Tyrannosaurus Sex
The Discovery Channel is celebrating Valentine’s Day with “Tyrannosaurus Sex,” an hour-long special that probes the courtship rituals and mating habits of dinosaurs.
Yes, dinosaurs.
“‘Tyrannosaurus Sex’ doesn’t just answer the questions, it shows dinosaur sex in all its glory with state-of-the-art CGI animation,” reads a press release.
Via: NY Daily News
Haha, DVR-ed!
“It is something they never showed us in the ‘Jurassic Park’ films, that much I can tell you,” writes director Gabriel Gornell.
I heard about this on NPR’s “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me!” today, and thought it was a joke. Evidently, it’s the real deal.
Why do women have to put certain things on to be considered sexy?
a-eliz:
And weird things too, fishnet stockings, a bustier that does little for support BUT is covered in lace! Or feather boa’s, heels that could not actually be worn outdoors or for longer than an hour. Women have to put certain accouterments on to be considered sexy — while men take things off. At the very least, they put on a pair of boxer briefs (which look pretty damn comfy). But women strap themselves in to clothing that they wear for no other purpose. And it seems that a good portion of women would be disturbed if their male partner waltzed in wearing fishnets, heels, and a boa. It would be off-putting. So why is it considered so damn sexy when women do it?
As a guy, I don’t get it either. I don’t even find those things especially appealing, really. Since we’re lumping genders together, why do women think that a ridiculous/uncomfortable-looking sexual get-up is a substitute for self-confidence? (Hint: It is not.)
Do you know what I think is attractive? Someone who can look at their naked body in the mirror and be content.
The 1992 National Health and Social Life Survey
pedrosanchez:
Of the 3,500 American adults surveyed, here are a few major findings:
- Adultery is the exception rather than the rule. Both men and women are remarkably faithful to their partners. Nearly 75 percent of married men and 85 percent of married women say they have never been unfaithful. Over a lifetime, a typical man has six partners, a typical woman two.
- People in this country are divided into three categories according to how often they have sex. One-third have sex twice a week or more, one-third a few times a month, and one-third a few times a year or not at all.
- Married couples have the most sex, they enjoy it the most, and they are the most likely to have orgasms when they do. Nearly 40 percent of married people have sex twice a week, compared to 25 percent for singles.
These statistics paint a rosier picture with regard to faithfulness in relationships than I would have expected. I wonder how well this data has aged, 17 years on.
I think I’ve heard this kind of statistic quoted differently in the past. I’ve heard things like, “one in four men, one in seven women have cheated on their spouses.” That sounds a lot worse to me, despite being the same data from the survey.
Haikus, Bernard Lionel Einbond
poetry365:
the white of her neck
as she lifts her hair for me
to undo her dress
the thousand colors
in her plain brown hair—
morning sunshine
From the column description:
Lynsey G. has taken odd writing jobs where she could get them for a few years now, and one day woke up to realize that they were all about sex. With gigs at three porn magazines doing DVD reviews, set copy, interviews, and more, a book in the works about swingers, and now this column, it appears that she’s deeply mired in smut. This column is more or less a place for her to rant, rave, and muse about the weirdness of watching people screw for a living.
I’m looking forward to reading more.
The Lovers, Dorianne Laux
poetry365:
She is about to come. This time,
they are sitting up, joined below the belly,
feet cupped like sleek hands praying
at the base of each other’s spines.
And when something lifts within her
toward a light she’s sure, once again,
she can’t bear, she opens her eyes
and sees his face is turned away,
one arm behind him, hands splayed
palm down on the mattress, to brace himself
so he can lever his hips, touch
with the bright tip the innermost spot.
And she finds she can’t bear it—
not his beautiful neck, stretched and corded,
not his hair fallen to one side like beach grass,
not the curved wing of his ear, washed thin
with daylight, deep pink of the inner body—
what she can’t bear is that she can’t see his face,
not that she thinks this exactly—she is rocking
and breathing—it’s more her body’s thought,
opening, as it is, into its own sheer truth.
So that when her hand lifts of its own violation
and slaps him, twice on the chest,
on that pad of muscled flesh just above the nipple,
slaps him twice, fast, like a nursing child
trying to get a mother’s attention,
she’s startled by the sound,
though when he turns his face to hers—
which is what her body wants, his eyes
pulled open, as if she had bitten—
she does reach out and bite him, on the shoulder,
not hard, but with the power infants have
over those who have borne them, tied as they are
to the body, and so, tied to the pleasure,
the exquisite pain of this world.
And when she lifts her face he sees
where she’s gone, knows she can’t speak,
is traveling toward something essential,
toward the core of her need, so he simply
watches, steadily, with an animal calm
as she arches and screams, watches the face that,
if she could see it, she would never let him see.
I love this poem! I’m a wuss, though, so I’ll probably remove it from Facebook.
eecummings:
“my love
thy hair is one kingdom
the king whereof is darkness
thy forehead is a flight of flowers
thy head is a quick forest
filled with sleeping birds
thy breasts are swarms of white bees
upon the bough of thy body
thy body to me is April
in whose armpits is the approach of spring
thy thighs are white horses yoked to a chariot
of kings
they are the striking of a good minstrel
between them is always a pleasant song
my love
thy head is a casket
of the cool jewel of thy mind
the hair of thy head is one warrior
innocent of defeat
thy hair upon thy shoulders is an army
with victory and with trumpets
thy legs are the trees of dreaming
whose fruit is the very eatage of forgetfulness
thy lips are satraps in scarlet
in whose kiss is the combinings of kings
thy wrists
are holy
which are the keepers of the keys of thy blood
thy feet upon thy ankles are flowers in vases
of silver
in thy beauty is the dilemma of flutes
thy eyes are the betrayal of bells
comprehended through incense”
— ee cummings
I’ve never read this one before. It’s really Song of Solomon-esque. I like it.
