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Between
the ages of 13 and 16 I engaged in bestiality with our household
pets. I was a horny kid, and I guess kind of a freak. It never
went beyond oral copulation and I eventually curtailed the
whole thing due to guilt and shame. I am now a 21-year-old
woman who is moving toward a healthy human sex life and trying
to get over what a sick kid I used to be. But I still feel
horrible about my dog-cock-sucking past. My question is this:
Is there ever a right time to tell a partner or significant
other about bestiality in your past? Will I ever be able to
have a healthy relationship with a human without being able
to be fully honest with them? I’m in counseling right now
and it’s helping a lot, but if I enter a long-term relationship
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to tell my partner about this.
—Mortified,
Unhappy, Tortured, Tormented Soul
I’m
all for people being honest with their significant others
about their pasts, their sexual interests, and their formative
sexual experiences. But there are limits. While honesty and
openness get all of the good press—too much good press, in
my opinion—the crucial role that deceit plays in the health
and survival of long-term relationships is all too often overlooked.
Fact is, without gentle spinning, the omission of damning
details, and the occasional bald-faced lie, no relationship
would last more than a week.
I’ve always looked at it this way, MUTTS: A relationship is
a myth that two people create together, and myths tend to
play fast and loose with the facts. When two people create
a nice, lasting myth together, they don’t necessarily share
every last indiscretion, bad move, and blown dog. Instead
they present slightly improved versions of themselves to their
significant others, selling themselves not as they actually
are, but as the people they would like to be. No man wants
to be in a relationship with someone who tells him nothing
but lies, of course, nor should you present a completely fictionalized
version of yourself to your lover. But little omissions here
and there, little edits and exaggerations, and, again, the
occasional bald-faced lie, are not only permissible, MUTTS,
they’re advisable.
There are benefits to this approach beyond not hearing “You
fucked dogs!” over and over again, MUTTS. Once someone
falls in love with the idealized/edited version of yourself,
you, like everyone else in a long-term relationship, will
be in the position of having to be the person you led your
partner to believe you are. We all wind up having to live
up to the lies we told about ourselves, and it’s this living
up to the lies that often makes us better people. With some
effort, and provided the lies weren’t huge, we can make the
lies come true.
Regarding the specifics of your case, MUTTS, experimenting
when you’re young and horny with whatever’s handy—produce,
siblings, action figures, household pets—is quite common.
Various studies have shown that somewhere between two and
four percent of women have had sex with animals (the numbers
are higher for men), and most, like you, were messing around
with family pets during their formative years. While the percentage
may sound small, it actually represents a huge number of women—somewhere
in the neighborhood of 4.5 million women in the United States
and Canada. Believe me, MUTTS, the overwhelming majority of
those 4.5 million aren’t telling their significant others
about their dog days. They keep that info to themselves, chalking
it up to youthful horniness and/or idiocy, and they don’t
burden their significant others with disturbing mental images
that might make it impossible for their relationship to survive.
Since they don’t tell their lovers they fucked dogs, their
lovers don’t look at them as dog fuckers. And knowing that
in the eyes of their lovers they’re not dog fuckers, MUTTS,
these women are better able to stop thinking of themselves
as dog fuckers. The same can happen for you—provided you keep
your dog-fucking past to yourself.
Finally, I’ve been with the same guy for almost nine years
now, MUTTS. I could probably tell my boyfriend anything, but
you know what? There are things about my past that he doesn’t
know, doesn’t want to know, and doesn’t need to know, just
as I assume there are things about his past that I don’t know,
don’t want to know, and don’t need to know. You can be in
love, MUTTS, and have a loving, long-term relationship and
still hold some things back.
I’ve
received several e-mails recently from various companies marketing
penis-enlargement pills. These companies say taking these
pills will increase your penis width and length considerably.
Have you had (or know of anyone who has had) any experience
with these products? I am most likely very naïve, but one
company’s (Natural Measures) Web site looks quite professional.
Please advise.
—Lusting
After Longer Dong
I’ve
always assumed that everyone who reads this publication also
reads the Wall Street Journal, so it didn’t occur to
me to bring Julia Angwin’s recent story on penis-enlargement
pills to the attention of my readers. But just in case some
of you missed Angwin’s story on penis-enlargement pills (“Some
‘Enlargement’ Pills Pack Impurities,” Aug. 13, 2003), here’s
the dirty bits: In a lab analysis commissioned by the Wall
Street Journal, various “enlargement” pills were found
to contain “significant levels of E. coli, yeast, mold, lead
and pesticide residues.” E. coli is a bacterium found in shit,
LALD, so the high levels of E. coli in the pills studied indicated
“heavy fecal contamination,” according to Michael Donnenberg,
MD, head of the infectious-diseases department at the University
of Maryland School of Medicine. Oh, and the amount of lead
in the pills “surpassed the limit set by California’s strict
labeling laws for ‘chemicals causing reproductive toxicity.’”
So, LALD, taking “penis-enlargement” pills won’t make your
dick longer—just your bathroom breaks. I can only speculate
as to why the editors of the Wall Street Journal commissioned
this study—perhaps some were dissatisfied with the results
they were getting?—but I’m grateful to them regardless of
their motives. I fail to see how anyone could fall for an
e-mail pitch selling a bigger dick in a bottle—particularly
anyone as bright as the editors at the Journal. Still,
it seems clear that people who fall for spam pitches selling
bigger dicks in a bottle will swallow anything.
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Recently
I went to a massage parlor in the city where I live, and I
thought it would be a fun experience. So everything looked
OK and the girl was not that bad, but her “hands-on” treatment
was not as satisfying as the ad promised. In fact it was painful.
Since then I have been feeling pretty traumatized, and I am
afraid I might have been molested by this girl. I currently
have a girl but she doesn’t know about this. What do you think
I should do?
—Traumatized
in O-Dot!
I
think you should shut the fuck up and stop whining. You were
not molested, you big baby. Unless you were strapped to the
massage table, you were free to call a halt to the action
at any time and leave—and if this woman’s technique was painful
or distressing, that’s exactly what you should’ve done. If
you put your cock into someone else’s hands and you don’t
like the way he or she manipulates it, you should pull it
back.
mail@savagelove.net
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