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In
Vegas I made the mistake of telling my “friends” I had an
“accident.” The girl giving me a lap dance was grinding too
hard and I blew my load. Within minutes the nicknames started:
Sticky Pants, Pocket Paste, et cetera. I took my medicine
for three days in Vegas and thought that would be the end
of it. Then before I walked in the door at home my brother
was calling me Sticky Pants. Now my boss and coworkers are
calling me SP.
The problem I have is that one of my so-called friends is
out to ruin me. He had Sticky Pants business cards printed
up with my name on them and is passing them out. I’m getting
married next month. What are the odds the wife-to-be will
learn about SP before I die? Do I tell her the truth now?
Or should I kill ALL of my so-called friends? The pricks think
it’s funny that they are going to ruin my life.
—Sticky
Pants
First,
it’s too bad your friends aren’t living up to the Las Vegas
Convention and Visitors Authority’s new slogan: “What happens
in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”
Second, you’re a dumbass, SP. Your first dumbass move was
telling your friends you blew a load. If you’re old enough
to get into a strip club and straight enough to blow your
load during a lap dance, you should’ve known better. Of course
they’re razzing you—that’s what straight men do. It’s how
you people display affection and/or hostility. Still, you’ve
learned a valuable lesson: In the future, SP, what happens
in your pants in Vegas, stays in your pants in Vegas.
Your second dumbass move was failing to laugh off the nicknames.
You say you “took your medicine,” but how well did you take
it? Ask any seventh grader: If a cruel nickname visibly upsets
the person being stuck with it, people redouble their efforts
to make it stick. You were bothered, they could tell, and
the end result is that SP may be your nickname forever.
What to do about the wife-to-be? Confess all. She’s going
to hear about it sooner or later—and keeping SP a secret only
hands a very powerful weapon to the asshole who’s trying to
ruin your life. As for the asshole himself, well, the less
bothered you seem by SP—yes, even the business cards—the sooner
he’ll start tormenting someone else.
Finally, I called the Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Authority
on your behalf. Rob Powers, vice president of public relations,
seemed shocked—shocked!—to find that stripping is going on
in Las Vegas. When I asked if he would call your asshole friend
and tell him to knock it off—to leave your sticky pants in
Vegas, per his organization’s slogan—Rob told me he had to
go. “My boss is on the other line,” Rob said. “And I really
wouldn’t comment on that regardless.”
I
recently came across some pictures of a guy who deliberately
caused his colon to come out of his anus, using a vacuum pump.
He then had his friend photograph it for posterity. (I’ve
attached the pictures to this e-mail.) I don’t need any advice,
but I thought you might be interested in this new sexual technique.
Just thought I’d share.
—Jerk’s
Pictures Egregiously Gross
For
crying out loud, JPEG, I sometimes read my e-mail in the morning
over my breakfast—do you have any idea how disconcerting
it is to listen to Carl Kasell’s voice while looking at pictures
of some guy’s guts hanging out of his anus? (And for the record,
kids of all ages, pulling your colon out of your body is not
a new “sexual technique.” It’s a dangerous, stupid, disgusting,
and potentially fatal stunt.)
A general note to Savage Love readers about pictures: Unless
we’re talking pics of a really hot guy, don’t send me any
goddamned pictures. And please bear in mind, folks, that
I am not a doctor. Once upon a time, in the Goode Olde
Days before e-mail, help-there’s-a-sore-on-my-penis/vulva/asshole
letters were a staple of snail mail. The Sore People would
tell me they didn’t want to see a doctor, because they were
too embarrassed. Did I think the sores, based on their flowery
descriptions of them, were STDs or not? I would occasionally
run one of these letters just to remind folks that I’m not
a doctor—although I’ve played one during sex—and even if I
could ID sores from descriptions alone, the Sore People would
still go to a doctor to get treated.
But I no longer get flowery descriptions of potential STD
sores via snail mail. Thanks to the wonders of e-mail and
digital photography I get pictures—horrifying digital photographs
that invariably pop up on my computer screen at the worst
possible moment. For instance, the last time I got one, I
was reading through my e-mail on an airplane. A picture of
a great big sore on some great big jerk’s great big dick popped
up. I found this enormously disconcerting, of course, and
I’ve seen dozens of similar pictures already—so you can imagine
the shock and horror that afflicted the poor woman sitting
next to me, who had been quietly reading a worn copy of Chicken
Soup for the Christian Woman’s Soul: Stories to Open the Heart
and Rekindle the Spirit, who just so happened to glance
at my computer screen as I scrambled to delete the e-mail.
She screamed so loud, the cabin crew came running. The woman
asked to be moved, and the crew—who refused to believe I wasn’t
looking at porn for thrills—ordered me to put my computer
away for the duration of the flight.
Anyway, the moral of this story: If you have a sore on your
genitals, go see a doctor. Do not send me a picture.
A
friend of mine is married to a girl I find very attractive.
Anyway, based on my own observations of her and little things
that he’s shared, I get the very distinct impression that
this hot girl is a horrible lover. I would guess that they
rarely have sex, and that she rarely gets into it very much
when they do. Which brings me to my unimportant query: How
often do you hear from readers going out with beautiful people
who completely suck in the sack? Beauty is revered by everyone,
and every guy I know is looking for someone who looks great
on his arm. Could this be the proverbial catch-22 of chasing
a beautiful person?
—Chasing
the Wrong Tail
Because
beautiful people look good, and because beauty unfairly confers
personal and professional advantages, a lot of average people,
like the resentful toads we are, delight in running them down.
Yeah, they’re hot, but they’re vapid, shallow, lousy lays,
et cetera. Of course, some of them are vapid, shallow,
lousy lays, but so are some average-to-butt-ugly people.
Still, it sounds like there might be a column or two in this.
Dated/dating someone who’s frickin’ hot-looking but a lousy
lay? Send in your tale of woe. Beautiful people who want to
speak up for their race are also invited to write in. And,
finally, if the beautiful person being written about or writing
in is male, feel free to enclose a few photos—but no sore
shots, please, and no guts.
mail@savagelove.net
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