSM scene. After all these years of coming last — my rear-end suddenly took the main stage.

To the average Dom, your ham is the holy grail: It’s to be worshipped and whipped, banged and beat; a canvas to be painted on, no part of it is left untouched.

Words like anal training became a part of my daily vocabulary and my new friends had Masters who owned their assholes—meaning no one else was allowed to enter. The same friends gifted me things like intimate cleaning devices for my birthday as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Receiving as much scrutiny as it did, I’d put extra care into brushing and scrubbing it. I even applied purifying clay masks — to my other cheeks.

My play partner at the time would regularly end his messages with, “I miss my butt”. (Meaning he missed my butt).

This Dom—someone who took the whole ‘pain-ting on the canv-ass’-business very seriously—always requested that I photo-document and sent him the development and fading of his paintings (aka my bruises), in the days preceding a session.

From never having taken a single photograph exclusively of my tush, I became a belfie wizard.

My phone, from being filled with people, places and things; portraits and food-porn—and all the stuff normal people photograph—turned to an ass-spectacle; a colorful display of my fanny, fading from deep eggplant to pale rose.

It was during an exchange of said (ass-) selfies that it happened. Our previous session had involved the dreaded cane, which, in case you’re not familiar, leaves some fairly remarkable marks.

He kept pleading for more, and more pics and I was having a hard time as I was also riding my bike in the rain. But he was my Sir, after all, so my (previously) gullible subby-self did her damn best to comply.

Always the multi-tasker, I was simultaneously planning a pizza-date with a group of parents from my daughter’s daycare.

It started to pour and I threw my smartphone into my rain-jacket-pocket and kept going. When I finally found a covered area, I stopped to wipe my hands and reached for my phone to finish.

It was then that I saw it:

A dashing close-up of my battered butt!

On my screen!

In the wrong chat!

White dots clouded my vision, my knees started to wobble and my trembling hands could barely hold on to the phone:

—Christ on a bike, what have I done? I’m screwed!

Lucky for me, I was still invited to pizza. I’d kept my ass out of the grass—by a single click.

If any, I guess the moral of the story is that while the badonkadonk deserves its fair share of praise, there are still times when you need to watch your ass — or you might end up the butt of the joke.

And, for god sakes, keep your sexting and regular adulting separate!

‍