The beautifulest thing about Black women’s bodies is, well, indeed they are Black women’s bodies. In, literally speaking, all sorts of shapes and sizes. Which brings on this column wherein the author will get a piece of my mind if, in his zeal to wax appreciative of such gorgeously thick-hipped sistahs as mainstream media largely ignores, regrettably overlooks the fact that slimmies sizzle, too.
On the tall side, we’re talking winsome, willowy. For instance, them limber, runway-model types, Zoe Saldana-lookin’ types you sometimes see striding along, fairly gliding by as you’re going about your day.
She may need to run around in the shower to get wet, but don’t tell me, ladies, you weren’t watching your man’s eyes as she went past. Tell me, fellas, you don’t wish your woman would look the other way, if only for a second. Whether skinny-minnies is your original taste or not, that gal looked good!
Or petite. Tiny. Think Jada Pinkett. Thandie Newton. Small enough, my man, to scoop up and bounce in your arms. Curvy enough to have you waiting and watching, all through dinner, for your opening to, before the night’s done, do that very thing. And, well, yes, a bit more.
History note: Diana Ross, slim as a switch, was hotter than a sunburn. Along the same lines, Iman, skinny as six o’clock, was a cold-blooded fox. What man would kick either one out of bed for eating crackers?
It’s unavoidable: women who will complain that focusing on a woman’s body at all is sexist. Horseradish. Were it not for physical attraction, there’d be a whole lot fewer people walking around in the world. This said to sticks in the mud.
When even an intelligently enlightened female enters the room, fetching figure strapped in a smokin’ tight dress, there’s no way you can tell anyone that she’s thinking, “All these admiringly staring men are wondering how smart I must be.” Not with a straight face.
Also unavoidable: people, men and women, who grouse that this is racist, going on and on about one color woman. What can I say, some folk just miss the point. I’m a Black man who is what we used to call a race-man. (Don’t get me wrong, thinking I discriminate — some of my best friends are married to White women.)
That means I give myself permission to prefer Black women. Bottom line, kiss my grits if you don’t like it.
All said, “Black is beautiful” really ain’t just a figure of speech. Not when it comes to women.
Dwight Hobbes welcomes reader responses to P.O. Box 50357, Mpls., 55403.