it possible for a man to insert his balls into a woman? It’s
a topic I don’t want to Google. A few months ago, I was making
out with a guy and he whispered to me that he wanted to insert
his balls into me. I said, “What?!?” and he moved on to other
things. I’ve shared this story with a couple of girlfriends.
After laughing, they all said they’ve never heard of such
a thing. Are we prudes or is this something I’m missing out
shrivels the ol’ dick quite as quickly as the “What?!?” bomb.
There the guy was, boned for you, and he was brave enough
to put his desires out there, to make himself vulnerable (which
is what the ladies are always saying they want, right?), and
you lobbed the ol’ “What?!?” bomb at him and made him feel
like a freak. Is it any wonder that he quickly moved on to
“other things” and, one would hope, better sex partners?
And that’s too bad, RIT, because it sounds like you may have
been a little curious, maybe even tempted, by his request.
I mean, here you are, all these months later, wondering what
that “What?!?” caused you to miss out on. But before I fill
you in—or stuff it in—let’s pause to consider just what prompted
you to toss out that “What?!?” bomb in the first place.
You’re not the only person whose first reaction to an unexpected
request is “What?!?” Many of us feel obliged—even the sexually
adventurous among us—to go on the record with slight-to-mild-to-royal
shock when a new partner presents us with a request for something
besides standard-issue sex organ stuffed in standard-issue
orifice. Our shock—real, feigned, or exaggerated—allows us
to establish our moral superiority while placing the other
person in a weaker position. It forces the other person to
acknowledge that he or she is the bigger pervert and that
we, by even contemplating indulging his or her kinks, are
doing that person a favor. Tragically for all involved, most
people on the receiving end of a “What?!?” emerge less likely
to share their kinks with future sex partners, resulting in
less interesting sex lives for all.
On to your question: Yeah, a guy can insert his balls into
a vagina—or an anus, or a mouth, or the seventh hole of the
Augusta National golf course. Some guys like to do it loose;
they pack the sack in by hand and the orifice then closes
around their sacks, above their balls. These guys derive pleasure
from having their balls trapped and tugged. Other guys like
to wrap their scrabble bags with a short length of soft rope
or a rubber sheath; this pushes their nuts down to the bottom
of their sacks and creates, essentially, a firmer, more-easily-inserted,
temporarily phallus-shaped sack that they can literally fuck
the shit out of you with.
So here’s what you missed out on, RIT: a safe and unique sexual
experience with a guy who isn’t afraid of his own desires
but is, it seems, too easily spooked by the odd “What?!?”
Who knows? Maybe he was “the one,” but your reaction to his
kink prompted him to go off in search of more indulgent, less-sex-negative
Your loss, I’d say.
Tell me the name of my fetish! In intimate situations,
all I want is the foreplay portion of a hookup: kissing, petting,
dry humping. But it goes no further than both parties being
shirtless, i.e., no oral, no penetration, no getting off.
Is there a name for this fetish?
Own Crazy Kink
there is, MOCK. It’s called “second base.”
At a recent party in Paris, I fucked a Spanish girl
in an inflatable igloo. As we were going at it—standing up,
from behind, clothes mostly on—she put her fingers in her
ass. Being the gentleman I am, I asked if she’d prefer something
(slightly) more substantial in there. She said yes; I put
it in. After a few minutes, I began to smell something foul.
I prayed to the God I don’t believe exists that it wasn’t
what I suspected. I finally looked down and saw that her ass
and my dick were covered in brown. On the verge of vomiting,
I tried to stay calm and make what I would consider to be
a traumatic situation for her a little less embarrassing.
Thing is, she wasn’t embarrassed. She didn’t seem to mind.
In fact, after I lost my erection, removed my socks and underwear
and used them to try to clean things up, she sucked me off.
The next day, I received a text from her saying that she had
a great time. No apology for shitting on me, no quip to lighten
things up. I’d suspect that she forgot the whole ordeal (she
was drunk), but I’m confident that despite my efforts to clean
up, she awoke the next day with shit on her person and skirt.
In the days since, my sympathy for the cute little thing has
turned into resentment. Shouldn’t she have known she had to
poop? Shouldn’t she have apologized?
Shitty Bang Bang
did all the right things after that Spanish tramp shit on
you—and we’re talking shit here, not a splash or two of santorum.
You pulled out, you cleaned up, you moved on to something
else. Some folks would’ve freaked but, eh, those folks don’t
get it. You can put lipstick on an ass, my friends, but it’s
still an ass. Shit happens, as the saying goes. Shit shouldn’t
happen; it’s gross when it does. But when you’re fucking ass,
shit has to be regarded as a “known known.”
The accidental shitter, however, owes the mortified shittee
the courtesy of being appropriately mortified; the shitter
should also quickly assume all clean-up duties (oral doesn’t
count); and if the shittee is being cool about it, the shitter
should thank the shittee for not making a big deal about it.
Based on this girl’s actions, SSBB, I’d say she was blind
drunk, utterly clueless, into shit, or all of the above. Whatever
her major malfunction, SSBB, wipe her number from your phone’s
I recently read on Wikipedia (which knows all) that
you own Ann Landers’s desk. I really enjoyed her column growing
up, and now I rather enjoy yours. I’m just wondering how you
display the desk, and if you use it when you’re doing your
doesn’t know all, CW. For instance, the site incorrectly lists
my age: I am 34, not 43. And that picture of me they’re using?
I may have to sue.
But I do own Ann Landers’s desk. I bought it at auction after
Landers passed away—after securing an OK from Ann Landers’s
daughter, Margo Howard—and when I’m not writing Savage Love
in a bar, an airport, or an inflatable igloo, I write at Landers’s
desk. And let me tackle the obvious follow-up question: I’ve
never had sex on Landers’s desk, you sick fucks. I can’t go
so far as to say that Landers’s desk has been entirely unmolested
since it came into my possession, as I’m not the only person
with after-hours access to my offices. But if this desk has
been violated, it wasn’t by me.
a new Savage Love podcast every Tuesday at www.thestranger.com/savage.