Philadelphia Weekly

At last, the answer you've all been waiting for: The butt pads work. Butt not for me.

Let me back up for those of you who are just tuning in. Several weeks ago I wrote a column about my ass in which I lamented its "lack of baloony appeal." The butt-themed column was prompted by Star magazine's revelation that Jessica Simpson may have used fake-butt panties in The Dukes of Hazzard. After seeing the magazine's photograph of those panties, I decided I had to get some of my own.

I found them at a sexy store on South Street, and I was so thrilled to have them, I didn't even wait to go home to put them on. I went right to Starbucks at Fourth and South, ordered a chai latte for fortitude, and changed from flat butt to fat butt in mere seconds. I felt like some kind of superhero.

I walked all the way back to work, and every time I caught sight of myself in a window, the phrase "baby got back" popped into my mind unbidden. It kind of made me queasy to have Sir Mix-A-Lot so deeply ingrained in my cerebral cortex.

I spent several hours in a number of different venues trying to elicit some kind of reaction-even an embarrassed glance would've been good-but no one noticed me. I swiveled my hips in a way I haven't done since I took a Jazzercise class in the '80s. It didn't seem to help.

I walked by bus stops and through Rittenhouse Square. I even deliberately detoured to several construction sites, where dust-covered men were, in their union fashion, loafing and talking. They didn't say a word. I wanted to turn around and say, "Can't you even get off your asses and gimme a wolf whistle or something? Jeez."

Finally, I went to the supermarket, where I bent over to pick up canned vegetables I didn't want to buy, and fondled peaches, hoping someone would make the subliminal link. Nada.

There are two possible explanations for this pervasive disregard of my new booty: 1) I was wearing a loose-fitting skirt, so you couldn't really distinguish my features, or 2) my butt was so flat to begin with that even with all this padding I just looked like a normal-butted person.

The second explanation depressed me, so I went home to change into some jeans. I chose a pair that typically sag on me like a denim diaper. The jeans, which I'd purchased by mistake before I realized they were made for large-assed women, fit me perfectly with the butt panties on. Miraculous!

I went back into the world renewed. At the Wine & Spirits shop one of the salesmen seemed absolutely mesmerized by my posterior. On the other hand, he may have simply been wondering if my walk was evidence of some kind of twitchy palsy.

The funny thing about wearing the butt was that after I got over the initial pleasure of finally filling out those jeans, I kind of forgot about it. Then when I'd catch myself in a mirror, I'd panic: Oh, no! I really have to get to the gym!

Until I had a butt, I'd pretty much ignored the lower half of my body when working out. But if I had a bubbly butt I'd be worried constantly about its potential for expansion and destruction. Kind of the way I worry about the Bush administration.

Then there's the issue of false advertising. How could I in good conscience wear the butt panties to a bar, get picked up, and then go home with someone? Not that this scenario arises for me, um, ever, but it seems cruel to bolster expectations even hypothetically. It's like the lie of the padded bra.

After I wrote the first column about my butt I got a note from a friend who's short, like me, but actually has some flesh beneath her lower back. When it comes to attraction, she says, "Most white guys say they're into big butts, but I see lots of small butts getting all the action. I've had male friends go on and on about big butts and then date women who weigh, like, 12 pounds."

Sounds familiar. Every post-feminist man who went to a small liberal arts college and owns a set of watercolors wants to believe he could be attracted to any woman regardless of her weight. But give him a choice between Heidi Klum and Emme and he'll have trouble maintaining his principles.

But I digress. The bottom line (heh) is that I was thrilled to get rid of the butt padding. It made me anxious about my weight, and spurred deep concerns. If I had a larger butt, would other parts of me have to get smaller? Would that mean I'd have to Jazzercise again? Do people even do Jazzercise these days? It was too much to think about.

If I could look like Beyoncé, that would be great. But for us mere mortals, adding the padding is simply futile. It made me look like someone was baking a challah below my torso.

And that, my friends, is the sad ending to my tail. Rim shot!