Coitus

Coitus: (n) physical union of male and female genitalia

I think I was about nineteen years old when I realized it was much more permissible to talk dirty when you used scientific words.

You could then open up the conversation to pleasantly naughty subjects by making sure you didn’t use gruff language or street lingo. No one is going to consider you appropriate or intelligent if you say “screw” if “coitus” is available.

One of the powers of this process is that there’s always someone in the room who is not familiar with the term, so you can explain it in detail, and therefore make yourself look quite virile.

In other words, “What is coitus?”

Answer: “A very good question. I guess some people would use terminology like ‘screwing, humping,’ or even the ‘f word,’ but ‘coitus’ is the term scientists have pushed forward to represent that natural interaction of two human beings when they’re involved in the process of love-making.”

Honest to God, at this point everyone is leaning forward, having lost interest in the s’mores they just made over the fire.

When you isolate off human sexuality, it really is as basic, simple, carnal and primeval, whether done by human beings or tigers. Matter of fact, when we’re in the heat of passion we often envision ourselves being some sort of animal groveling for greater domination and pleasure.

Once I heard a man say that the difference between humans having sex and creatures of the Serengeti is that Homo Sapiens normally require a good meal, a stiff drink and lovey-dovey Motown tunes to make the whole process seem plausible.

(Of course, Papa Lion probably does bring home an antelope before they get down to business.)

We are such a fussy species. We want to believe that our genitalia, which often smells like dead bats in a cave, is somehow holy and sacred in the sight of God and must be given great consequence.

And then, all of a sudden–maybe two drinks in?–she touches his penis and he fumbles to find her clitoris, and they’re off to the races.

Yes.

Like two horses in a pasture.

Giggle we must at our foolishness, and certainly should continue to insist that we are having “coitus” instead of “bumping uglies.”

 

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Cohabit

Cohabit: (v) to live together

Even though, like any “Frosty poet,” I enjoy a good walk in the woods, there is something that interfaces with me as I feel pine needles under my soles: all the creatures of nature are a little bit frightened of me as a human being because I’m a horrible roommate.

I don’t honor my space. Sometimes I’m late on the rent. I cook up things and leave dishes behind.

And I spread my trash everywhere, assuming that it will be taken care of by either other beings, or time and chance.

So there is a look in the eye of the racoon and a squint from the squirrel that tells me they have no intention of relinquishing their right to the ecosystem. They will fight like hell if I attack their nest or if I suggest they should be ousted from their dens.

There is a palpable defiance mingled with a pleading in their glance.

“Come on, you dumb shit. Can’t you just get along? Can’t you co-habitate with us? Do we have to growl, bite, and escape all of your plans to eliminate our species?”

Nature is kind of pissed with human beings. Why?

  • We decide to blame God, even though there’s a natural order which was put in place billions of years before any of us urped up our first mother’s milk.
  • We are so pretentious.
  • We are so easily offended.
  • We are the Mother-Earth-children of all brattiness.

Because the truth is, we aren’t satisfied with scrunching salmon and terrifying tigers. We start doing it to each other–using a color code. Sometimes it’s based upon evaluating genitalia.

But because we can’t cohabit the Earth with the turtle, we suddenly find ourselves very intolerant of those of our own race–who like to take things a little slower.

 

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Beheld

Beheld: (v) past tense of behold: to see, look upon or gaze at

Dictionary B

You will always find plenty of what you’re really looking for.

Once you set your mind to believe that the world is filled with a certain substance or the absence of a precious virtue, you will convince yourself that your notions and convictions are accurate.

You will behold exactly what you want to see and then you will go off and proclaim what you beheld.

  • The racist always finds examples of stupidity among those he deems inferior.
  • The pessimist never lacks evidence that his or her philosophy is well-grounded.
  • The misogynist is never lacking a dumb blond joke.
  • And the angry feminist can tell you story after story about the abusive results of testosterone-driven maniacs.

There’s an old saying: to the pure all things are pure and to those who are defiled, everything is defiled.

It’s not an issue of optimism. Life is more or less like the zoo–even though the park offers snakes, lions, tigers, elephants and bears, if your favorite is the monkeys, you don’t ever have to encounter the other creatures.

Some people would call this ignorance.

I would disagree.

I would call it bliss.

 

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Adder

Words from Dic(tionary)

by J. R. Practix

dictionary with letter A

Adder: (n.) a small venomous Eurasian snake that has a dark zigzag pattern on its back and bears live young. Also called VIPER.

I just think it’s rather weird.

I am pretty sure that we are taught–or maybe a stalwart portion of our culture is instructed–that most people are deathly afraid of snakes. Even folks who will pick up a cockroach or fiddle around with a praying mantis will usually shirk at the possibility of handling an adder.

Don’t you think that’s curious? I suppose if there was a nine-month-old baby crawling along, the little tyke might go over and try to pull on the tail of the reptile, but I’m not quite positive THAT’S true. We seem to have some sort of innate dislike for snakes.

Does it have anything to do with some of the spiritual tales told in holy books? Is it just the way they look, as they slither from side to side?

I’m not sure.

But even when I see them in the zoo, which is often in a rather dark environment, I don’t really desire to stay too long, peering at them, especially if they’re moving behind the glass. Certainly there is a small handful of human souls who are in charge of taking care of these creatures, who have developed the ability to come across as functional, if not fearless.

But there is something mystifying. It seems that the more prehistoric a creature appears, the more frightening it is to us. I guess we’re more accustomed to those specimens which have evolved in our span of time.

It’s not that I’m saying that lions, tigers and bears are not equally as intimidating–it’s just that those animals don’t make our skin crawl as much.

I would love to join in a discussion on this with some people who are smarter than me, to see if there are any sociological, psychological or even spiritual aspects to this trepidation.

But I probably won’t do that.

I probably will just choose to keep my distance from the adder … even though I think being called a viper is really cool.