At the bar where I work (and work), when after an interview the drunken reporter asked me “Are you a tit man or an ass man?” I replied:
“High cheekbones” (improvising a little on my favorite poet, whose name is Karl Shapiro):
Verlaine compares the buttocks and the breasts:
Buttocks the holy throne of the indecencies. Breasts savored by drunken lips and the tongue. Buttocks with their ravine of rose and somber shadow, where desire prowls when love goes crazy. Breasts proud and victorious, breasts heavy and powerful. Buttocks, beloved cushions, with voluptuous fold for your face or your sex. Oh, holy quaternity of sacred breasts and august buttocks.
The Slavic typist had high cheekbones and gigantic mouth and a voice like sleep. The Kyoto hostess naturally. Marelene, Medea, and women proud as Tartars, women with marvelous voices and big feet have high cheekbones and dress their hair to a height. In overcivilized rooms you will always find one or two.
Gloire, Vrai, et cetera.