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I
am a 26-year-old gay guy with a strange fetish. Mine feels
like it’s the strangest one out there because I’ve never read
anything about it anywhere. Consequently, I’ve always felt
the embarrassed and ashamed.
Even before I was consciously aware of my attractions to guys,
I’ve been aroused by bread. My sexual attraction to men was
confirmed when a friend who wrestled found it humorous (or
arousing) to pin me in such a way that his buns were pressed
down on my face, smothering me. Something about being dominated
in this way excited me. As I became more in touch with these
desires, I began doing auto-asphyxiation using bread to smother
myself when I masturbated. The only time I’ve been able to
recreate this sensation with a guy is when I’ve been lucky
enough to rim a perfectly smooth guy’s bottom. But I can’t
imagine I’ll ever be able to experience my deepest, darkest
fantasy: finding an aggressively dominant bottom who will
sit on my cock while smothering me with a loaf of white bread.
Knowing that I may never experience this has lead me to feel
extremely alienated from, and weird about, my desires, and
ultimately left me never truly satisfied from sex.
There are several issues at work here that you could address.
I’m not really quite sure what it is I’m asking for.
—The
End Eater
You’re
asking for the same thing most of the people who write me
are asking for, TEE: permission to open your mouth and ask
your sex partners for what you want. Your fetish is odd—any
fetish I’ve never heard of has to be considered odd—but it’s
not an unworkable fetish, provided you’re willing to tell
the guys you’re sleeping with about it. Start opening up and
sooner or later you’ll come across a guy who’ll happily indulge
you. Some guys may laugh you out of their bedrooms, of course,
but that’s a small price to pay on the way to finding a guy
who runs to kitchen for a loaf of white bread, isn’t it?
And look on the bright side, TEE: While you’re fetish is rare,
you’ve got one serious advantage over guys with similarly
rare fetishes—e.g., guys with a boner for dress socks, or
guys who want to have pies smashed in their faces. Fact is,
TEE, there are an awful lot of guys out there who are into
breath control, the fancy fetish term for choking, suffocating,
and/or smothering someone during sex. (Please note: breath
control is an inherently dangerous, varsity-level kink—anyone
interested in breath control should, at the very least, Google
“breath control fetish FAQ” and read all about it.) All you
need is to find a guy who’s into you, into breath control,
and willing to use white bread to cut off your air. Compared
to finding a guy who’ll splatter pies all over his sheets,
that should be a cinch.
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With respect to your reply to MUTT, the woman aroused by
the idea of having sex with a dog, I must ask the following:
Since when did you get so moralistic? Applying your usual
logic, as long as two partners are in agreement then, hey,
anything goes. Well, I’ve met plenty a family dog that is
more than happy to hump a guest’s leg if allowed to. I’m sure
they would be happy to go “all the way” if they found a willing
participant.
Perhaps you are a little too prudish to see the big inconsistency
in your advice to MUTT. Namely, you presume that animal sex
is somehow very bad without justifying your decision. I’m
sure your readers would appreciate some knowledgeable and
well-reasoned advice on the issue of bestiality.
—Let
The Dogs Out
If
I started giving out knowledgeable and well-reasoned advice
on the issue of bestiality, LTDO, then I’d have to give it
out on other subjects too. I’m not sure I want to work that
hard, particularly in August. Still, as I wrote once on this
subject: If I were a sheep I’d probably prefer to be fucked
every once in a while and live to an old age than be brutally
murdered and turned into kabobs. That said, LTDO, bestiality
is one of the “big three” perversions that I’m simply never
going to budge on. I will always disapprove of fucking animals,
molesting children, and eating poop. (A scat scene with a
lamb would hit the trifecta of my disapproval.) Yes, yes,
I know: a mind is like an umbrella—it only works when it’s
open. But if you’re going to have a closed mind about just
three things, fucking animals, molesting children, and eating
poop are good picks, don’t you think?
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In reference to Mistakes Were Made, the college boy who
participated in a wild orgy with six of his best friends after
taking ecstasy, I doubt his story is true. However entertaining
the situation sounds, the story sounds made up.
1. Ecstasy doesn’t make men horny. Of all the men I know who
have tried E (including myself), none of them could sustain
an erection if they tried. Even if it does work for some,
I doubt it would simultaneously make seven people horny and
facilitate such a photogenic event.
2. I doubt one girl would be willing to provide seven fifteen-dollar
pills to her friends.
3. Didn’t you notice how the number of girls at the event
changed from three to four?
—Skeptical
Much
1.
Tragically, SM, ecstasy these days is often cut with other
drugs—including drugs that can make people horny, like speed
and even Viagra. It’s possible that MWM was given adulterated
E. Also, ecstasy, like all illegal drugs, doesn’t come in
clearly labeled, sealed packages for your protection. It’s
possible that MWM wasn’t given E at all, but some other, boner-inducing
drug.
2. You doubt one girl would be willing to provide seven fifteen-dollar
pills to her friends? It’s obvious that our social spheres
have been widely different, SM. I’ve been to parties where
rich girls freely shared drugs worth thousands of dollars.
The idea that someone might pass out a measly $105 worth of
drugs to a group of friends seems entirely plausible to me.
3. My bad. While editing and condensing MWM’s letter, I mixed
up the numbers of girls and boys. In my defense: As I’ve mentioned
many times, I frequently write my column in bars. I confess
that I wrote my response to MWM drinking at Phil’s, a terrific
little bar in Saugatuck, Michigan, while I was in the Midwest
visiting family. If you’re ever in Saugatuck, stop by Phil’s
and have a margarita—all four of the ones I had were very,
very good.
5. I don’t like to run fake letters, SM, and I do my best
to keep the fakes out. But does it really matter all that
much if MWM’s letter was a fake? Or if TEE’s letter about
bread is a fake? After all, SM, with the exception of the
one person I’m addressing when I respond to a letter, for
all my other readers the problem is really just a hypothetical
situation, no? Bearing that in mind, SM, I resolved long ago
not to lose sleep over the occasional fake slipping into the
column. I mean, look at poor Ann Landers: That woman was always
stressing out about fake letters making it into her column—and
where is Ann Landers today? Dead, SM! No doubt from the stress
of worrying about fake letters making it into her column!
Personally, I’d rather have margaritas carry me off.
mail@savagelove.net
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