Hey man, howzit hanging! All of us keglers down at Ten Alley Lanes get a real bang from your bitchen critiques of the world of Opera. Your luminating commentation always stimulates lively confab amongst our selves—with or without a round (or 2!) of Pabst Blue Ribbon—as we debate the compairative merits of out standing vocalists.—The latest debate, how ever, is winding into quite a "feud," which we would be honored if you could help paxify it by weighing in on one side (or other) of the controversy:
WHO would you rather fuck—Renata Tebaldi or Luisa Tetrazzini?

No contest, fellas: Luisa.
You heard it correct!
I'll wager you've audio'd the 1911 "Una voce poco fa" (Victor 88301) and may possibly be snickering: "Cuckoo the Bird Girl—who would fuck her?"...but that's from listening mainly with your heads. You should listen with your schlongs. Yeah, this chick is all over the place—chirps! warbles! clucks! caws and quacks! (watch out for the droppings)—but in them warbles and what-all lurks a sexxxxual hysteria waiting only to be tapped and mined—a whammer-jam of carnal surges and tangents from Wham-Ba-Lam Central—vast, voluminous OCTAVES OF LADYLOVE, sharped, flatted and WET. That ain't all. 'Cuz for all the feathered flyaway, there is also a supreme grounding; a gravitation. She's a husky spud-bender, see—BIGGG gams-n-hams at your disposal—bolsters and buttresses to meat-greet your libido at its maxmost fortissimo, and boom it back undiminissimo—pistons and pinions and heavy-duty whamrods to piledrive your ramrod and SHAKE 'EM ON DOWN...(o! my empyrean soul).
And with those athaletic lungs of hers—power pipes in all registers—you just know she has the oxygen to oxidate the dynamo and mambo till the moo-cows come home.
Get Luisa up on top and you'll bring out the very furry best in her. Without a mattress to restrict her action, she will throw you some hefty Eros, some coloratura fuckmoves from MARS: ascent, descent, ascant and aslant w/ blockbuster woman-weight behind it, as chromatic scales from her Torrid Zone dazzle your dipper in crescendos of rhythmatic epiphany that will romp and bomp you to the 49th dimension: a sexsational, indelible intercourse you're NOT likely to forget.
And afterwards you can gobble chicken tetrazzini off her belly.
A date with Renata, by comparison, would be an arid traipse along the boardwalk and beaches of DivaGashLiteVille. Expect no fireworks (or fireflies) (nor even a fire drill). But oh, you'll work for it! For the token cookies you may manage to snab, this vainglorious puff of fluff will jump you through hoops, tax your courtship mettle to the breaking point: flowers by the gross, tiaras and brooches, milk chocolates in three-tier boxes, an IMAX film (& dinner) just to get a toe in the door...to join Her Royal Cuteness for a round of "doctor":
You show her yours, she shows you hers...shoes and socks optional...slip a little vodka in her 7-Up, and maybe she'll let you sniff inside her bra...on the sassiest day of her life—if her ma don't barge in first—it is POSSIBLE y'might wangle a three-finger handjob. (If Ma barges, don't count on a rain check.)
To get past her garters, and into her bloomers, you would probably need a crowbar, and ABOUT THOSE BLOOMERS I have got a feeling, nay, more than feeling: a premonition. That they shall (sayeth me) be boring basic white, sno-white, cotton-lycra, with NO stains (in front! below! behind!) sensible to organs of sight, smell, taste or touch, and no stray cranny hairs. (Conditions in the undywear of Connie Effing Francis could scarcely be squeaky cleaner.) If there be fragrance to milady's undies, 'twould be not (I augur) the sensuous bouquet of redolent steam from her simmering squank, but permeant fumes of over-the-counter "fem hygiene" (i.e.: anti-squank) spray...keep it!
Exxxcuse me, guys—I don't mean to nay-say your grand plans of Tebaldic debauchery. If afterschool show-N-tell is your scene, go for it. Who am I to judge? (Be sure to save some vodka for yourself...you'll need it.) Should you make it to 3rd or 4th base (hey: we all sometimes get lucky), my hat is off to you. Really, gentlemen, it isn't my intention to deny it can be done, though it'd take you a trainload—a boatload—surely more than a trouserload!—of time, $$$ and effort to get all the way to 4th...in which case you'll have yourself a trophy—you'll have earned it, yes—but a trophy of what, precisely?
"Waitaminute, waitaminute!" you say? "Whuttabout Renata's flawless timbre above high B-flat?"?
Oh mama. If I've said it once, I've said it humpty-dumpteen times: you can't fuck timbre! And even if you could, we're talking timbre here without fuckmuscle behind it, without fuckfilth or muffin scent, and fucking THAT would be like fucking the wall, or the door of a fridge—or jizzing off on a Disney 'frigerator magnet.
I may be olde and eccentric, but it just doesn't DO ANYTHING FOR ME, alright? A trophy minus muffin scent!...egad. What would you jizz off about? (Nobody's got THAT much 'magination.)
Trophyism, bah. In case your mother didn't tell you, it behooves me to relate ya's some serious wisdom: you don't have to pork every prima donna on the block, and what's more, you needn't feel GUILTY for not porking! Not only are trophy fucks in general, and at best, frequently less than they're cracked up to be, start collecting 'em and you'll wake up one morning addicted to a very cweepy habit. In certain circles, trophyists may in fact be considered gauche... uncouth...even immature. For treating women as objecks. So don't...if you can possibly help it.
I hope I've answered your question.