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SAVAGE
LOVE
BY
DAN SAVAGE
Here’s
my problem: I love women. I love the way they look, I love
the way they move, I love the way they sound. I like to see
them naked. But the idea of actually interacting with women—trying
to engage them in intelligent conversation without coming
off as absolutely leotarded—absolutely fucking terrifies me.
I’m a virgin at 30. I’ve never had a girlfriend. I’ve never
been on a date. I’ve never even had a conversation with a
woman that lasted longer than a couple of minutes and wasn’t
completely superficial and forced.
I cannot even imagine myself doing something assertive like
approaching a woman and asking her out on a date. And no woman
has ever approached me or even shown interest from what I
could tell. Sex workers are out of the question because I
don’t want to risk some asshole cop busting me. Webcam sites
are pretty much the only way I interact with women. Sad, no?
I’m not at all afraid of vaginas—I’m afraid of women who have
clothes on.
Got a piece of advice for me?
—Awkward
And Alone
I’ve
actually got two pieces of advice for you, AAA.
First piece: Get your ass to a shrink—maybe a lady shrink—who
can help you with your near-crippling social anxiety and maybe
toss some meds your way.
Second piece: Hire a fucking sex worker, AAA, just don’t fuck
her. Paid companionship is not a crime—there’s nothing illegal
about paying an escort to escort you places. Find a nice woman,
pay her for an hour or two of her time, and have a nice, polite
conversation. If you like her, make another appointment, have
another conversation. Cops—asshole or otherwise—only bust
men when they offer money in exchange for sex, AAA, so don’t
offer money for sex, or accept her offer to have money for
sex, and you won’t get busted. And cops working undercover
to bust johns don’t make follow-up appointments or build ongoing
relationships with clients. So if a woman sees you more than
once—or twice, to be extra safe—she’s not a cop.
Is
everyone in the Republican Party a closeted homosexual?
—Ken
Mehlman’s Out Now
Everyone
except Ken Mehlman and Ben Quayle.
I
am a straight and, dare I say it, vanilla woman who met a
straight man who somewhat reminds me of Clark Kent and Superman.
He’s seemingly mild-mannered, good-looking, pleasant, an all-around
great guy, just like Clark Kent—and just like Superman, he
likes to wear tights.
It ends up that he likes to be dominated, spanked, and buttfucked—and
crossdress. Our sexual encounters are a bit different for
me, to say the least, but I thoroughly enjoy them. I like
spanking him, humiliating him, tying him up, and watching
him try on panties (in which he looks darn good!). It’s all
rather exciting!
Does this mean that I’m a dominatrix? Would I act this way
with other men, or is it just him? And finally, where do I
go from here?
—Being
Deviant Satisfies Me
A
dominatrix? That’s a professional title, BDSM, and you’re
not planning to pursue a career in kink. (Are you?) To determine
if you’re genuinely and independently kinky and not just getting
off on beating and binding the boyfriend because he gets off
on it, you’ll just have to beat and bind someone else sometime.
As for where you go from here, BDSM, if you’re in San Francisco
or you can get there for a weekend, you might wanna sign up
for Forte Femme, a weekend-long “sensual dominance intensive”
hosted by kink superstar/supernova Midori. More info at fortefemme.com.
I’m
a GGG 38-year-old single woman, longtime reader, first-time
writer.
1. What is a cream pie?
2. Do you find it weird to be turned on by getting fondled
up and aroused into sex while sleeping? I have a hard time
communicating to partners that I want this! Can you give communication
assistance so I don’t sound so freaky?
—Freak
In Phoenix
1.
Google “cream pie.” The first three results are relevant;
the fourth (“Banana Cream Pie: Recipe”) is not. 2. Your kink,
FIP, barely moves the needle on my kink-o-meter. If you’re
having a hard time communicating your interest in fondled-while-asleep
sex, just memorize this: “It turns me on to get fondled up
and aroused into sex while sleeping.”
Poopnoodle.
I heard this word for the first time today. When I asked what,
exactly, a poopnoodle is, I was told that a poopnoodle is
what happens when you pee right after fucking someone hard
in the ass. Poop gets stuck up in the dick hole and comes
out in the form of a noodle when you piss. I was wondering
if this is something that actually happens, and if so, can
you deem “poopnoodle” the official Savage Love term for this
occurrence?
—Couldn’t
Think Of An Acronym That Spelled Out “Poopnoodle”
If
what you describe had ever actually happened to anyone, anywhere,
ever, “poopnoodle” could be the official Savage Love term
for it. But the poopnoodle never actually happens.
If you and your middle-school friends don’t believe me, CTOAATSOP,
here’s what you should do: Go get a couple jars of creamy
peanut butter or a few tubs of premade chocolate frosting.
Refrigerate until firm. Get your dicks hard. Fuck your jars
of peanut butter or tubs of premade frosting. Fuck them hard.
Fuck them like they’ve been bad. Fuck them like you’re never
gonna recycle ’em. Then go take a piss. You will not produce
a peanut butter or chocolate frosting noodle. I promise you.
And think about it, CTOAATSOP: Buttfuckers fuck butt until
they come. Wouldn’t coming dislodge the poopnoodle?
Finally, some general advice for anyone out there who’s interested
in anal but now, thanks to CTOAATSOP here, fears the poopnoodle:
Wear a condom. A condom can protect you from the poopnoodle
and HIV.
I
am disturbd by the naked pic bribing you openly admittd &
encouraged recently in yr last column. It reveals yr favoritism/elitism
system & yr corruptd nature! You dont need critics to
discredit yr “advice.” you done it yrslf. You are Mr Sanctimoney!
—509
I
am disturbd by yr splling.
But I cannot tell a lie: Enclosing a nude pic—good nude, bad
nude, boy nude, girl nude—can get my attention. But it won’t
automatically get a letter into the column, 509. Letters with
naked pics arrive in my inbox every day. I could run
nothing but letters from readers who were kind and/or cruel
enough to enclose pics of themselves, their partners, their
welts, their rashes, etc., week-in, week-out, 52 weeks a year.
And the letter from the guy in his early 30s who lost his
virginity that appeared in last week’s column—the dude who
enclosed pics—was the first letter from a pic-encloser that
I’ve used in ages.
So cut me some slack.
mail@savagelove.net
Find the Savage Lovecast (my weekly podcast) every Tuesday
at thestranger.com/savage.
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