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"I am so hung over," confesses Ashley Frangipane, brushing back a wisp of her signature blue hair.
While Georgette Heyer is generally thought of as the author of regency romance novels, a number of her books, such as The Talisman Ring (1936), are actually historical mysteries with a romance subplot.

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There’s something noticeably missing from the cover of this year’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, that time-honored tradition of half-naked models posing in front of the camera in the name of sports. Save for the smallest sliver of sideboob, there’s nary a bronzed mammary gland to be seen.

Instead, you’ll find not one, but three scantily-clad butts.

But the question still remains: Aside from Kanye and Sir Mix-A-Lot, do men really like big butts?

Or is it just a rumor that got started and everyone followed suit?

It’s ballsy to cop a feel of a girl’s chest—a guy might get away with an extra-tight hug—but for some reason, people think the ass is up for grabs. A friend who was dating the actor Jamie Foxx asked me to wear a long baggy sweater once when we went out with him. Just because it’s big, doesn’t mean I want something in it. I buy my dresses and pants multiple sizes bigger to be able to fit my rear, then get the rest taken in by a tailor.

Catcalls are a friendly hello—because multiple 311 calls to report harassment won’t change that they happen to me several times a day. Another boyfriend couldn’t decide what he liked more—me or my ass. I agreed to hide the fanny, but he seemed to be able to just sense it was there. One pain in the rear I always endure is the inevitable spanking. But, no matter how I dress, I somehow always end up looking like a Kardashian. If I can’t show off my waist and legs, then I end up looking like a blob.

As a woman who definitely does not have "back," this always sort of made me feel left out.

According to Sir Mix-A-Lot, if you don't got buns then his anaconda don't want none.

The only thing I can wear off the rack is black and clothes with stretch.

Spanx are my pals, but even they seem to get lost in the crevices.

Kim Kardashian (Photo by Bruce Gifford/Film Magic) " data-medium-file="https://scstylecaster.files.wordpress.com/2015/01/kimk1.jpg? w=449" data-large-file="https://scstylecaster.files.wordpress.com/2015/01/kimk1.jpg? w=100&h=150 100w" sizes="(max-width: 578px) 100vw, 578px" /No matter what you call it—booty, junk in the trunk, cake, bootius maximus, or round derrière—there’s no denying butts are having an especially, well, big moment right now. I’ve learned to ignore trainers who claim they can work it out. But beyond the issue of clothes, there’s the issue of men and my butt. It doesn’t matter where I am—the subway, the gym, Whole Foods—somehow, guys always manage to graze it.

w=578" class="wp-image-338040 size-full" src="https://scstylecaster.files.wordpress.com/2015/01/kimk1.jpg? w=578&h=863" alt="Vegas Magazine Fourth Anniversary Party" width="578" height="863" srcset="https://scstylecaster.files.wordpress.com/2015/01/kimk1578w, https://scstylecaster.files.wordpress.com/2015/01/kimk1.jpg? I work out four times a week, and most would say I’m fit—but my butt ain’t going anywhere. When you have a big butt, people throw that word at you a lot. In fact, the lazier I am, the smaller it gets, and softer, and just a bit saggy. When I was eight years old, 50 pounds soaking wet, my family joked that I looked like I was wearing a diaper. I wore a mall girl’s version of Jenny From the Block’s green Versace dress from the 2000 Grammy’s to my prom. Without them, I would’ve subjected my classmates to plumber’s butt in my sad attempt to squeeze into Abercrombie jeans.