"You know, some men are leg men. . .

and some like breasts," Fred told me. "I'm a --"

"Ass man," I said.

Fred's eyes widened and his mouth froze open.

I laughed. Enough conversations about mine, no surprise there.

"Well, you don't have to say it like that," he said.

"What? Are you a fanny man? A booty guy? A buttocks man? No, ass man sounds best."

He grinned. "Those jeans of yours must be painted; I don't know how you even get 'em on."

(Lie on the floor. Tug, tug, tug and tug some more. A sturdy safety pin pulls up the zipper. Hoist yourself to a standing position by using the nearest chair. Breathing is optional, but worth the smile on a man's face.)

"If you gain one more ounce, I swear you're gonna just bust out of 'em."

I examined the seams. "Double-stitched." I assured him. "And are you saying my butt's too big?"

Fred shook his head. "I ain't saying that 'cause I ain't complaining. . . "