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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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