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After
much trial and error, it has become abundantly clear to me
that I am a lesbian. My problem is that I am having a lot
of trouble meeting women. I tried dating a friend of mine,
but that turned out terribly. I am sick of meeting people
in bars, seeing as how bars only ever seem to be meat-markets,
and I am incredibly sick of hooking up while drunk. My campus
LGBT group is so insular that it is impossible to do anything
with someone without the entire community knowing. Thirdly,
I have delved into the recesses of online dating, but am inherently
wary of meeting people in such a vague forum. Is there any
place where I could possibly meet a nice girl, where I don’t
have to hang out with drunks, worry about incessant gossip,
or the possibility of being picked up by a psycho?
—Clueless
Undergrad Needs Trustworthy Sweetheart
Sorry,
CUNTS, but no dating scene is free of drunks, gossips, and
psychos, and as a consequence, precious few people, lesbian
or otherwise, get from single to partnered without dating
or becoming a drunk, a gossip, a psycho, or all of the above.
I’m not suggesting that you should be happy about this, CUNTS,
I’m only saying that you would be cutting off your clit to
spite your twat if you refused to go where the lesbo action
is for fear of running into DGPs.
La la la. I hope that advice suffices, CUNTS, because honestly
that’s all I’ve got. I’m having a hard time concentrating
on the sex-advice thing at the moment because the motherfucking
election is six days away! I know, I know: The election has
come and gone for you, gentle reader. But I write my column
a week before it appears in print, so while all of you out
there reading this know the outcome of the presidential election,
I, as I write this, do not. I’m still sweating it out here,
six days before the election, incapable of thinking of anything
else, literally sick with worry. All I can say is thank God
I live in a state with medical marijuana.
Now that I’m high, I’m trying not to think about the election.
I’m trying to think about other things, pleasant things. Hey,
here’s my boyfriend’s childhood photo album—what’s that doing
on my desk? That should take my mind off the horrifying prospect
of four more years of George W. Bush. Oh, here’s a picture
of him at his christening. What a cute baby! And here’s a
picture of him at his 12th birthday party in 1983 when he
asked his parents for a Donna Summer album! (And they claim
they didn’t know he was gay!) And here’s a picture of him
at 16 . . . water-skiing . . . in nothing but a Speedo. Um.
Hmm. I realize it’s wrong to fuck 16-year-olds, and it’s creepy
to lust after 16-year-olds openly, but is it wrong to want
to jump in a time machine so you can fuck your own boyfriend
when he was a 16-year-old? Geez, just thinking about this
is making my head hurt. Where’s my medicine?
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There
is only one thing in my mind that is not perfect about my
girlfriend: the area around her anus is very hairy. I feel
uncomfortable mentioning it to her as it could make her extremely
self-conscious, but it does bother me a great deal. My questions
are these: 1. Should I even bring it up? 2. And if so, how
would you suggest I do so without hurting her feelings or
making her feel uncomfortable? 3. Finally, how do you recommend
removing hair in such a sensitive area?
—Hairy
Met Sally
1.
Sure.
2. The best approach in a delicate situation like this, HMS,
is to use “I” statements. “I” statements will allow you to
express how you feel about your girlfriend’s hairy anus without
putting her on the defensive. So don’t say, “Your hairy anus
is revolting.” Instead say, “I think your hairy anus is revolting.”
Also, humor could help to dispel tension, i.e., “Hey, when
did they start making thongs out of dead ferrets?”
3. Duct tape—put it on, rip it off.
Okay, back to not thinking about the election. Back to thinking
about 16-year-olds: Here’s a concept that a straight male
friend who wishes to remain anonymous introduced me to, a
concept that may explain away my desire to fuck my scalding-hot
thirtysomething boyfriend back when he was a scalding-hot
teenage water-skier. It goes like this: My straight male friend
tells me that when he notices a particularly good looking
teenage girl, he can’t help but imagine how hot she’ll be
at, say, 20 or 25. He calls these good looking teenage girls
“round ups,” as in, “If you rounded up that girl over there
to 25 or so, I would totally want to fuck her.” He insists
he’s not a pederast, just an optimist. Discuss.
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Is
there a prize for most GGG spouse? For years I did the strap-on
thing with my husband, which I very much enjoyed. (It helps
that he’s a runner and has a great ass.) Six months ago he
expressed an interest in robot/mechanical sex. He bought a
fucking machine and he likes me to strap him to a fucking
bench we bought for strap-on play and leave him there with
the machine drilling his ass while I putz around the house.
I must say, knowing my helpless husband is upstairs being
reamed sure makes doing the dishes or a crossword puzzle more
titillating. When I free him, he turns the tables and fucks
me absolutely senseless. That’s my reward.
Not much of a point to this letter, just wanted to share.
—William’s
Wonderful Wife
P.S.
I’ve enclosed some pictures of William’s ass and, in case
you doubt my story, my lovin’ husband strapped down and being
drilled by our fucking machine.
First, if anyone out there is interested in getting their
mind off the election or anything else, I can attest that
reading about fucking machines—yes, they exist and, yes, they’re
commercially available—is almost as good as these pictures
of my boyfriend in a Speedo at 16. A good primer can be found
at www.fucking machines.com, which features lots of women
being, like, totally fucked by machines. For a look at some
men being fucked by machines, check out www.buttmachineboys.com.
And, finally, anyone interested in obtaining a fucking machine
of their very own can order them at www.extremerestraints.com.
On to your question, WWW: Sadly, there isn’t a prize for most
GGG spouse, although there probably should be. I would be
tempted to organize a GGG competition if I weren’t convinced
that a call for entries would only result in my having to
slog through hundreds of fictional accounts of GGG heroics.
I mean, how would I be able to tell honest accounts from invented
ones? Not everyone would be so . . . so . . . kind as to send
in photos. And even if people did, how would I know if the
pics were genuine documentary evidence or just random kink
pics swiped from the ’net? If there’s a way around this—if
there’s a way to organize and administer a GGG contest, a
sort of love-and-kink Nobel Prize—I’m all ears, folks. It’s
been a long time since we’ve had a contest at Savage Love
and I’d love to do a GGG Award, but how?
mail@savagelove.net
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