Terry Richardson in the dining room - Too white, too perfect, too sexist?

My wife and I have had bums for a while. It's unusually large, about two square meters, and definitely the first thing you see when you walk into our dining room. We love our butts. He gives happiness. Early in the morning he already testifies with friendly equanimity how we often unhealthily and staring past him to the espresso machine - he would never condemn our addiction. In the evening, when the April light doesn't quite make it around the corner to the Berlin room, he tirelessly promises summer things - with his brown thighs and the glowing

the hot pants that surround him.

And sometimes, it is often the middle of the day, I just stand in front of him to find out once again whether the cute

directly under the hem of the pants are actually goose bumps. That also makes me happy. Most unbelievable though, that bum brought real art to our dining room. How did that happen, especially in times of political correctness?