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.