I share the pain and anger you feel in the wake of the heinous attacks of September 11. However, I'm writing to administer a gentle knock for your subsequent column. I'm not upset about your take on God. But while you may have sat down to write on September 12 in an emotionally shattered state, your readers are checking in a week later. We're still reeling but trying to get on with life, and we're looking for a diversion to lighten the oppressive mood, if only for a moment. And that's where you come in... or where you were supposed to come in. Your readers turn to you for entertainment and, at a time like this, respite. So please, Dan, how about more on them wacky crossdressing poo-eaters?
All Cried Out
New York's mayor, Rudy Giuliani, has asked all Americans to defy the terrorists by getting back to normal and getting back to work as quickly as possible. So here's a sentence I never thought I'd write: I'd like to dedicate this back-to-abnormal installment of Savage Love to Mayor Rudy Giuliani. While I once could be counted among those who loathed New York City's controversial-art-demagoging, ferret-owner-bashing, sex-industry-persecuting mayor, I now stand proudly with those who would like to see Giuliani serve another term--preferably George W. Bush's term.
As for you, ACO, I spent an hour searching my inbox for a letter from a crossdressing poo-eater for you, without luck. This letter will have to do.
I'm a single man in my 30s who loves to throw up on my partner during sex, and I love it even more when she (my partner) throws up on me. I have a hard time meeting other refluxophiles in my area. Most people run away screaming when I mention it. What's the best way to meet women into this? Also, I was wondering if you could tell me about some of the health risks of this activity.
Better Coming Up Than Going Down
Let's look at the health risks first, BCUTGD. People who throw up a lot tend to have rotten teeth; there's a certain amount of blood in vomit, so you might want to avoid ingesting someone else's vomit or letting it come into contact with any open cuts or orifices; and playing with the vomit of someone who has a bug or the flu is a good way to get yourself sick. So it's a good refluxophile rule of thumb (or rule of index finger) not to play with the vomit of someone who needs to vomit. Only play with the vomit of someone who has to induce vomiting.
So how does a puke fetishist meet women? Very carefully. A man with a disgusting sexual fetish (shit, blood, puke, extreme acts of consensual violence, etc.) should NOT abuse any woman he might meet through regular dating channels (work, bars, through friends) by subjecting them to a date. The realization that her date sat across the table at dinner fantasizing about being thrown up on is enough to make most women puke, ironically enough, and she'll probably blab to any friends you have in common.
So I would urge you not to date, BCUTGD, but to advertise. While there are women out there who share your fetish (the only other letter I've ever received from a refluxophile was from a woman), they're very rare, and the odds that you will run into one by chance are slim. Before you meet the love of your life, you'll probably have to spend a few years taking out personal ads, maintaining a personal website, and surfing chat rooms. Good luck.
How is it that a decent, good-looking guy can't get laid to save his life, yet cyberspace is full of gorgeous young women eating come and taking it in the ass? How are these lovelies lured into performing such lewd acts for the amusement of anyone with a modem when the average guy can't get near such girls in real life?
It's Not Fair
Most of the women you've seen eating come and taking it in the ass in cyberspace--I hope you're sitting down--aren't doing it for the love of high-tech. Gina Gershon (comely star of stage and screen) dated Paul Allen (homely tech billionaire of unlimited means) for the same reason those lovelies you lust after do all those lewd things in front of webcams. It's the money, honey.
But don't despair, INF: Good-looking, decent guys get laid for free all the time, and there are plenty of nice girls out there who will, for the right guy, perform any number of lewd acts. But you know what? You're never gonna meet one of these nice girls by beating off in front of your computer at home. My advice for you? Get your dick out of your hand, get up from your desk, and get your ass out of the house.
I'm a straight 26-year-old diaper lover. I love the warm, soft feeling of a soaking wet diaper between my legs. Not only is it pleasant, it's convenient. I hate using dirty public toilets--at least I'm the only one using my diaper. Have you ever heard of this fetish? Do you know of any organizations for us up here in Canada?
The Boy Next Door Wears Diapers
I could've made it through the week without reading this line: "I love the warm, soft feeling of a soaking wet diaper between my legs." But as ACO points out, this column isn't about my needs or my feelings. It's about you, my readers, and your needs. And what you need these days is respite. And sometimes respite wears diapers.
I'm unaware of any organizations in Canada for diaper wearers, TBNDWD, other than day-care centers--where I hope and pray that 26-year-old diaper lovers are unwelcome. That means, of course, that you're on your own. And, really, is that so bad? I mean, what on Earth would you get out of joining Adult Diaper Wearers of Canada, if such an organization existed? Camaraderie? ("How's the ol' diaper, Stan?" "Still pretty dry, Bob. How's your diaper?" "Dry as a bone." "Well, let's have another beer then, eh?") What do you need a club for? Can't you pee on your own two feet?
Confidential to all folks who are mad at me for doubting the existence of a loving God who hears our prayers and gets off His ass every once in a while and helps us out down here: Did you see the picture of the sobbing eight-year-old boy bent over his mother's casket in the Tuesday, September 18, 2001, issue of The New York Times? The boy's mother was a single parent, and he's an only child. I challenge everyone who wrote in to tell me that "God doesn't give us anything we can't handle" (especially the dozens of you who sent me that infuriating one-set-of-footprints story) to sit and stare at that picture for an hour and then tell me there's a loving God up there somewhere. Oh, I'll grant you that there might be a God or a higher power or something. But a loving God/higher power/something? Don't make me puke.