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Every week I read your column. I figure that since your loyal readers tell you so much about ourselves and our sex lives, it would only be fair if you told us more about yourself and your sex life. So what do you like in bed? What turns you on? What do you look like?

—Savage Lust

I don’t usually entertain “personal” questions, but this week I’m going to make an exception.

Yes, SL, my loyal readers do tell me a great deal about themselves and their sex lives. My loyal readers, however, tell me about their sex lives willingly and, more important, anonymously. I don’t have that luxury, SL. Anything I reveal in this space about my sex life or turn ons can be traced right back to me. Why is this a problem? Because everyone in my huge Irish Catholic family—including my Aunt-Dorothy-the-nun—reads my column every week. If I were to reveal in this space all the things that turn me on, two things would happen. First, my great aunts would drop dead from shock. Second, the next time I saw my brothers Eddie and Billy, my uncles Jimmy, Jerry, Walter and Nestor, and my cousins Chris, Michael, Kevin, Thor and Matty, they would all tease me mercilessly—and just soon as everyone was drunk, all my relatives would start telling me about the things that turn them on, and we can’t have that.

My relatives do know what I look like . . . so . . . that I can share with you, SL: I’m 28-years-old, 5’11”, I weigh 160 pounds and I have blond hair and green eyes. I have a swimmers build, wear a lot of Prada and sport a large opal on my right index finger.

Oh, and I look fucking hot in a pair of tighty-whities.

Speaking of which . . .

You have until June 30th to enter your boyfriend in Savage Love’s “My Man Sure Looks Hot in His Tighty-Whities” Contest! Best looking guy in TWs wins a trip to Las Vegas!

You’re gay. You’re such a prick. I hope you get AIDS and die. Or if you already have AIDS, I hope you die soon. You’re a cold, heartless son of a bitch who enjoys the misery of others.

—Drop Dead

My family not only reads my column, they also send me letters. This one is from my Uncle Jimmy, the long-distance truck driver, who was always a kidder. Oh, Jimmy! You slay me!

There are many examples of All Things Evil and Dangerous. Unfortunately. Dan Savage is by far the most heinous abuse of free speech America has known yet. Dan, you are more pompous than Rush Limbaugh, more bigoted than the KKK, more damaging than cancer. I am in shocked that any newspaper would publish your wicked commentary; you take 10 giant steps back for the whole of gay culture, I am ashamed to be akin to you in any semblance. If this is entertainment, I’m not laughing.

—You Suck

Oh, now stop, Aunt Dorothy! You’re making me blush!

I’ve been reading your column online for a while now, and an interesting phenomena has caught my attention: “gay” folks admitting to engaging in “straight” sex. This seems to happen often for a myriad of reasons and under varied circumstances, but seems interestingly common. Which led me to wonder, could Dan Savage, Lord of the Gays, have engaged in hetero-lust in the past? Or are you one of those “I’ve known I was gay since I was 2 and never dated straight, not even for cover story types?”

—Did Dan Do The Deed?

Yes, I’ve had sex with women. Once or twice. Full-on vaginal intercourse with a girl named Wanda, a few blowjobs from some other girls and an evening of drunken groping with a girl who is now a born-again Christian. (I was drunk at the time; she hadn’t been saved yet.) I did know I was gay when I was doing it with these women, but I didn’t know that some of them knew I was gay, which they all now claim to have known.

Me and my boyfriend are thinking about adopting a kid. We’re gay, and we were inspired to adopt by the book you wrote about you and your boyfriend adopting, The Kid. We recently heard that you and Terry had split up, and we were deeply distressed. I looked all over online to substantiate that claim but to no avail. So tell me, is it true?

—Bummed in Iowa

I heard this rumor, too, and while I laughed it off at first—all the cool gay couples break up!—the shit hit the fan when my boyfriend Terry heard the rumor. First, he refused to do my laundry, “since we’re not together anymore.” Then Terry returned our son DJ to the adoption agency! Last week Terry moved to New York City, where he’s been seen on the arm of ABC’s News correspondent John “Give Me a Break!” Stossell. It’s an American tragedy.

Dan, love your column, I read it every week. However. Do you need to be so nasty all the time? Admittedly it makes for interesting reading, but your condescension is blistering. It’s clear that you have no patience for people who seek approval and reassurance for their sex practices, but DAMN. Not everyone is a sex consultant like yourself. Please let people be a little timid and confused. I would think that people writing to your column would feel foolish for having written at all based on your responses. Dan, don’t savage people. We want advice, not ridicule.

With respect,

—Please Lay Off

I resolve to be a nicer advice columnist, PLO.

People read your column for fun and to laugh at the freaks. Don’t waste our time with “compassion” or “good advice.” I hate it when you get all helpful. When you’re mean, you’re funny, so you should be mean all the time, Dan, so that you’re funny all the time.

—Be a Dick

I resolve to be meaner advice columnist, BAD.

While I agree with much of what you write, I must question the motives of anyone who affects the name “Savage.” Couldn’t you choose a less-obviously-fake pseudonym? This name elicits images of bad tattoos, malt liquor, pierced nipples and nights spent writhing on soggy mattresses.

—Stitch Abbot

Savage is my real last name, SA. My dad’s name is Savage, my mom’s name used to be Savage, my siblings are all Savages.

I very much appreciate your column and your no-nonsense approach to life’s issues. I was wondering, there must be some photos of you naked, or at least barefoot, floating around . . . how can I gain access to them? Thanks for your help!

—Foot and Advice Fetish

I once “posed” for some unflattering Polaroids when I was living in Madison, Wis., but I don’t recall if my feet were photographed. If you get your hands on those Polaroids, FAAF, I will pay you to burn them. There’s also a picture of me in bed—I’m stroking myself and staring down at my dick—that circulates on the internet. Luckily for me, everyone seems to think that particular picture of me is actually of Danny from The Real World: New Orleans, so I’m in the clear. And, no, my feet aren’t in that picture either.

But enough about me, my feet, the girls I fucked, my writing style, my boyfriend, and my family! Next week, back to you and your problems.

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