A n a r c h i c _ U n i v e r s e ®

California Kamasutra: Ask Tina

I love challenges. Linguistic challenges such as one letter L in American language and double L in U.K. English. Or, "when do I double the consonant preceding the -ed ending of a verb?"

Today, I take upon the unusual challenge of going through a series of commonly known but rarely practiced sexual positions. No photos or pictures. Just words in a Q & A format. Having lived in California gave me all this  wisdom.

--Tina, what is a missionary position?

--A missionary position is that one in which a man/woman puts himself/herself on his knees while offering a 10 K piece of jewelry to his/her significant other. The offering had better come in the colorful acqua bag from Tiffany, or else.

--Tina, what is the position "I go on top?"

--This is a very intriguing question. If a woman rides on top that means she is quite busy on the phone, at the beauty salon, shopping on Rodeo Drive, chatting with friends on line or at a café while the significant other is slaving his life away at some stupid cheap corporation, such as GE or our government's NSA.

If it's a man on top, that means he "works on-line" all day long, surfs the Net, has a ton of virtual friends and excuses for taking calls from total strangers (to his significant other) and takes a siesta from all this hard work while the partner works in and outside the house, supporting the leech.

--Tina, what is a sideways position ?

--Ah, ha! Wonders never cease. In the days baby-boomers were younger, this position meant the opposite of its meaning today to both boomers and surviving parents. Sideways means the couple sleeps with ear-plugs on, their derrières barely touching while they snore their night away.

--Tina, what does a 69 mean?

--How fascinating! I got this question in my mail box just yesterday. A 69, or a soixante-neuf, or billandmonica, isn't what people talk about or imagine. For one partner, it's the ingestion of proteins; for the other, a jetstream release of unnecessary stress. Some partners like to yell, "Flegma, shmegma!" And those do not ingest the liquid proteins.

--Tina, what is phone sex?

--Phone sex is a practice among boys and girls of all ages. If they don't have friends, they just pick United or any big company and pretend a business interest. Depending on their luck, they will achieve their goals. In United's case, remember to say loud and clear, "Agent!" if you get the robot. Maybe you are into cybersex, but robots are still not fully ready, linguistically speaking. Also keep in mind United's hubs are Chicago, Denver, Miami... Chicago is a great phone hub.

And that's all, folks! More soon, insatiable guys and gals?

Tina California Dreamin' Easter  1971 courtesy William Salvador©

Post Republished from 9/2006 Anarchic_Universe®.

 

Strange Night in the Rio Rain

I can't recall how it all started. I know it was in the days we were mostly single or divorced or whatever else. My little circle of old time friends consisted of engineers, except for a poet and translator and I, a teacher of English as a Foreign Language. Like most Cariocas we went into and out of trends. The trend at the time was very refined cachaça, sugarcane alcohol. Out of the blue we had become connoisseurs, seeking the next best cachaça.
So it happened that one night we got a call about a primo one. That was the good news. The bad news was the cachaça was with friends at the other side of town. Rubinho decided he'd go pick it up. I tagged along for the car ride.
We got to our destination, small talk exchanged, we decided to leave. On our way back, the silence in the car was nearly surreal. Rubinho wasn't one of too many words, I knew that. I am chatty but knew not what to say. Pretty soon we'd have to cross Praça da Bandeira, an area with negative altitude. The rain was pouring now. We were crossing a lake, really.

Rubinho breaks the silence with a thought that he must have been mulling in his head for quite a while. He turns to me, quite assertive, and states,

--You know, I've never had an American butthole in my whole life.

I froze. Rubinho, despite the --inho, was about 6' 4". Easy. His *** couldn't be the type Greek or Roman sculptures show in gardens. I didn't think so. Rather, I didn't want to think about it at all. My mother had always told me about how horrible their thing was when they wanted us. I found a way out. Quickly, I pointed out to him,

-- Rubinho, watch out for the hole in the road! --

That should be better than my hole, I was sure.

You know how drunks are. He averted his attention from my hole to the one in the road. Before we knew it, we were crossing the tunnel to the south side of Rio. Before we could realize it, we were at my door. I pretended nothing had happened and asked him in. By then, the booze, the excitement, the fatigue had gotten to him. I kissed him on both cheeks and he left.
At home, I undressed, prepared myself a Bloody Mary, put Lou Reed to play, lit a cigarette. Slowly, I felt sleepy, put out the cigarette and got mentally ready for the morning, when students might ask me for the words of the song I was listening to. I'd be ready.

Never Hum a Tune in a Taxicar in Rio

In my carefree early to mid-eighties, at the height of the so-called "dark" fashion in Rio de Janeiro, when I listened to Joy Division, New Order,
Killing Joke, The Alarm and in especial The Smiths, the big time American to make it in my Sony Walkman® was Bruce Springsteen.  I fell in love with his double LP and a friend gave me a cassette of the album. Oh, there was the early Jonathan Ritchman and there was Laurie Anderson, and the
Talking Heads . My friend in NYC gave me tapes of these.

I like to sing or hum songs albeit my voice gets out of tune at the third note, says Gabriel. Nicolas, my husband, can recognize what I sing, though.

(background info)I was a heavy smoker; I got away with smoking in class while I was teaching. My outfits was overalls, a T-shirt, my SonyWalkman®, my backpack, an acquired tem of practical fashion I picked up in NYC, and my Adidas shoes, royal blue with orange stripes. At night I used to hang out at a gay bar which served a delish tomato soup and drink Bloody Mary, Cochrane's. No wonder nobody ever made a pass at me ;P))

Rio de Janeiro is subject to unexpected tropical rain. This night was no different. A heavy rain fell, everybody was gone in a flash. I walked to the corner of an already deserted Botafogo neighborhood to hail a cab. To my surprise, a cab stops. The guy looked ug-leeee, scar-eee, but what the heck. A cab is a cab is a cab.

I hopped in a VW Beetle without a front seat, the cabbie asked me my destination, I gave it to him. There I am humming a song in Portuguese whose lyrics go,

"Stay with me tonight, you won't regret it, the wind outside is whipping cold, here warmth you will have."  (Where did I get this song from?)

He goes in the opposite direction. Well, I thought, a little dazed by the vodka, maybe he wants to try another route. When we are in the street of the cemetery São João Batista, he stops the car. A conversation ensues. He demands,

"Suck my c***."
"????? No, I won't"
"Suck my c***."

This went on, the pouring rain outside getting no thinner. The dialog was as repetitive as those routines in "Waiting for Godot."  Suddenly, he inquires, in a total off-topic,

"Can I take a piss?"
"As long as it's not in the car..."

My remark was nonchalant. I just sat there in the warmth of the car. He returns, says as he grabs one of my thighs wrapped under a semi-sheer white pantyhose,

"I always liked chunky white girls like you."

(Gee, thanks for the chunky. Good for me to be wearing a long sweatshirt that was supposedly a dress.) 
He adds,

"I got a Saturday Night Special in the glove compartment."

He opens it and shows me the cheap metal gun.

"Where are you going now?"

I request,

"Laranjeiras."

The SOB charges me full fare, and I let him keep the change.

Morning after it was English classes starting at seven. A double glass of cold coffee and cold milk, another cab, another day in the Cidade Maravilhosa, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

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SAMOHI -Sex in the Bathrooms? Cyberbullying?

I received a phone call yesterday about these horrible sex acts; later on I received a link to the list of SAMOHI-Pals, the same group that did nothing when my son was attacked in the middle of the night last year.
This is the link to the message board. Somebody copied it for me:

My child had told me that there were emails circulating around..one for the Juniors and one for the Seniors, that were graphic descriptions of supposed sexual encounters between students, along with vile descriptions and namecalling

She herself was recently sent a new one about the sophomores, that was so unbelievable, she sent it to me, and then deleted it off her computer.

It is a list of various (and all) hetero and homosexual acts that are ascribed to various students, names supplied, accusations of who has stds, replete with the N word, F word ,C word...every foul word and description possible.

What do I do?

Send it to the principal? The police?

Does anyone else know about this? Is it possible the school is so out of touch that they have no inkling that this is going on?

How do these poor students named fight against this? Shall I delete the names and send it to Samopals?

A very concerned  Mom

A Smartie Pants girl gave her Mom the printout she received in her e-mail, but destroyed the e-mail.  There goes the IP and other possible information. What there is, my son told me, is a sh*t list of students and sexual acts they may have or not been part of.

He also adds that the Knitting Circle always has to blow everything out of proportion. Please, no double entendre. For women who have had sex to go hysterical to the point of not being able to print the C word or the BF word, or the BJ word or the 69 # and so on is totally ridiculous, considering most grew up in freer days than today.

Furthermore, it's the CEO's job, and that is Dr. Hugo Pedroza, to go after whodunnit. And the job of da police and other staff on campus. My job is to make sure my kid understands he keeps his bite in his pants and his buns to himself. Follow the lyrics. We learned about this song by YELLE, "I want to see you jetstream/shoot in your apron."  There were other words foreign to me, like Krunk, but that is used in Oakland, CA.

Naturally, I am against cyber-bullying and it's horrible to see your kid's name on a shit-list published anonymously. However, this same crowd voted YES on RR, believing in SMMUSD's excellence. Live with it.  What  world do you live in?
Anyone who has seen Juno? Everyday there are links here to illuminate folks about my issues. Cybercrime is  one of them. SMMUSD is another.

Let's face it, if thirteen-year-olds are having sex in a movie, in Rio for real and I know this for a fact, in France, what would they be doing in hedonistic Santa Monica by Route 66?  Just pray for tecktonik and its asexual posture. The dirty bathrooms technique to keep SAMOHI from sexual activity seems not to have worked. Oh, well, there are other ways. Check this out. Be merry. Tomorrow will be a good day in America. My mother will be 88. She was so beautiful. A devout Catholic; if there is a heaven, she'll be there. If I were to believe in her my name is MAria Cristina for a reason. I was born thru Immaculate Conception, which makes my son Jesus. But I chose Gabriel, instead ,and life goes on. Without birds or bees, BTW. "Route 66" sending some warmer weather to my oldest links in blogging, my mentor, Seth A. owner of B12 Solipsism.  I hope Freaky Deaky is having a blast with all the snow in Freakytopia.net. He is my other oldest link in Blogsville. Have a happy evening and I hope you and I are back here for more tomorrow. Hey, I hope I am back, too.  Actually, my son says the s*t list is one dissing the black students. Hey, Obama, here's a place for you to enact some change...(I hope)

This Way, President Hillary Clinton

President Hillary Clinton was exhausted.  The elections in 2012 had given her that look of purple sagging bags under the eyes Bill had that day when - Hush!  How could she be thinking of that day in 199* still?  She had juggled a difficult path of pseudo liberal pseudo centrist pseudo - shoot! Don't!  Secret agents swarmed into the Elyptical Office.
"Go away!" Her shrill voice hadn't changed even sharing inhaling sessions with Good Ole Partner, Bill.

"Darn good job," she patted herself on the right shoulder for goodluck. He was a lefty.  She had a vision. he still made people swoon to his husky southern voice; still talking about watermelons in Arkansas. Humpft!

Power and money.  It had worked.  Even villified by her own kindred spirits, womin, she had rebuilt the US Empire.  We were now the United States of World Hillarmonia.  One world under the tenets of the Founding Fathers and some good Acts for check$$ & balan$$.  President Hillary knew how to gamble. The republic was filthy rich, pornographically wealthy to the point manned missions to space were no longer pipe dreams. Sshhuddup already.

The government had approved of endless runs for president.  If her arthritis was bad, her greedy claws could still grab what was due to the Eagle.  Palestinians and Jews had decided to follow Neva Shalom and a scroll  cleverly authenticated by all main religions had certified the need for inbreeding among the brethen of David and Ishmael.
In the middle east all females chose an Arabic name and a Jewish one.  They settled for Mirian (Mary) like the southerners settle for Lee as a middle name.  There was peace and the White Sox had won.

President Hillary swayed her wide hips dreaming "Don't Stop."  A knock on the door announced Bill himself.

" I made us reservations at the diner."  At the sound of "dine," Bill pinched her, said fine and off they went.

(End of Part One. Later.)

When a Program Is Sexy

What is sexy to a programming engineer?

Concise, obscure to all, but crystal clear to those in the know. Example: sudoku puzzles can be maddeningly hard to solve, right? Those in the know solve sudoku puzzles in seconds using SAT-based refutation engines like this one; now that's sexy computer-science simplicity, efficiency and beauty all wrapped up in one powerful problem solving tool. Abstraction skills not included.

P.S.  An engineer never says he is an engineer.

Some early morning ærobics, courtesy of Google's YouTube. They may be mapping my outhouse, but they know not what they have.  They had Two of this video. The search by song and author, if you will, as they say on CNN, gave me NADA. Rien. Zilch. GOogLe alone is not enough. Some searching skills help.

Falco - Der Komissar, lyrics here in English and German for educational purposes only. My  Summer of 1982 hit, meaning Jan. to March in Rio. Your calisthenics workout this morning.

Ta-Ta!

©Anarchic_Universe, 2007

Strange Ideas In The Middle of The Night

• What if John Waters' idea had prevailed and baby pictures came with scents? How lovely!  Cootchie-cootchie poo, pee and barf. Rotten milk.

• Can you imagine if all the announcements of "The End of the World" had been true?  Tammy Faye would have been saved many times. I don't want to think of my fate.

• It's been weeks the administration and the spooks declare there is a heightened danger lurking over us.  It must be the release of the Harry Potter book and its vile attack, shush!  Say no more.

• Maybe I must change my profile wherever I have them to Tina, aka Messalina, will do you free of charge if you leave me a comment.

• I don't want to have links to journal-blogs, neither do I need links like Revolver who never show up, never comment, and never link anyone.

• I am doomed to the Sacrilege Trilogy: B12 Partners, Freakytopia and myself.

• Although I don't blog about him, Ron Paul is a jerk selling Utopia to the rich (Bill Maher) and the young. Hello, who takes care of the poor and health care? The Statue  of Liberty?  Good joke.
• Wouldn't you have though twice before leaving your seed in that tunnel of love if you knew how fat your chick would get, and how stinky the house would be with those cloth                                                          diapers waiting for collection?

©Anarchic_Universe, 2007 photo by BPS, All rights Reserved.

I don't know if Russians eat little babies. I do know this band rocks big time.
"Teabags" multilingual -- Push the Button.  Très Kewl.

Yuna Gets a Tag

The life of an EFL teacher wasn't easy, even with hand-picked students.  Yuna sighed at the thought of one student.  He was a bright and successful shrink, strictly Freudian, he said.  No medications were needed to heal a patient.  Talk therapy was enough.  Yuna knew better than to put her two cents in a conversation about the guy's own field of expertise.

However, he was more stubborn than a mule. Or "têtu comme une vache normande."

Yuna thinks of next step.

" In addition, he couldn't hear phonetic differences or try them.  Maybe that was a professional deformity.  Shrinks have to listen to all this crapola from disgruntled patients; they don't listen to details.  They get the gist of it.

So, Dr. Bearden couldn't pronounce or replicate the different minimal pairs, such as sheet and sh*t, or feet and fit.  It was pointless to go over exercises.  It was exasperating to explain how the long [ee] is tense and the other is relaxed, like surferspeak.  He would agree, praise her, and cap it with, "I have no problem understanding English from the UK; it's Americans who pronounce everything garbled up.

Yuna would blush in anger; most Brazilians used this excuse --Americans mispronounce their own language.  Gee_wheez_Louise.  That was the toughest class in the week.  A powerful man can be dangerous, especially when he is intelligent and is failing.  She didn't think he wanted to learn English. He didn't like it.  Emotional factors play a strong role in language acquisition.  She smiled at her high level theoretical thinking.

One day, after switching back and forth from English book to drills of minimal pairs, to small talk, Dr. Bearden blurts out,

"Your problem is you are a phallic woman."  He had a Cheshire cat grin on his face.

"I beg your pardon, Charles?" Yuna was crimson red now.

"You eez a phalic woman."  And he lit his pipe, satisfied at himself.

"Could you explain what that is, Charles?" If only she carried a purse instead of a backpack.

"The counterpart of a phallic woman is the castrated man.  Freud explains it. Should we go back to the book now?"

They went back to the book. One of her favorite plays of all times.

"Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" by Edward Albee. [ALL-bee] Martha is the phallic woman; George is the castrated man.

Now she understood a number of things. A phallic woman. Maybe that was more worthy teaching than minimal pairs could be.  Time would tell.

One in a series of Yuna stories. Comments and trackback closed. E-mail welcome. Include your URL for publication, please.

Internet Spam; One in a Series

A sheriff in a small town walks out in the street and sees a cowboy coming down the walk with nothing on but his cowboy hat, gun, and his boots, so he arrests the cowboy for indecent exposure.

As he is locking the cowboy up, he asks,

"Why in the world are you dressed like this?"

The cowboy says,

"Well it's like this, sheriff ... I was in the bar down the
road and this pretty little red head asks me to go out to her motor home with her. So I did.

"We go inside and she pulls off her top and asks me to pull off my shirt so I did.

"Then she pulls off her skirt and asks me to pull off my pants .. so I did.

"Then she pulls off her panties and asks me to pull off my shorts so I did.

"Then she gets on the bed and looks at me kind of sexy and says,

'Now go to town cowboy...'

So here I am."

Son of a gun, smart men; do they exist?

This is a fourth post today:
• links of the day
•Frank Zappa's Titties and Beer
•Education and meds; No Child Left Behind.

Yuna Works Hard to Make a Living

Yuna put in about seventy hours a week in English teaching. The US-Brazil Assn. was more of a place she could get benefits. The pay was peanuts. Before her shifts there and after she was done, she'd teach anywhere her integrity would remain untouched. Classes at Bobo Network, serving directors and technician, a hop to the hotels; tedious repeat-after-me routines her boss, who had never taught in his life, wanted her to follow. She tried to make those classes lively for the waiters and chambermaids, iliterate in their own language.

Then there were the tailored one-on-one classes for topexecs at her tiny flat. The last one was a business major pain-in-the-arse guy, Roberto. He was nosy, he was rude, he was bossy. He had decided he must learn "Streetcar Named Desire." Yuna had the play in writing and the tapes. The classes dragged on to the scene unspoken, when Blanche DuBois is alone with Stanley Kowalski while her sister, Stella, is delivering Stanley and Stela's first baby. In this scene Stanley jumps on Blanche, they fight, the lights flicker.

Roberto interrupts her, "Translate. Go on. Translate."

Yuna is a stickler. She gestures, she explains the metaphor of the light, instability. He gets closer to her. He puts his index finger on the page; insists he doesn't understand. Actually, he had never noticed before how upright and perfect her "chichis" were. He gets closer. Actually, she is not bad at all.

Yuna is nervous. The emotional bad breath of a recent divorce had left her sexless. He made her feel shaky. She insisted on Stanley Kowalski. She asked him to think of a young Marlon Brando. Animal magnetism. Sex.

Roberto insists he didn't understand. Yuna loses her cool and yells, "Rape. He rapes Blanche!."

Roberto has his hands inside her dress. He asks,

"Like this?"

She says, "NO. Stop. Don't. Stop. Stop. Don't." Her breathing is fast. She says,"Don't stop, don't stop, don't ..."

(Curtain.)

One in a series of Yuna stories.

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