Frotis: sacandole brillo al ocre!

Hoy vamos a complacer al público, bueno a una persona en específico que me pidió mi humilde opinión sobre este tema. Esta petición surgió después de haberse leído el blog sobre la clase de sacrificios que estamos dispuestos a hacer por una pareja. Para no cansarlos, salió el tema del “dry humping” o como le dice el compita, “un frotis”.  Perrrrmitome explicar el concepto con mis palabras: FROTIS – también conocido como “raspar pelucas”, “una pura frotazon”, “la maseada reciproca”. Es como rascarnos nuestras partes nobles SIN manos pero CON saborsh! Jajajaja Bueno, también se pueden utilizar las manos, por supuesto. La característica clave del frotis es que no hay penetración de ningún tipo y de ningún orificio lol.

Ahora la pregunta es la siguiente: en qué ocasiones es válido aplicar frotis? La persona que me sugirió este tema me explico que es un poco atacad@ en cuando a las enfermedades de transmisión sexual y que ha preferido muchas veces aplicar frotis con su pareja, con tal de no contraer ninguna enfermedad. Es un punto sumamente valido…durante la primera etapa de la relación en la que no sabes a quien putas estas conociendo y claramente hay desconfianza reforzada por el hecho de desconocer el historial sexoso-criminológico de esa persona. Considero, en este caso, que una alternativa, ya después de haber superado esa primera etapa y estar claros en que las dos personas quieren estar en una relación de las de verdad,  es ir juntos y hacerse todas las pruebas necesarias; si las 2 personas están ya más limpias que Marito Mortadela ahí si! Dele bimba! Claro…no crean que soy tan novata como para no pensar “mae…y si se dan vuelta?”… Mop, si usted tiene suficiente confianza en su pareja y en usted mism@, mándese! Si su pareja es una picazón con patas, tampoco se ponga porque le dan. Simple.

Otro escenario en el que he visto que se aplica el frotis, y con el cual estoy en completo desacuerdo, es cuando tenemos una pareja y nos gusta alguien más y para no sentir que estamos dando vuelta descaadamente, pasamos maseando a la otra pobre hasta sacarle brillo, pero no estamos cogiendo, entonces todo bien. VEAN, cut the fucking crap y hágan las cosas bien. Ya sea que hacer las cosas bien implique dejar el frotis o jalarse la torta completa. Eso es problema de ustedes. Claro está, esto depende mucho de la perspectiva que tengamos en cuanto a la fidelidad. YO opino, que aplicar frotis para no cagarla es cagarla el doble, pero ustedes dirán!

Un último escenario que sí apruebo (la carebarra) es aplicar frotis cuando por cosas de la vida estamos en un lugar, momento o contexto en el que simplemente no se puede pegar al techo como dios manda y bueno…se hace lo que se puede. Comentarios?

High Heels Down Hill

So I get into the bus. A fresh, funny-looking morning welcomes my not-so-funny-looking messed up hair while the coffee stain on the driver's shirt reminds me of how lucky I am to have bought those tampons on the way back home. My mom hates tampons. They make her feel guilty for not being able to keep her daughter's tush out of trouble long enough (by trouble I actually mean sex). Anyways, I pay and grab a seat, and then notice the woman sitting on the left side of the bus looking at me like I sat on her face. She is clearly disapproving of my apparently way too loose pants which happen to expose my sexiest piece of lingerie, my boxers that is, and of my very comfortable way of sitting. I pull up my pants a little so her eyes won't burn, but somehow it is now too late to save my soul from the never tiring flames of hell.

The minute Mrs. I-wear-my-pants-right stops dipping my head in hot chilly sauce in her thoughts another graceful woman gets on the bus. As classy as it can get, around her late 40s perhaps, with her 5-inch Toledos, her clearly expensive purse and jewelry, flawless make-up, impeccable outfit, and a don't-you-dare-mess-with-my-hair-bitch kind of face, she lightened the room with her presence. I, on my end, threw up in my mouth a little. By the time she gets in, pays and starts looking for a space, all of the seats are occupied, which for some social or moral reason requires somebody to stand up and give his/her spot away. Now, something I never quite understood about this behavior was the reference point against which the RIGHT person is selected. Does it depend on the age of the person? Is it more a matter of gender? Does it have anything to do with how many bags the person in need is carrying? Whatever the criteria, it always seems that middle-age women carrying a big purse, the pregnant ones, and the elderly are the way to go. The elderly and the pregnant, I get it. It is common sense. However, this woman stood up in front of me and padded by back twice suggesting in a rather explicit manner that I was the chosen one. 'Alright', I thought, 'here, I can either succumb, shut up and do as expected, or I can for once act according to what I believe to be logical and just and be super heroin I’ve always known I am…lol

“Excuse me!” she said
“Yes, ma'am. Can I help you?”
“Well, you can get up and let me sit there”…(oooh she’s gon’ bring it)
“Well excuse me, but I can't think of any reason why I should. I am as tired as you are, you know!?” …It was 6:30 in the morning, and I was on my way to work with no coffee on me yet. That's a huge no-no in my book. Well, that, push-up brassieres, and my mom's speeches on the beauty of the catholic faith.
“I am an old woman, kiddo, and I don't care if your mama didn't teach you anything about respecting old ladies, but I want the seat” (She is clearly as stubborn as I am)
“So let me see if I got it... You are so old you deserve the privilege, over me, of sitting down, but somehow you are never too old to quit those Toledos you’ve got on and that dress that won't even let you stand up straight, am I right? Perhaps if you didn't putting yourself through such ridiculous vanity inconveniences, we wouldn't be having this conversation” (oh yeah baby I can smart-talk too)

As expected, all eyes were on me and for about the ten freaking longest seconds of my life my thoughts flew back to Sunday school with Miss... I just can't remember her name; I must have blocked it... Anyways, I remember to have been taught to treat others the same way I would like to be treated so I thought “cut the crap, Leslie, be nice for once,” but then, I knew myself well enough to admit that the nicest thing I would ever do for that lady would be giving her my extremely comfortable, non-life-threatening, flat shoes for her to wear during the ride, but they would definitely not match her outfit so I decided not to make the offer in good hopes not to offend her…more, that is.  

The pressure was hitting me like never before. The bus driver looked back towards me and gave me the stink eye while the man sitting right behind me simulated a sore throat which kind of sounded more like an insult, but let's not expand upon that. Despite the confrontation and the tension that's been building up, I stay firm. I am 5 blocks away from my stop, and there is no way in hell I'll give her that seat. So many unexpected ideas managed to just distort everything I considered simple, everyday experiences. I was witnessing the ultimate throwdown: vanity versus comfort, and it was all up to me to call the winner. Immediately, the man with the sore throat suggested she could have his seat since “some people just don't give a crap about others.” He was an old man, of around 60 years of age. His gray hair and body posture suggested he was in no condition to stand up for the ride, but of course, it is all a matter of chivalry, and no lady should ever be denied any kind of assistance. Again, I don't understand how this works. That being said, the entire population on that bus judged me not only for refusing the give her my seat, but also for causing a tired old man to stand up and be a gentleman.

As I was trying to figure out my next diabolic move, the bus stopped in such an abrupt manner all of my things fell on the floor, as well as other people's belongings. The bus driver had missed a red light, and of course that was my fault for disturbing the social harmony and disrespecting one of the many beautiful ladies whose main and only job is to embellish the city with good manners, good looks, and many more magical tools which apparently personal and moral integrity cannot always provide. As if that was not enough, the woman I was arguing with couldn’t hold on firmly to the bar since her huge purse was actually heavier than her, and her legs failed to stop her from falling down. I’m thinking MAYBE her hot-stuff shoes didn't give her any stability whatsoever, but I repeat, this was entirely my fault so feel free to fire away.

“Let me help you up,” I said. I didn't think she would accept my assistance, but I tried anyways, and indeed, she didn't.
“Get away from me, you inconsiderate little brat! Don't you dare touch me after all you've put me through. Shame on you! I sure hope you treat your mother with just a little more respect.” She was furious. Her eyes transformed into insatiable spears ready to pull my guts out.
“For your information, I do! She is my mother!” (That didn't sound good at all), “and I sure also hope you treat yourself with some more respect than you've shown me! And cut the crap, would you ma'am?” I helped her up against her will. “Here, have my seat,” I said.
“Only God knows what's going through your little mind, creature...” interrupted the old man.

The whole “creature” thing alienated me a bit. My heart stopped. It ached as if the person you love most in the whole world pulled it out of chest with unstoppable fury. Am I really that horrible? I was just trying to do the right thing. I was trying to educate by setting the example, and as nonsense as it may sound, a young woman like myself can, indeed, educate. I was right. I am right. Right? I jump off the bus thinking I am not going to sleep shit that night, thinking something life-altering had just happened. As the bus starts moving forward, she sticks her head out the window (oh NOWyou don’t give a fuck about your hair, huh? Huh?) My thoughts are so loud and mind-numbing I could barely hear the elegant yet ironic “watch out!” coming out of her mouth. She threw at me a piece of onion bagel she was carrying on her purse. It must have been there for days for it definitely served its purpose. The shock did not allow me to react. I started walking wherever I was going and got lost among the hundreds of strangers around me. My day went on as usual, except for the smell of onion all over my shirt, a constant reminder of what should have been an ordinary bus ride...

Una vueltica...

Porque hay que darle vuelta al arroz con leche, si no se nos ahumea, voy a compartir con ustedes jovenes uno de los primeros cuentos que escribi hace tiempito. Esta ya editado y bien bonito. Varias personas me han sugerido que lo publique ya que, como mucho de lo que han leido aqui, este tambien tiene su fondo en cuanto a genero. Aclaro, es ficcion, no un querido diario jajajaja...espero que les guste si no se lo han leido. Se llama "High Heels Down Hill"y es el blog posteado mas arriba. Gracias :)

Queeee hombre si no le hace un arroz con mango hoy!

Ok hoy tenemos un blog mas educativo que los demás, les guste o no! No se si alguna vez han dicho o escuchado a alguien decir “mae yo entiendo que sean lesbianas pero porque putas se tienen que vestir como tractores” o “no entiendo porque tienen que ser tan ‘locas’ en la vida…si son playos que sean hombres playos”...Si lo han escuchado o lo han dicho en algún momento de sus vidas, permítanme aumentarles su IQ un toque (sin ofender, son bromitas). Existe una vara llamada IDENTIDAD DE GENERO. Como ya les explique en un blog anterior, el género y el sexo son asuntos muy diferentes. La identidad de género se refiere entonces al género de hombre o mujer con el cual yo me identifique, independientemente de si tengo pepa o pipi entre las piernas. Me explico, que yo sea del sexo femenino no implica que yo necesariamente me tenga que sentir tan mujer y lo mismo si fuera del sexo masculino. Si yo soy del sexo femenino y mi identidad de género fuera masculina (osea el disque camión), eso ni siquiera quiere decir que me gustan las mujeres porque la identidad de género  NO está ligada o no debería (a nivel social, básicamente, todo es blanco y negro and suck it up si no le cuadra, gracias, pero pensemos bonito por un momento) al sexo ni a la orientación sexual. Espero no estar haciendo un colocho…Otro ejemplo, un masculino cuya identidad de género sea de mujer pero su orientación no sea homosexual, osea un travesti que se sienta atraído por mujeres, para que se hagan idea.  Suena sumamente complicado y difícil de digerir pero todo sería más sencillo si pensamos que no todo es blanco y negro en la vida. Hay toda una hermosa gama de identidades de género que va taaanto más allá de nuestra comprensión.  Lo que yo necesito en este momento y que pido con todo el respeto del mundo es que por favorrrrr no seamos tan cerrados en la vida. Si vemos un tractorcito en media calle o una “loca desatada” y no entendemos porqué la mae es tan hombre  o porqué el mae es tan galleta soda, nada mas reservémonos la ofensa tan retrograda e innecesaria  y respetemos el derecho de cada persona de ser quien putas le dé la gana y de manifestarlo.

A continuación les comparto un grupo de chavalos INCREIBLES que se dan el lujo de desafiar, destruir y reconstruir esa gama de género de la cual les hablo.( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eq0-BAA2l7Y  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BhN5yv8lvdc&feature=relmfu ). Estas bestias (lo digo en el buen sentido) bailan con tacones de punta de unas 17 pulgadas jajaja  varas…osea no no, baila mi mama y yo muevo el bote por allá cuando me suelto. Estos maes son la repicha, básicamente. Es probable que bailen como desde los 6 meses de nacidos y hacen cosas con esos tacones que yo ni aunque me hipnoticen y me manipulen lograría porque este hermoso cuerpo amazónico (lo digo por grande lol) no está físicamente creado con esos propósitos. OJALA los tractorcitos que ustedes tanto critican fueran “tan hombres” como estos chicos que se atreven a hacer lo que  hacen y a hacerlo tan bien sin que les importe un pepino gigante la gente.