Lord have mercy, I love women. I love women in every season, every state, every country and on every planet if there are more women out there. I am a firm believer that women are #1 amongst God’s greatest creations, The other four being water, air, chicken and gold. 

Let me set the scene for ya’ll. 

It’s a glorious spring day in Atlanta, not too far from the infamous “Little Five”. I’m visiting one of my favorite restaurants, La Fonda, enjoying a Texas Margarita or two while I wait on my server to bring some delectable Queso and chips out to me. 

The patio is comforting, and the sun isn’t baking the city, just coating it with the perfect amount of light and heat for niggas to flourish efficiently. I’m sitting there, bucket hat on, feeling real fresh and more wavy than usual, thanks to the Margaritas. 

A group of beautiful black women pull up in a blue convertible BMW sedan, probably a bunch of college girls or young professionals seeing how they were bouncing around singing “Trap Queen” Like a quartet. 

They were a diverse group of friends. One looked Eritrian, hair up in a bun, gold septum piercing with long nails and a henna tattoo. skin looked like the Pyramids. The second was a city girl. Almond bronze complexion with her long, brown and honey blonde hair in a ponytail, Yankee cap on her head, moving with only the demeanor that a New Yorker carries.

 The third? She was 100% Atlanta. Shorty looked like brown sugar in the raw. Black pixie cut with hula hoop earrings and two gold slugs on the bottom row of her teeth that glistened in the light when she smiled. Definitely My type. The driver, man. The driver looked like something out of King Magazine man. I saw her titties sitting on the steering wheel before I ever saw those dimples of hers. She had the complexion of a chocolate Teddy Graham. Her skin was flawless, and her smile lit up the entire block. 

The driver successfully parallel parks the Beamer in 45 tries, a little less than standard for the average woman, and they all hop out. They obviously saw me eyeing them and the  ATLien says:

“Aye, aye fat bwoi. I like that bucket hat, shawty.” 

 I simply replied:

“Little mama, I like everything you got going on. You and ya little potnahs.”  

They all smiled, swooned and chuckled as they walked across the street to meet up with the niggas that were waiting for them. Now my view was obstructed thanks to a row of bushes and some fine masonry, but the second they got around that? My God. 

Sundress, Maxi Dress, Maxi Dress, Sundress. 

They were everything you could imagine. Nobody had on a stitch of underwear. Not a panty line or thong triangle in sight. I just can’t stress the elegance, grace and influence of a bad ass woman in a well crafted dress. 

 The driver was thicker than cold peanut butter. Ass just bouncing around, struggling to stay in the dress. The ass was heavy, it looked like a burden. Like it had its own area code and Tax ID number. Ass just fighting with cloth harder than Frazier fought Ali. I appreciated that. 

Habesha had thighs like yellow ass tree trunks. She is going to birth the greatest tailback of all time with a body like that. Thighs so big and shapely that she kept pulling the sides of her shit, trying to make room. Thighs just rubbing against each other. 

New York City was probably a track star. With every step she took I saw the definition in her body. She moved like a gazelle, grazing through the fields on a summer morning. She was muscular, but still maintained the softness of a woman. She couldve been a model for human anatomy. 

And Atlanta. 

Atlanta was slim thick. She was probably thin when she was a Jit, before that ass jumped out and those hips spread. She had more attitude that the other three, that’s how I knew the ass was new in her life. She was throwing it around, probably something that she did to compensate when she didn’t have it, but now that she did, it looked damn good. The wind blew and that ass grabbed the cotton like a black mother grabs a misbehaving child in the grocery store and I almost passed out. 

I gathered all that from four women walking across the street. I didn’t even realize I was staring until the server lady tapped me and the male server who was holding my Queso. I had no idea that he was standing there, let alone how long. 

This article was to give women insight on the mind of a man and to inform Yall how much we appreciate the causal dresses that Yall pull out in the summer and spring. 

I know the feminists feel some type away about cishetero men and patriarchy and shit, I get it. I know that some women wear what they wear because it makes them feel good. I also know that some women wear what they wear because they want male or female attention, whether it be hate or admiration. 

For whatever reason you wear it, wear it well, and know that King Malcolm cares if no one else does. 

Happy Spring. 

-King Malcolm 

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