By Dan Abromowitz


Dear Jen,

Hope you are well! Great job with the fitness! I wish you the best. Now, please read the rest of this letter aloud, to your butt.

Jen's Butt,

Wow, okay. I've never communicated with a butt before (except for a single disastrous consultation with a specialized psychic) so cut me slack if I faux pas. It's just that I have so many questions, not just because you're a butt, but you're an accomplished butt to boot(y). A notable butt. The eyes of the world are upon you, Jen Selter's Butt.

I don't even know where to start. What is it to be a butt? Am I even speaking to a single entity? Our brains are two hemispheres working in tandem, creating a singular "self," but there's not much linking your cheeks but nearness and similarity and peak fitness. Are you "Lefty" and "Righto"? "Louie" and "Reggie"? JSB, who are you?

What's your perspective on the world, JSB? Do you ever get motion sick, bobbing from side to side? Can you feel that primal prickling when you're being stared at, or are you numb to it by now? Do you long to express yourself? Do you have no mouth but must scream? Or are you content in your silence, letting slip the occasional toot of satisfaction? Do you get more pleasure out of breathable or sweat-wicking fabrics, or is there a swaddling peace in the constriction of denim? Is leather a nightmare of sensory deprivation or a cosmic dream tunnel? Are thongs a violation or a thrill? Both?