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My boyfriend recently moved in with me—the first straight guy I’ve ever shared an apartment with. I’m very clean and take great pride in my apartment. However, since he moved in, I’ve tried to be mindful of the fact that there will be certain things I’ll need to adjust to. Still, I think it’s important to clean up after oneself, so when I found an empty liter-sized Sprite bottle among half-unpacked boxes, I figured I’d leave it there and let him pick it up along with his other trash in our bedroom. The surprise came a couple of days later when I noticed that the liter bottle was not only still in our room, it was full. Was it a new bottle of Sprite? Why wasn’t it in the fridge? I opened the bottle and caught a whiff not of Sprite, but of piss.

WTF?

I’m a heavy sleeper, so I guess I don’t hear him pee into a plastic liter-bottle in the middle of the night. I’ve already mentioned not leaving dirty dishes around, making sure to use coasters, etc., and I’m beginning to feel like a nag. But isn’t this crossing the line?!

—Pretty Insulted Seeking Solution

It doesn’t cross any lines of mine, PISS, but it clearly crosses a line of yours.

And you know what else probably crosses a line for you? Peeing in the tub—and I can guarantee you, PISS, that any man too lazy to walk to the toilet in the middle of the night is, without a doubt, too lazy to get out of the tub if he realizes he needs to piss after he’s stepped into the shower.

Just sayin’.

So what do you do? Well, you cut him a deal. You promise to stop nagging about the little things—dirty dishes here and there, inconsistent use of coasters—in exchange for his solemn promise not to piss in bottles or bathtubs. If your boyfriend is smart, he’ll take the deal and stop pissing in bottles and bath—well, he’ll stop pissing in bottles anyway, since it’ll be easy for you to bust him on that. Pissing in the shower, on the other hand. . . .

Is there a word for the act of filling a woman’s vaginal canal (appropriately lubed, of course) with latex, waiting until it hardens, pulling it out, strapping it on, and then fucking someone up the ass with it? If not, I would like to propose “channeling.” My girlfriend prefers “verting,” but whatever you call it, it sounds like fun. I know there’s a host of kits supporting the penile “plaster caster” hobbyist, but I haven’t seen the feminine equivalent advertised anywhere.

—Congenital Invert

You’re free to spend your free time dreaming up wild and crazy hypothetical sex acts and scenarios, CI, and christening them, if that floats your boat. But the world will little note, nor long remember, the names you come up with for your long list of impossible and/or improbable sex acts. For a term to stick—pegging, GGG, santorum—it has to describe or define an act, an attitude, or a substance that is regularly engaged in, assumed, or wiped up by a critical mass of sexually active people. And there just aren’t enough willing women or interested men out there, CI, to bring a term for vaginal-canal-as-dildo-mold into popular use.

But in case I’m wrong: I don’t think “channeling” or “verting” quite captures it. If vaginal-cast dildos catch on, CI, I believe the act should be known as a “Rachel Whitereading.”

I am a 20-year-old straight female dating the boy of my dreams. The only problem is that the sex is awful! His dick doesn’t get hard half of the time, he doesn’t like blowjobs, and he never seems to enjoy anything I do to him. The only thing he doesn’t have a problem with is penetrating me from behind, or “doggy-style.” I’ve asked him once or twice if he might like men, but he never gives me a straight answer and I can’t shake the feeling that he might be gay. He says that he never has a problem coming or getting hard when he is masturbating. I am his first relationship. Could he be gay or is he just insecure?

—Real Confused

When I was a 20-year-old gay male, RC, the “boy of my dreams” was a lot of things—soft and pink as a nursery, for starters—but insecure, inept, and incommunicative? Those weren’t the traits I dreamed about, RC, and they’re traits that should disqualify a guy from boy-of-dreams status.

As to the matter of his sexuality, RC, there’s no way for me to know for sure if your boyfriend’s a fag, short of fucking his ass. (And even then I couldn’t tell you for sure—I mean, what if he cried the whole time?) But a guy enjoying doggy-style sex with girls is no more evidence of latent homosexuality than a gay man’s preference for face-to-face anal is evidence of latent heterosexuality. (And, yes, face-to-face is usually how it’s done, people.)

But gay or straight, it doesn’t sound like this boy is the right boy for you. Dream another dream, RC.

How long will come keep? Even when my boyfriend blue-pills it and works my hole for a few hours, by the time I push it out there’s hardly enough for ONE gulp—to say nothing of filling a champagne flute. As hot as it sounds, I’m NOT going to invite 10 of our closest friends to dump loads in me. I figure my boyfriend and I could freeze our loads, push them up my butt, and he can churn them as he works my hole. But can come go bad? I’d rather not ask my doctor.

—Desperately Seeking Semen

P.S. We’ve been together for five years and stopped using condoms four years ago after testing. No risk of the pest.

Gross-out letters from teenage straight and/or closeted boys pretending to be disgusting fags don’t usually include information about testing and the length of the relationship, which leads me to believe that you might actually be disgusting fags. So I will answer your disgusting question:

You and your boyfriend will gulp down loads—or sip ’em out of champagne flutes—after you’ve pushed them back out of your ass, DSS. Do you really think that frozen-and-then-defrosted come, even if it’s gone “bad,” is going to be any worse than the slop you’re already putting in your mouths?

My good friend Sarah tells me that you said you would give me a shout-out in your column last week for my birthday. I probably would have shit my pants and exploded with birthday happiness. But you didn’t. So I just wanted to say thanks for ruining my 21st birthday. Oh, and if I could get the $3.25 back that I paid for the hardcover of The Commitment I found in a bargain bin, that would be fantastic.

—Patrick From Portland

P.S. Just kidding. You’re still my favorite sex columnist. But seriously: my birthday? Totally ruined.

Sorry about that, PFP. I will make it up to you by personally administering a belated birthday spanking the next time I’m in town.

Download a new Savage Love podcast every Tuesday at www.thestranger.com/savage.

mail@savagelove.net


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