boyfriend and I both like porn and toys, and we’re obviously
open about everything and often play with them together. But
recently he posed an interesting question that left me feeling
like a prudish conservative: If virtual-reality technology
is developed such that one can have a sexual encounter with
a computerized person (insert favorite famous wanna-fuck object
here: Brad Pitt, Jessica Alba, whoever), would that be too
close to cheating? He says that it’s just a face attached
to a sex toy and nothing more. If porn is okay and sex toys
are okay, he reasons, why not combine the two? But I’m feeling
a little jealous of my boyfriend’s virtual fuck buddy of the
future. What’s your take?
About Virtual Promiscuity
can spend all day worrying about terrifying new sex technologies
that have yet to be developed—virtual fuck buddies, horse-hung
sexbots, Laura Ingraham’s vaginal canal—or we can make up
our minds to cross those terrifying bridges when we come to,
on, or in them.
As for what constitutes infidelity, well, that is and always
will remain a highly subjective matter, WAVP. Every couple
gets to decide for themselves just what constitutes infidelity
within their own relationship. One couple may draw that line
at pornography—well, it’s usually the batshitcrazy half that
draws the line at pornography and the sane half concedes the
point under duress and masturbates in secret—while the couple
next door draws the line at quadruple penetration.
And speaking of infidelity: I’m gonna slap the next big, dumb
gay opponent of marriage equality who whines about gay marriage
being a plot to impose stultifying monogamy on us and destroy
gay sex as we’ve come to blow and glove it. Straights don’t
have to be monogamous to be married (or married to be monogamous)
and neither do we. We can have our civil rights, full marriage
equality, and our sexual adventures, too—just like straight
Gay people who say, “We shouldn’t want to get married because
then we’ll all have to be monoooooooogamous!” are just as
dishonest—and just as full of shit—as Bible thumpers who say,
“They shouldn’t be allowed to get married because they’re
not capable of being monogamous!” Drop it, you douchebags.
Okay! I’m a bisexual woman who dated this amazing, beautiful,
bisexual guy who was a bartender at the Gay 90’s in Minneapolis.
(Shout out!) Obviously it didn’t bother me that he liked men,
but the thing I just could not tolerate was that after he
would come on my stomach he would lick it alllllllllllllll
up!!! OMFG I almost threw up every time!
I never said anything, because I’m not one to knock someone’s
kinks as long as they’re safe and respectful. But I’m dying
to know if this is a gay thing or did he have some type of
Upon In Minneapolis
gay thing? Not according to my mail—or your example, JUIM,
seeing as this guy was bi.
Getting back to my mail: All the panicky e-mail I get from
people whose boyfriends, husbands, or FWBs suddenly lapped
up their own come is from women. Either gay men don’t do this
or they don’t regard the act as so troubling that they feel
a need to ask me about it. But in my own personal sex life,
JUIM, I’ve never seen a gay man lap up his own come—well,
not unless he was ordered to.
So where did this kink come from? Who knows? Who cares? We
can look back through this bartender’s life and speculate—maybe
his dad forced him to lick his plate clean, maybe he started
eating his come as a teenager to destroy evidence of masturbation
from disapproving parents, maybe he’s deeply concerned (and
deeply confused) about his carbon emissions—but, generally
speaking, attempting to identify the root cause of an adult
person’s fetishes, turn-ons, kinks, etc., is a waste of time.
It’s a much better use of our time, JUIM, to accept and enjoy
our fetishes and our partners’ fetishes with good grace and
a sense of humor. What turns us on turns us on, and angsting
about it endlessly doesn’t change anything.
I’m writing on behalf of a friend of mine who is too
tired and disgusted to write. The advice is too late for her,
but I was wondering if you could send out a few hints to those
who partake in golden showers.
My friend is a very nice landlady. She rented her basement
apartment to a young woman whose boyfriend visited on weekends.
After a couple months, the tenant moved out and my friend
went down to clean. The place smelled disgusting and required
hours upon hours of cleaning. The rugs in every room were
soaked through and the walls were covered with dried urine.
She had to rip out all the carpeting.
I just assumed people had the sense to do golden showers in
the tub. So, Dan, what are the golden rules?
proof do you have that these two were piss freaks, ILL? Pissing
all over carpets and walls is a time-honored way for disgruntled
tenants to fuck over perceived-to-be-evil landlords; it is
not, generally speaking, a piss freak’s modus operandi. It’s
been my experience—ahem—that piss freaks are neat freaks (outside
of the tub), the turn-on being the violation of their own
taboos and hang-ups around cleanliness.
I’ve been reading your column pretty much since you
started writing it in the early-mid 1990s. When I moved to
New Orleans, pre-interwebs, and discovered you weren’t represented
in any local papers, I had a friend clip and mail your column
every week so I wouldn’t miss out.
The reasons for the longevity of my interest are not only
because you write good ’n’ stuff, but because your advice
always nails it. But while I feel that you’re correct 100
percent of the time, I’m curious if you feel that you’ve ever
made a mistake.
Are you infallible? Any regrets?
CIL, I’ve made my fair share of mistakes. I remember one in
particular: After giving out some erroneous information about
the location of the clitoris (it’s not on the tailbone, as
it turns out) and being called out for it, I explained that,
on the few occasions that I slept with women, I didn’t make
a close study of their vaginas, as that would have made it
harder to pretend that their vaginas were, in actual fact,
Keanu Reeves’s distressed ass crack. Then I added, for no
good reason, that to me a vagina would always look like “a
canned ham dropped from a great height.”
I regret writing that, as people screamed and yelled, and
I was even refused service in a lesbian bar over it. But luckily
for me, the column in which I made that gynophobic but eerily
apt crack—I mean, picture it: A canned ham falls from a great
height, hits the ground hard, the weakest seam of the can
splits, the meat product inside is pressed out through the
long, narrow opening as the impact compresses the can, and
pink meat unfolds like a delicate, if nonkosher, flower—is
so old that it doesn’t exist on a web archive anywhere and
I can plausibly deny ever having written any such thing.
a new Savage Love podcast every Tuesday at www.thestranger.com/savage.