Sexy Summertime Tips for Hot Weather

by Bernina Cuttlebaum

Say, ladies and fellas! Need a little ice-spiration for those hot, hot days of summer? Well, look no further. Get your significantly hot others off their game and on their knees with these sneaky, sweltering sex tips!

Appletini - In the morning, before leaving the house, put a thin slice of apple in each of your underarms. Not only will the apple pectin help firm and tone your difficult underarm areas, the light scent of apple will drive him (or her) wild!

Deli Loaf - If it looks like rain outside, break out the waxed paper. Won’t she be surprised to see you waiting for her in the backyard, wearing nothing but a waxed speedo!

Mountain Climber - Take two climbing pitons (the ratchet kind, not the old fashion spike & hammer kind), and attach them to the ceiling, not less than twelve feet from your bed. He’ll know what to do!

The Hard Cider - Give in to the urge! Buy a whole bag of ice, fill up the tub with applejuice (trust us on this one), and spend an afternoon getting be-cider-self!  

Retail Sex Therapy - Get a book of coupons. Spend the day shopping for things, and at the end, tabulate how much you saved with those coupons. That’s how much love you have in your heart.

A Game of Thongs - Take a long, cold shower and stay in, watching Game of Thrones. Don’t forget the sweats and Funyuns. Sometimes, the the hottest sex is left to the imagination!

The Bare Minimum - Mow the damn yard.

The Deluxe - Roll around in baby oil, then cracker crumbs, then baby oil, then a light vinaigrette, play a game of tag through the hallways, yelling out snippets of  sixteenth century poetry  at each other (pro-tip: no iambic hexameter in the laundry room, you naughty little thing, you). Leave a trail of knickers and good feelings from the front of the house to the back, and then go for a roll in the grass outside. Bonus points for every place you get fresh grass clippings that you can’t reach! Inside, crank up the old steam engines, if you know what we mean, and have a little balls-out round-the-world race on yachts to settle a gentleman's bet leftover from a Victorian supper club to see which of three gentlemen can surmount the globe in a mere 80 days while challenging the contemporary understanding of human achievement and adventure, if you know what we mean. If you don’t maybe you need some kind of book. We can probably recommend a few, but in this kind of limited space, and with the nouveau-puritanical editorial dictates (heh heh. Dictates.) upon us because of the possibility of loss of audience, we can only surmise you understand the basics, and hope that you actually don’t.

So, if that doesn't get him off the couch  and hot on your trail, nothing will! Dump the loser!
As always, darlings, post your questions in the comments below, and, if the gods of beezer smile upon you, I'll give you an answer in next week's column.

Dane's Flying Dog, At Last!

I have my pencils. I have my sharpener. I have my eraser. I am as ready as I will ever be. The test, which I have studied for, is supposed to be 100-120 questions, covering logical reasoning, reading comprehension and logic games. I spent almost a year preparing for the test, on and off. I have a logic games app on my phone which has replaced Cut The Rope. I have spent two weeks obsessing over the details of the four page instructions list which the Council were thoughtful enough to include with my admission ticket. I have a snack, not more than 20 ounces of water and my wallet in a gallon zip top bag. I bought wooden number 2 pencils, (Ticonderoga! The finest pencil made!) an object which I have not possessed in more years than I should.


Outside of the General Services Building, a small dog, probably some kind of Australian Shepherd mix, takes flight. He flies in long, lazy circles around the lawn. He drifts close to a tree, and snatches a shocked squirrel from a branch.

I prepared for the test, under a misapprehension. It was one which I believe will prove beneficial. There are five sections of 20-30 questions each, making just over 100 questions. The test is, say the professionals, one of time management as much as logic. Many people don’t finish many sections. Don’t be alarmed if you don’t. Just work quickly. Somehow, I conflated these facts, and was prepared for a test comprising five sections of 100-120 questions each. It was a relief to see only a single page answer sheet.

The dog drifts up to the drainpipes at the top of the building, and begins sniffing them busily. He marks the upper corners, much to the dismayed delight of those on the ground. He flies over to an air conditioning unit and floats over the top, cooled by the rushing air.

On the way to the test, I began to question everything. My preparation seemed woefully insufficient. At the test, the youthful expectant sat, waiting to be allowed into the room. They shared war stories (two hours a day for a year, still not ready, took it in October and got a 120), spread urban legends (guy whose writing sample was just an elaborate drawing of a penguin, just drew a picture of a T-Rex eating a car and still got into law school with his perfect score) and inflated their experience (I took 3 practice tests yesterday, haven’t done anything but study for this for the last two weeks). I am not part of that culture. I can only hope I am ready. If not, I have nobody but myself to blame.

The dog barks at birds, chases them into the sky and zips around behind them, clearly exhilarated. He perches at the top of a pecan tree and yips at the sky for several minutes, drawing a crowd. Then, his business apparently done, he quietly slips off to the east, over town and buildings, toward the Atlantic.

The Dog In Question

“I want a dog.”

My son, though, is scared of dogs. He has been for most of his life. Were I attentive, like his mother, might think it were because of his exposure to our small dog when he was a baby. Our dog was a jumper and a biter and a digger, and a napoleon; all the things a small dog should be, and all the things that make a small dog a little troublesome to have in the same house as a baby.

“I want that dog.”

At the pound, in his cage, when a browser walked up to him, the dog would stand on his back legs and dance (a practice we found endearing), attracting the person over to the cage. We saw a procession of people walk over, look at this wonderful little dog, then frown and walk quickly away. Upon closer inspection, we saw a sign on the cage, warning clearly that he was heartworm positive. Even so, it seemed heartless to walk away. When he was new to our family, as I stood and hugged my wife (a practice the dog always found troublesome), he jumped up and nipped my wrist, which I was holding at shoulder height. The day we brought my son home, the dog sat on my wife’s feet (a practice I always found endearing), and growled at anyone who dared come within arm’s reach of the baby. Sadly, this developed into a need to sit on the baby’s feet, better to defend him,  and the dog went to live with our family on a ranch.

“I want a dog that flies.”

On the ranch, our little dog lost the weight he’d put on, living in our home in suburban Austin. He discovered that he could, in fact, run a mile when he wanted to. He did not indulge in the mud and pond fun that the other dogs on the ranch did. He was never a swimmer. Where most dogs seem to enjoy a command of the “dog paddle” from a very young age, ours could not keep his head above water. He lived in mortal fear of water, spending his bath times shivering and whining. We almost felt bad for him, except for the powerful musk he could build up in just a few days. The ranch suited him better, though. No baths on a ranch.

“I want a dog with a lightsaber.”

When he finally did die, having beaten heartworms, surviving not one, but two stints in the pound (he wasn't sure about us for the first couple of weeks, and realized that he was much, much faster than I), it was kind of an anticlimax. I don’t suppose noble deaths happen very often, and perhaps less so for dogs.

“Is that dog named Skywalker?”

There were larger dogs on the ranch, and they had learned an ugly trick, leading smaller dogs out to the highway, where they were eventually hit by cars. This little dog was no

“Is that dog named Skywalker, daddy? Daddy, is it? Is that dog named Skywalker, daddy? Daddy? Daddy. Daddy. Is it?”

Anyway, his name wasn't Skywalker.

Not That I Care

Upon perusal, the papers proved to be a miscellany of things, snipped from a magazine and torn rudely from newspapers, a few pages from savaged books and a napkin carefully embossed with a logo from a bar called the “Ugly Hitch,” upon which someone had jotted a seemingly complex pattern of nearly-illegible runes and a phone number appended with the name “Henrietta Muskovits.”

The magazine articles, I have since pieced together, all came from the June, 2011 issue of People magazine, although the text of several of them proved different from copies of them which I later compared, having obtained a copy of the issue in a doctor’s office on 14th street, a week later. They spanned a range, from the boring to the mundane, write-ups of lesser films and a particular breed of celebrity gossip that tends to turn my stomach. The bulk of this slick, magazine material, though, was a single review, split over seven pages, of the DJ Skribble album, “MDMA: Reloaded.” I’m not sure what horrors, real or imagined, Scott Ialacci perpetrated on the hapless author of the piece, but the piece was perhaps the single least informative review of an album, of a career, I have ever read. A sample follows:

...the third track is a mess. Skribble throws samples and beats together like a crocodile in the backseat of a used Volvo. I put my back out, I whip my hair back and forth, and for what? Some lousy pimp sticks and a pair of jawtooth bangers? I don’t think so. Loose grooved channel shifters don’t make up for the frankly racist synth work on a floppy little spit of a boulle. This is the kind of thing you’d expect from Skribble, though. He puts his money where his mouth is, only when he can’t get his foot out of the fire, and he’s just proving it with the newest MDMA collection. His smug scratching just proves the point, when a Bro with commie piping gets a little frisky, you can look forward to disappointment...

I am, myself, unfamiliar with the actual fruit of DJ Skribble’s efforts, but I understand he was a fixture of mid-90s MTV. The album in question was released, according to Wikipedia, in 2004, making it a fossil in musical terms, even in 2011 when the review was first published, although here, a tricky piece of reality seems to intrude. Although the pages of the review of DJ Skribble’s album are the only magazine pages with numbers and dates, the review was conspicuously absent from the Doctor’s copy. In its place were a tepid writeup of a Coldplay album, two advertisements for vodka and various halves of things, places where no story or ad was in the layout.

The tearings from newspapers were mostly single lines, and have proven so far to be untraceable, at least with my meager skills. Below is a complete list, in as much the order presented originally as I have been able to preserve.

The last time such an event occurred, two noble fighters left the ring forever.

she said she never saw

unless the GOP can swing the vote in Idowa [sic]

rampant internet culture, left unchecked, proved to be the last thing

CANCER: don’t believe the hype! You are twice as good anyway. A friend long lost will come back to your bodega, if left unbidden long enough.

Also, half of a Heathcliff daily comic strip in which the cat in question rises beatifically from what seems to be a freshly dug grave. Presumably, the missing half includes one of the regular “human” characters, as the half of the quote below runs as follows:

...always knows where to find them!”

The back of the paper is, peculiarly, completely blank.

The pages from books were torn, sometimes whole, sometimes in shreds, from what I have come to understand are called “Altered Books.” Six of the pages seem to have come from an early edition of George Orwell’s 1984, painted with clumsy figures and thick, tacky swathes of acrylic paint. Four pages, those most egregiously torn, came from a mass-market paperback copy of Mark Twain’s Innocents Abroad. These were colored with chalk, in fluorescent pink and green, with pale blue swirls which seemed to be repeated on each page, the same pattern, until I began to think they may have some meaning. The swirls have resisted my attempts to decode them, though. I think it is this obtuse quality which commands my attention so. A story seems to float just below the next page, until the mystery finally gives way to only the disappointing tabletop.

The napkin presented a small consolation, in that I was able to glean some satisfaction from that blind alley dead-end. I called the number, to find that it no longer belonged to Mrs Henrietta Muskovits, but was answered by her granddaughter, tasked with disposing of Mrs Muskovits’ Earthly remains. Upon my query as to a bar called the “Ugly Hitch,” the younger Miss Muskovits demanded I meet her at the dwelling in question, a fourth-floor walk-up on the far on the East side. Miss Muskovits, Paulette, I learned, was turning over the apartment and its dearth of physical possessions. At the end of her life, a scant three months before, Henrietta had sold or given away most of the things of value in her life, including, I was informed, her small dog and cat. The only things left, she said, of her grandmother were the couch upon which we then sat and the tea set we then sipped from.

“Well,” said Paulette, “Those and the writing.”

“The writing” turned out to cover the walls, floor and ceiling of two of the rooms of the house. It was painted in oil paints, some of it still wet and somewhat smeared. Paulette pointed out the wettest patches to me. Upon comparison, many of the letters on the walls seemed to match those on the napkin, although I was unable to compare it closely. As soon as I removed the instrument from my bag and held it up to the wall, Paulette pounced on it.

“Where did you get this?” She held it close to her chest, eyeing me like a suspicious cat.

“It was given to me,” I lied, although only technically.

“This is fifty years old. She didn't give it to you. Who did?”

“It was left to me,” the lie seemed to work, and I did not have the mental wherewithal to invent a better one.

“Why did you keep it?”

“It seemed interesting.”

She shooed me out of the apartment then, pushing me forcibly in the small of my back. Though I demanded the return of the napkin, she did not even dignify this with a response. She slammed the door and I heard several locks shot to. I turned, dejected, and walked down the stairs.

It seemed interesting.

It was the way he presented the papers to me, though, that required my compulsive sifting at first. He dropped them in front of me as I sat at the library branch on Avenue M (the new branch). I was reading a book about city planning, a recent addition to the collection, in preparation for the city council meeting the following Thursday night. He walked over to my table, made glaring eye contact, and dropped the stack in front of me.

“Not that I care,” he said, and stalked out the front door.

A Sneaky Way to Get Rid of Roaches

Materials:

A Jar of Peanut Butter (Chunky Works Best!)

A Spoon

Paper and a Pen (I prefer an indelible laundry marker)

Process:

Set the building on fire. Sit outside and eat the peanut butter with a spoon. Write out your confession on the paper. No roaches in jail, or, if there are, they aren’t your problem!