decided, at 12 years old, that pregnancy was not something
I wanted to worry about, and now, at the ripe age of 26, I’m
still a virgin. I exchanged oral favors with my boyfriends,
none of whom lasted more than three months. Approximately
half said they wanted more, and the other half were only settling
for me until someone better came along. At 19, I figured out
that it was a form of leading men on to date them, yet give
them no chance of sleeping with me until some arbitrary future
date when I was ready to have kids. So I took myself out of
the game. I have not dated in six years. My self-imposed sexual
isolation is complicated by the fact that I am now overweight
and have abnormal hair growth (I have to shave my face and
years my inner emotional life has been locked between aching
loneliness and cold emptiness. My friends and my family, though
warm and loving, are no longer enough. I want more, I want
physical comfort and emotional gratification. I want sexual
contact. But I just can’t seem to get over my original reasoning
and self-conscious body issues.
Of the columnists I’ve read, you are the bluntest. Help.
The weight? Lose it. Join a gym, buy a bike, walk an hour
a day. Move more, eat less—it ain’t rocket science.
The hair? Lose it. Go to an electrologist or a laser-hair-removal
joint and have your face and chest hair blasted away forever.
The self-pity? Lose it. While it sucks to be fat, FFF, you
have to take responsibility for letting yourself get fat.
(And, hey, some guys dig fat chicks.) While it sucks to have
to shave your chest and face every day, FFF, there are worse
physical challenges. (And, hey, some guys dig hairy chicks.)
And while it sucks to be dumped, there’s nothing spectacular
about the dating misery you experienced as a teenager. Used?
Dumped? Settled for? It happens to the best of us.
The 12-year-old? You need to murder that dumb cunt.
That sounds harsh, I realize, but I speak from experience.
You see, FFF, I decided, at age 12, that parental disapproval,
religious condemnation, and social ostracism were things I
didn’t want to worry about, so I resolved never to come out
of the closet. Instead, I would learn how to become a priest
or fuck girls, and I gave both options my best shot. (Hey
there, Quigley Preparatory Seminary North! Hey there, Wanda!)
But by age 26, FFF, I was out, my parents were over it, and
I was living in Berlin with my first serious boyfriend. I
couldn’t have gotten the physical comfort and gratification
that I ached for—to say nothing of the bruises and rope burns—if
I hadn’t wrapped my hands around the throat of that scared,
pansy-assed, 12-year-old faggot and squeezed the life out
Reading your letter, FFF, was like hearing from that 12-year-old
faggot again. You made the same mistakes at 12 that I did,
but whereas I wanted to avoid the potentially painful consequences
of crushing disapproval, you wanted to avoid the potentially
painful consequences of unplanned pregnancy. We both ran away
from our desires in order to protect ourselves from the pain
we feared. But our youthful attempts to avoid the possibility
of pain by denying ourselves love and intimacy only succeeded
in bringing down upon us the certain pain of aching loneliness
and cold emptiness.
So, FFF, just as I had to get out there and risk being disowned
by my family, getting tossed out of my church, and contracting
a potentially fatal sexually transmitted disease in order
to find physical comfort, emotional gratification, and sexual
contact, you’re going to have to get out there and risk getting
pregnant, contracting diseases, and getting hurt to find the
physical comfort, emotional gratification, and sexual contact
that you need. There’s no other way. Will you find love if
you start taking risks? Maybe, maybe not. But I guarantee
that you won’t find love sitting on your ass in your apartment
obsessing about pregnancy and downing pints of ice cream.
You can do this, FFF. If I could kill that scared 12-year-old
fag, FFF, you can kill that dumb 12-year-old cunt. Just wrap
your hands around her throat and squeeze.
am an 18-year-old girl with an 18-year-old guy. We have been
dating for 15 months and have a healthy sex life. Seven months
ago I found out that he was cheating on me online with guys.
He said there was nothing physical and that he wasn’t interested
in these guys at all, he just enjoyed leading them on. He
also told me that he’d stop. A month ago I found out that
he started doing it again. I talked to a couple of the guys
that he was leading on, and it turns out he met more than
one and wanted to have sex with them.
live with him and I don’t want to leave him—but I’m scared
that he might cheat again. I have nothing against gay or bisexual
people, I just know that if he was bisexual—he can’t be gay,
because he wouldn’t like me if he were, right?—I wouldn’t
feel comfortable watching TV knowing he thinks that Paris
Hilton and Paris Latsis are hot. I love him a lot, and I know
you’re going to tell me to DTMFA (I’m a regular reader), but
I’d rather hear some other insight on this situation.
In New York
Hmm, your boyfriend is a lying closet case but you want some
insight besides DTMFA, OK . . .
If you’re going to stay with the LCC, then you’re going to
have to accept the fact that you’re dating a guy who is, at
best, bisexual. So here’s what you’re signing up for if you
stay: He’s gonna fuck you, he’s gonna fuck guys, and he’s
gonna lie to you about it. If you don’t want him to lie to
you, TINY, then you’re gonna have to convince him to come
out to you and give him your blessing to sleep with guys on
the side. If you can’t do that, then you need to—well, you’re
a regular reader, you know what you need to do.
am writing to you regarding the letter from Wanting Time For
Myself, the young man being abused by his emotionally needy
girlfriend. I was in his shoes once, and I am still putting
my life back together a year later. I hope he leaves her before
he begins to feel worthless, the way I did. Because I spent
every free moment with my ex, I stopped growing as a person.
Not only did I not make any new friends, and lost many old
ones, but I also spent no time nurturing old interests and
hobbies or developing new ones. Only now is the utter hopelessness
giving way to my old self and I am remembering how to laugh
and shout. This guy needs to get away—and fast. He needs to
decide that the guilt from devastating her now is far better
than the life of guilt, deep depression, and regret he will
lead if he stays with her.
Savage, you really are the straight man’s best friend, even
if you keep trying to get people to put things up their assholes.
Almost Sent This Without Signing It
for sharing, IASTWSI.