still on vacation. Here’s another column from the Savage Love
archives, which are housed at Queens University in Kingston,
Ontario. One day, scholars of human sexuality will pour over
old Savage Loves, pondering archaic sexual practices like
solo piss play and ancient slang terms like “whack.”
My girlfriend and I only see each other on weekends. To overcome
the overwhelming desire to jerk off during the week, I have
discovered that I get great pleasure urinating on myself.
I don’t know how this happened—one morning I just did it.
About an hour after drinking a lot of water, I lay down in
the bathtub. When I can’t hold it anymore, I direct a clear
stream of urine all over my body. Then I pull my briefs back
up and soak them. I keep my eyes closed—but do I need to worry
about any long-term effects on my hair or skin? Is there anything
wrong with me? My girlfriend knows nothing about this. I have
no intention of telling her, and I don’t want to be urinated
on by anyone else.
get a lot of letters here at Savage Labs. While every letter
is unique, and everyone’s dumb-ass problem is compelling in
its own very special way, patterns do emerge, and Wet’s letter
is a good example of a certain type of letter we get. The
kids in the mailroom call them HTHs, or “How’d That Happen?!”
letters. You see, Wet is doing this completely whack thing—pissing
on himself in the bathtub as a substitute for masturbation—and
like a lot of folks doing whack things, Wet has some whack
concerns. He has questions about the advisability of this
whack behavior—will urine damage my skin? Is there something
wrong with me?—so he writes a letter. Something that he thinks,
no doubt, took some courage. But in composing his letter,
Wet chickens out: He fails to take responsibility for his
actions, casting himself as a passive player in this bathtub
drama. He may be peeing on himself, but it wasn’t really his
idea, he writes: “I don’t know how this happened—one morning
I just did it.” How’d That Happen?!
I’ve been taking unsupervised baths for 27 years, and in all
that time I never just “happened” to pee all over myself.
The times I have pissed in the tub or shower, it was on purpose—I
was too lazy to get out of the shower, or there was someone
else in the shower with me and I was fulfilling a special
request. But it never just “happened.” I did it.
So, Wet, while I’m happy to answer your questions—no, it won’t
hurt you; yes, there is something terribly, terribly wrong
with you—your unwillingness to take responsibility for your
actions is what disturbs me most about your letter. Come on,
admit it: You’re into piss—you like it for its own sake, not
as a substitute for masturbation. Repeat after me: “I like
piss. I’m into self-administered golden showers.” This is
not something that just happened to you, like cancer or Candid
Camera. It’s something you did. You’re a perv, Wet. Cop
I was dog-sitting my friend’s dog and I fell asleep on
the floor in my T-shirt (no underwear). When I awoke, the
dog was licking my pussy, and to be honest, it felt so good
that I didn’t stop him until I came like I never have in my
life. I was totally embarrassed and disgusted with myself,
but the next night, it happened again. My questions:
1. Can I get infected in any way by dog germs on my pussy?
2. Is this harmful to me in any way?
3. How sick am I to fully enjoy this?
I am too ashamed to ask a single soul in the world these questions.
I wouldn’t even ask a doctor these questions. I’m so afraid
I’m going to catch some kind of infection from his tongue.
Please answer me, because I need to know. I feel sick and
letter, at first reading, rings false. The setup—Help Me wakes
to find the dog lapping away at her pussy—sounds an awful
lot like an urban myth (sans peanut butter). But while Help
Me’s setup rings false, her anguish seems so real, so touching,
that I believe this letter to be a genuine cry for help.
What rings false, of course, is her responsibility-avoiding
HTH presentation. The HTH, in this case, is so laughable it
almost discredits the rest of the letter: She fell asleep
on the floor, wearing only a T-shirt, and “awoke” to find
the dog lapping away at her pussy? What probably happened
was this: She was dog-sitting, feeling horny, and Mr. Dog
was doing those whack horny-dog things horny dogs do (sticking
its nose in her crotch, following her around, humping her
leg). The dog’s behavior was similar to the behavior of males
of her own species, and Help Me was intrigued. Tempted. So
she did this whack thing, and it felt really good, so she
did it again. And now she’s freaking out.
So she writes me a letter, but just can’t take responsibility
for her actions. She can’t bring herself to write a letter
that begins, “I fuck dogs. . . . ” So, she attempts to pass
dog-fucking off as something that “happened” to her, not something
she did. She fucks dogs. How’d That Happen?! She was innocently
taking a nap on the floor, with no pants or panties on, and
woke to find the dog between her legs—why, that could happen
to anyone! Twice!
Not by a long shot, Help Me. Anyway, in answer to your questions:
3. Pretty fucking sick.
I’m a 200 percent straight guy, married with children.
About six months ago, I went to a masseur who finished things
with a terrific blowjob. If you wonder why I didn’t stop him,
the truth is, I couldn’t, because he was massaging my asshole
with his thumb while blowing me. It was so good that I’ve
been going back to the guy just about every week, not for
the massage but for the blowjob. Now I’m starting to worry
that this might label me as gay. I have no interest in blowing
this guy, but I wonder if the guy who gets the blowjob is
as guilty as the one who does it.
is my personal favorite: Mr. 200 Percent Straight couldn’t
stop the big, bad masseur from giving him a blow job because
the masseur had his thumb up Mr. 200 Percent Straight’s butt.
What, is there a system override switch in straight men’s
butts? Can’t . . . move . . . thumb . . . in . . . ass . .
. send . . . help! Come on. I’ve had my thumb in a few butts,
provoking reactions ranging from delight to disgust, but it
has never, ever, not once, paralyzed a sex partner or struck
But Mr. 200 Percent can’t admit that he liked it, that he
didn’t object because there was nothing objectionable about
this blow job—you let him continue because you were diggin’
it, Mr. 200 Percent Straight—or that he might have sought
it out (just where did you find this masseur?). So he comes
up with what has to be the lamest excuse in the long, sordid
history of blowjobs: He had his thumb in my butt, Your Honor,
what could I do? HTH. Of course, this does not explain why
Mr. 200 Percent Straight keeps going back, week after week,
for more blowjobs. Did the masseur leave his thumb in your