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My background: I’m a gay man; I recently came out to my friends, mostly because I met someone with whom I wanted to pursue a relationship. I had never experienced this feeling before. After much courting and pursuing, we met enough times that he remembered my name—then came love.

Eight months later, despite a few indiscretions on both our parts, I’m happy as can be. But I don’t think we’re in the same place emotionally. I need him—well, actually I neeeeed him—and he “needs his space.” I don’t want to date anyone else, and I fear that if we were to split up I would revert to the sexual deviant that I was and he would do the same.

Here’s where the story gets on your nerves . . .

His prior “indiscretion” was with a German shepherd. I have no problems with his zoophilia, per se, except that we have an almost nonexistent sex life. I wouldn’t mind this aside from a few issues. First, he still masturbates. Second, he lied about it. Third, the very few times we have engaged in sex, he only receives, and it upsets me when he tries to maneuver us into a doggy-style position.

He is in therapy and it seems to be helping, but the more therapy he goes to, the less time he seems to want to spend with me. I may just be a screaming paranoid, but like I said, this is my first relationship. I love him and can’t bear to think of us parting. I want to have sex with him, but I want to respect his boundaries. But how do I know when I’ve given him enough space, and how do I get him to want to spend more time with me? Am I right for giving him space? Or should I be more forceful in my pursuits?

—Not A German Shepherd

P.S. Is his zoophilia relevant? I don’t think it is, because I love him despite his attraction to canines. And I’m 24, while he is somewhere between 26 and 29. I don’t really care about his age. The first time we exchanged ages he said 26, but his driver’s license has a 1976 DOB on it.

Let’s quickly review your case: The man you’ve fallen in love with likes to fuck dogs (or be fucked by dogs); doesn’t much like being fucked by you (except in the doggy position); “needs his space” (in order to fuck dogs, no doubt); and lies to you about his masturbatory routine, age, and God only knows what else. The one thing he hasn’t lied to you about is the dog fucking—that little detail he’s only too willing to share.

So yeah, NAGS, I’d say there’s a problem here—but you’re the problem, not him.

Don’t get me wrong: The love of your short life is a total mess, of course, what with all the dog fucking, space needing, lie telling, and therapy inning. But this eight-month relationship would have ended seven months and three weeks ago if you weren’t so desperately in love with the idea of being in love. How else to explain your fear of parting from a man that any sane fag would run screaming from?

And there really is no other explanation for your willingness to overlook issues that any sensible person would regard as four distinct deal breakers. A person might be able to have a relationship with someone who has had or is still having sex with dogs (1-2 percent of the population has sexual contact with animals, and even passionate zoophiles can sustain relationships with humans), and you might be with someone who isn’t all that attracted to you, or with someone who needs his space, or with someone who lies compulsively—but not all four.

Look, NAGS, I feel for you; I’ve been there. Well, not there; I’ve never been with a dog fucker, I’m happy to report. But I have allowed myself to fall hopelessly in love with guys who were completely fucked up. And here’s what I learned: Sometimes we fall in love with people who, for whatever reason, simply aren’t healthy enough to love us back. When you realize that you’re falling in love with a hopeless mess, NAGS, you don’t hang in there, hoping that your love will cure him. It won’t. Love is great, love is grand, but love ain’t chemotherapy—it’s not going to magically turn some sick fucker into a healthy fucker.

So dump the dog fucker already, NAGS, and do it quickly. A man who doesn’t want to spend time with you or fuck you isn’t going to be your boyfriend for much longer. For the sake of your own self-esteem, dump the dog fucker before he dumps you. Trust me, NAGS, you don’t want to look in the mirror every morning and think to yourself, “There’s the guy who wasn’t good enough for a dog fucker.”

I’m a married male in my 40s who has recently discovered the pleasure of drinking my wife’s pee. It is now a staple of our sex life; nothing gets me hornier than several mouthfuls of my wife’s piss. Here’s my question: My wife has recently decided to take tamoxifen to reduce her risk of breast cancer (she’s at high risk for a variety of reasons). Is it safe for me to drink her urine if she’s taking tamoxifen? I’d ask my family doctor, but since I’d rather not have that conversation with him, I’m asking you. Can one of your expert consultants give us an answer?

—Peeing Is So Sexy

“The odds of badness are small,” says Dr. Barak Gaster, internist at the University of Washington and Savage Love’s go-to guy on medical matters. “But the risk of messing with his sex hormones is still there because tamoxifen has mixed estrogen-like effects. He can be reassured, though, since he’s going to be getting such tiny amounts. Only about 10 percent of the drug will come out in her urine, and ‘several mouthfuls’ a day will only be a tiny fraction of her daily output. He should know, however, that tamoxifen in men can sometimes cause reduced sex drive, extremely painful erections, and vision problems.”

So keep drinking, PISS, but if you find yourself hard and not horny and unable to see your dick clearly, then you’re going to need to lay off the wife’s piss.

I wanted to give you a head’s up. Senator Rick Santorum—the frothy mix from Pennsylvania—is down double digits in the polls! Lots can happen between now and Election Day, of course, but I was wondering: If Frothy becomes unemployed, any plans to celebrate? You deserve a pat on the back for exposing him to the ridicule he deserves.

—Flush That Frothy Mix

To say that I’m proud of what we’ve done to Rick Santorum—my readers and I—is putting it mildly. I don’t like to brag, so I’ll quote Wonkette on our efforts: “No one has done more to ruin Senator Rick Santorum’s good name than sex columnist Dan Savage . . . with the possible exception of Senator Rick Santorum.”

And a note to my readers in Pennsylvania: I’m doing a benefit for Philadelphians Against Santorum on Tuesday, Oct. 10, at the Trocadero Theatre. For more info on the event—“Savage Love Live”—go to www.phillyagainstsantorum.com. And remember, Pennsylvania voters: We can’t wipe Santorum off the U.S. Senate floor if you folks don’t get out there and vote for Bob “Lesser of Two Weasels” Casey on Nov. 7! The whole country is counting on you!

 

Next week in Savage Love: John Cameron Mitchell—director of the hotly anticipated new film Shortbus—answers your sex questions.

mail@savagelove.net


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