Everything I know about sex I learned from my tarantula
Karen mated her Avicularia metallica pair today, her first breeding effort thus far (not counting Jake), and I am happy to report success.
This was a quiet male, not a Mr. Tappy-Toes like Karen’s P. metallica. However, judging from the impressive menschlichkeit* of today’s performance, he must have been tap-tapping away and setting up his sperm web.
If tarantulas were humans, sex would go something like this. The man goes off into the bathroom, does the deed, and comes back into the bedroom with a loaded turkey baster. You’re thinking: yup, not very romantic. Or perhaps you’re thinking: eeeww.
But you’d be wrong. Yes, the male ejaculates long before having sex. He does it into a sperm web, and then he charges up his pedipalps (anterior appendages, quite near the fangs) with a nice hot (cool, actually) load of spunk. Intercourse requires that the male insert his pedipalps into the female’s epigynum. Without, mind you, getting eaten first.
Karen placed our studly A. metallica into the female’s cage and that bad boy crawled right on up to her. He signaled his interest by thrumming her web. She ran to the other side of the cage. He gave her a bit of space but never let up on the thrumming. Soon enough, he had her in the mood. He got beneath her and was so confident he didn’t even bother to hook her fangs. (Males have hooks on their forelegs just for this purpose.) Then he started to work his pedipalps closer, closer, making small circular motions over her twitching epigynum.
Okay, it wasn’t twitching. I made that part up — but only that part.
One pedipalp found its way home, probing deeper. Deeper still. Then, no slouch he, he came at her with the other pedipalp! “Faster,” she moaned —
Sorry.
Bottom line, he did the deed and Karen got him out in one piece. She’ll let him charge up another sperm web, and maybe bring them together again next week. For today, he’s back in his cage, toweling off. I dropped a cigarette in his cage — a reward for a job well done.
D.
*Manliness, for everyone out there who is neither Jewish nor Gabriele.
I’m a Tarantula Nerd
Hey, there’s a reason I chose Tarantula Lady as my ID.
A week ago, I posted that I would try to mate a pair of my Avicularia metallica tarantulas. The female was throwing up, however. I’m serious, tarantulas throw up sometimes. I was concerned she was ill (no, she did not have morning sickness), so I postponed their date. Well, they just did the deed and we saw the male got in some inserts. I took him out and he’s cleaning himself off at the moment. I’ll probably put them together in a week or so; this will give him a chance to recharge his bulbs with sperm.
Want a detailed explanation of the mating process? Go to Arachnopets.com.
The Curry County Fair
On my way home from the fair, I hallucinated that a tiny hologram of Yoda had appeared on my shoulder. Don’t worry — Karen was driving.
“Not-so-young hack-writer, so bitchily you should not blog,” Yoda said. “Bad for traffic it is. Rather, in light comedy your trust you should put, lest your readers full of venomous Sith decide you are.”
“But Yoda,” said I. “That was the crappiest county fair I have ever been too, bar none.”
“The positive accentuate,” insisted Yoda. “The negative eliminate. With Mr. In-Between, mess not.”
“Oh, all right. It’s a good thing I only had sixty dollars with me, since Jake would have blown through six hundred dollars in just as short a time.
“And it’s great no one has figured out to build a beach boardwalk here on some of the most beautiful coastline in the world. Because, you know, the wind would just blow sand into our Napalm Nachos.
“I’m so happy we’ve picked up more unwanted stuffed animals and cheaply framed photographs of tigers, because, after all, winning prizes is great for the boy’s self-image.
“And, best of all, I’m tickled-to-pissing-my-pants that this was such a small fair that Jake has decided he has to go to the Del Norte County Fair next weekend. More quality time for me and the boy.”
Then, on my other shoulder, Evil Yoda appeared.
“Whining weenie you are,” said Evil Yoda. “If father you did not want to be, pecker in pants you should have kept.”
(Ever notice how lines like that are only funny in Yoda-speak?)
“Wait,” I said. “If you’re Evil Yoda, you should be telling me to speak whatever bile is on my mind.”
“Hell, no. Here for the crack whores at DeLancey’s* I am.”
He darted out the window before I could recommend a good dermatologist.
D.
*Not the bar’s actual name. And not that I would know such a thing, except by reputation.
Gulab: Hero or Village Idiot?
I had intended to offer a commentary on this subject but I was distracted by other matters.
A few weeks ago, there was heavy news coverage concerning a helicopter rescue mission for four Navy SEALs which went awry when the Taliban fighters successfully shot down one of the helicopters. One of the SEALs managed to survive with the help of an Afghan civilian.
My first reaction was surprise. The incident took place in the border region between Pakistan and Afghanistan where the populace is either sympathetic or scared shitless of the Taliban. Why would a native help an Navy SEAL?
Time magazine had a extensive article on Gulab, the friendly villager. Unfortunately, I took so much time to write this story that now Time is requiring actual money to read the article. Damn, don’t they know that everything on the web should be free? 😉 Oh, well, you’ll just have to take my word for what they wrote.
Gulab, a Pashtun shepherd, was rounding up his goats and accidentally rounded up a human. To be less flippant, he stumbled across the wounded commando who had the good sense not to immediately kill Gulab. The Navy SEAL managed to make it to Gulab’s village where he was given shelter by the community elders. The Taliban came by and demanded they turn over the American but the elders refused since that violated their beliefs for granting hospitality to strangers. The Taliban left. Gulab carried a message to nearby U.S. military base and the soldier was saved. Gulab and his family apparently left their village due to fear of reprisals.
This story bothers me. I know that there is a tradition among the Pashtuns called Pashtunwali. Essentially, it’s a tradition of helping your fellow man which is similar to the Middle Eastern practice of generosity to your guests. Still, risking your life, the lives of your family and maybe the entire village sounds extreme. Also, why did the Taliban just accept the refusal of the village elders? Were they outnumbered by the villagers? Was it against the beliefs of the Taliban to violate the traditions of the villagers? The Taliban are also Pashtun and they may very well have the same beliefs. Alternatively, they may not have wanted to alienate the local people.
Another possibility? The military is lying through their teeth. I may sound paranoid but the U.S. has been caught in so many lies that they don’t have very much credibility with me.
I’m not too sure how much credibility the U.S. military currently have with the Pashtun, either. Afterwards, as part of their attack on Taliban fighters, they bombed another village and killed 17 civilians . Allegedly, the U.S. attacked a home where several Taliban fighters were located. After the first bomb attack, the local villagers came to help the injured and the U.S. dropped more bombs.
I thought it was rather ironic that a humanitarian tradition saved an American soldier while also leading the U.S. to kill 17 civilians.
Story link
In case any of my non-BBS readers want to see a bit of my SHORT fiction (875 words), here’s a link to my entry for Keith’s challenge. For a limited time only — I’ll delete it once the challenge is over.
The challenge: in 750 words or less*, show your protag going through a substantive change.
I have a massage scheduled for this afternoon. Yippee! I need it. Practically speaking, I’m checking out this practitioner before subjecting my son to her ministrations. It was the only way Jake would agree to it, after that disastrous foot massage experience.
Guess I’ll have to tough it out . . . . The things we do for our children.
D.
*See how well I follow directions?
Hamachi, we hardly knew ye
Did you know we used to raise chameleons?
Meet Hamachi, a prime specimen of Chameleo quadricornis, the Four-horned Chameleon. In case you’ve never watched Jeff Corwin, here’s what’s neat about chameleons. Old World chameleons have opposable fingers, prehensile tails, independently mobile eyes, and personality to burn. They also despise one another, even while mating. Especially while mating. Imagine Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf: Liz Taylor and Richard Burton doing it on the living room floor. Chameleon sex makes that look civil.
Chameleons do not change color to blend with their surroundings. They do change color to reflect their mood. Vivid colors indicate amorous interest. Black means, “Go away, I hate you.” Chameleons housed together are black chameleons. Keep them together too long, and they die from stress.
My abortive first novel Karakoram featured a race of intelligent, six-foot-long chameleons called the Amanu. By developing a variety of adaptations to their mutual loathing, they’d managed to develop a sophisticated culture, one with a complex (and, to an outsider, tortured) social dynamic. The male to female ratio averaged 10:1. Females controlled all wealth and property, and were polyandrous. Husbands engaged in all manner of high risk activities in order to attract their wife’s attention.
Here’s a bit of hot Amanu sex, cribbed directly from my observation of the habits of Chameleo calyptratus, the Veiled Chameleon. Frank’s a human (well — sort of human) observer; Captain Leo is a Caravellier (kind of a space pirate); Vera is his wife. He’s flown a long way for this.
Frank felt a rush of air, then gaped in shock to see Leo viciously attacking Vera! The force of his tackle nearly knocked her from her perch, but she clung tenaciously with her back limbs and tail. The Captain’s jaws locked on her back, and dark drops of blood spattered the ground. Vera’s head and front limbs arched backward at an impossible angle. Her mouth gaped, she hissed loudly, and caught one of Leo’s back legs in her jaws. Now Leo’s blood joined Vera’s on the floor.
Our chameleons never shed blood, but I do remember, with our first Chameleo calyptratus mating, Karen crying out, “Separate them — he’s killing her!” Followed shortly by, “Uh. Uh. Uh, he’s not killing her.”
But I miss Hamachi. We kept him on a Ficus tree in a back room, and damned if he wouldn’t march across the entire house three times a day to do battle with our male Chameleo pardalis, Thor. It was all Karen could do to keep them separate.
Folks who raise chameleons either spend half a day misting their pets, dripping water on them, and hand-feeding them, or else they turn their homes into rain forests. We bought Thor from one such hobbyist. His carpets were moldy from the humidity, and crickets crawled everywhere. He, his wife, and several small children lived in their own private Madagascar.
Eventually, we realized that the difficult part of chameleon husbandry was not keeping them alive, nor mating them, nor getting them to lay eggs. Hatching the eggs — that was the problem. After incubating a dozen or more clutches (30 to 70 eggs per clutch) and getting perhaps 15 viable young, we decided we weren’t cut out for this business.
Good thing I had a day job.
D.
Haunted By the Ghost of Eric Shinseki
Most news junkies are familiar with Army Chief of Staff Eric Shinseki; his name still comes up in analyses of the U.S. failures in Iraq. Prior to the invasion, his testimony before congress triggered the wrath of the neocons when he stated several hundred thousand soldiers would be required to invade and occupy the country. Two years before, Shinseki had come into conflict with the Bush administration and Donald Rumsfeld. The congressional hearing was the last big salvo.
Since the U.S. didn’t have several hundred thousand soldiers to invade and occupy Iraq, Shinseki was actually stating that the war was a very bad idea. He really did know what he was talking about; back in 2000, he gave this interview to Frontline. He spoke about how the military’s role had changed to encompass dealing with terrorism, peacekeeping missions, WMDs, humanitarian assistance, etc. and how to restructure the army to meet those needs. He also said that soldiers deserved better than to lose their lives needlessly because of poor planning by their superiors.
I guess it’s not surprising that he didn’t get along with Rumsfeld.
Good Ways to Catch the Attention of Homeland Security
Just how paranoid are you? Have you ever stopped a moment before signing a petition because you thought that would get you on a government watchlist? Do you suspect that the FBI is monitoring your internet usage?
I have to admit that I wonder if the government knows that I’m a member of Amnesty International or the ACLU. According to this press release, the FBI is keeping files on the ACLU and other organizations. I think that it is safe to be a member of Amnesty International, though; they won the Nobel Peace Prize several years ago.
Last night, I googled how to make homemade bombs. Besides tempting fate and possible FBI interest, I wanted to find out whether or not it was an overhyped media story. Well, no, it’s not. In about 15 minutes, I found a website with recipes for different types of explosives, detonators, timing devices, advice for concealing bombs, etc. As I have a B.Sc. in chemistry, I wouldn’t recommend trying out any of these recipes without seriously researching the subject since God
only knows what kind of loonies wrote this. Still, some of the directions looked plausible.
Is there spyware on my computer that is secretly recording every keystroke? Is Microsoft gathering this data and turning me in to the NSA?
All countries face the problem of balancing freedom vs. security. The Patriot Act contains a good many provisions to intimidate citizens without providing any gain in safety. However, I am not sure if any government agency is actually using these laws in a substantial way to curtail civil rights. The FBI is pretty lame compared to the Gestapo or Romania’s Securitate. They’re undergoing massive restructuring, loss of authority and a $100 million botched computer system upgrade.
I don’t worry that a government agency is out to get me. I’m not important enough. Damned few people are important enough to justify the resources required for surveillance. No security service has ever existed that could spy on everyone all the time. In the grim example of Romania’s Securitate, citizens were so indoctrinated and fearful that they reported their own neighbors for suspicious activity, but that still required the government to investigate, arrest, interrogate, etc. It is far more efficient to intimidate the majority of citizens into slavishly obeying the law by making a few well-publicized examples.
Go ahead and sign petitions, write critical letters to the media, attend protests, and generally bitch and complain about the government. They can’t put everyone in jail. If you don’t exercise
your rights now, that encourages the government to curtail our freedoms.
Sex is Proactive
Getting back to Michelle‘s question:
. . . how about a post for female writers on what guys really
think/feel/do [during sex]?
28,000-year old multi-tasker
Thanks to Scott for pointing me towards this BBC News story about a 28,000 year old phallus:
Ah, the British. So in love with their puns; so proud of their wit. He said tool. Heh heh. Heh heh.
The author goes on to say that the “tool” may have been used as a sex aid, but “was also at times used for knapping flints,” according to Professor Nicholas Conard, who knows a thing or two about knapping flints. Or sex aids. I figure they must have talked to an expert, for God’s sake.
I’d never heard of “knapping flints,” but could figure it out from context. I pictured some Ice Age proto-person diddling herself/himself with it, getting bored, then turning it over to bang out a few flint arrowheads. Hell, it’s not like you can do that with the real thing.
I must have a tapeworm, or maybe I’m pregnant. So far tonight, I’ve had a buffalo burger (no bun), slice of red onion grilled on the barbie, and a romaine salad. That was my Atkins dinner. Still hungry, I had more than a few pretzels, a bowl of Tasty Bites Madras Lentils (Tasty Bites sounds like cat food, no?) garnished with red onion and Swiss cheese, a Girl Scout cookie, a few of my son’s Kit Kat bites (more cat food), and 9 Kalamata olives.
Did I mention the chili anchovies (from the Chinese market) and sardines for lunch?
If you haven’t figured it out yet, my muse has her head up her ass this evening. She pulled it out briefly this morning, allowing me to write this entry for the ‘Worst First Sentence’ contest at Writers BBS:
P— was a dashing sailor, strong of biceps and large of groin, keen for his spinach, a fellow of few words and fewer letters.
Okay, I’m pushing my luck.
D.