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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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