However, a few weeks ago someone wrote Savage with a problem so--okay, I'll just say it flat out...icky--that I am going to share it with you, making use of the same magic brain wave mechanism that happens when a song is stuck in your head and you tell someone else so that you may transfer the curse to them, thus purging it from your own psyche. So I submit to you, this problem from one Confused and Scared. I apologize in advance.
I'm a 20-year-old straight male, but this isn't really about me. I was recently back home for a family event while my younger brother, age 14, was away on a mission trip with his church. My iPad died while I was home and my mother told me to look in the kitchen drawers for a charger. I couldn't find one there, so she told me to check my brother's bedside table. I opened the drawer and, with a little digging, found a charger.
I also found a few pictures of gay porn and a couple of pictures of male celebrities with their shirts off that had been clipped from magazines. It isn't the gay porn I have a problem with—I fully support him coming into his sexuality, whatever it might be—but then I found a few things that were a bit more disturbing: a picture of our father in his swim trunks, and another one of a fully naked man with a cutout photo of my father's face glued over the original model's face. Needless to say, I was freaked out. I put everything back where I had found it, including the charger, and haven't said anything to him about it. Now I'm in a tough spot. I know that telling my brother I found the pictures would mortify him, and I feel like telling my father would be a complete dick move.
Concerned And Scared
On this one, even the preternaturally unflappable Dan seemed a bit taken aback, and was the most judgey I've ever seen which, for the record, involved the word "Ughers."
What would you tell this dude? See what Dan told him here: Savage Love--Daddy Issues.
Ahhhhh, I feel a whole lot better.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
|My gay crush|
Oh, there are plenty of visitors via Facebook, Twitter, or ill-fated Google search. And about 1000 free subscribers (which is fine--I welcome the poor.*) But the 51 Kindle subscribers--half of them Brits, who I imagine to be worldly, witty and generally delightful--who pony up 99 cents a month is what keeps me from deleting the whole blog in a sudden fit of pique.**
So, for you 51, I give you this: "Big Boy" by David Sedaris, which originally ran in Esquire in 1999, and later in his book, Me Talk Pretty One Day.
Note: it is scatalogical humor, also known around our house as "poo humor." (My 4th grader and I can kill a good 15 minutes on the comedy gold that is Uranus.) You have been warned.
IT WAS EASTER SUNDAY in Chicago, and my sister Amy and I were attending an afternoon dinner at the home of our friend John. The weather was nice, and he'd set up a table in the backyard so that we might sit out in the sun. Everyone had taken their places when I excused myself to visit the bathroom, and there, in the toilet, was the absolute biggest piece of work I have ever seen in my life--no toilet paper or anything, just this long and coiled specimen, as thick as a burrito.
I flushed the toilet, and the big boy roused around. It shifted position, but that was it. This thing wasn't going anywhere. I thought briefly of leaving it behind for someone else to take care of, but it was too late for that--before leaving the table, I'd stupidly told everyone where I was going. "I'll be back in a minute," I'd said. "I'm just going to run to the bathroom." My whereabouts were public knowledge. I should have said I was going to make a phone call. I'd planned to pee and maybe run a little water over my face, but now I had this to deal with.
The tank refilled, and I made a silent promise. The deal was that if this thing would go away, I'd repay the world by performing some unexpected act of kindness. I flushed the toilet, and the beast spun a lazy circle. "Go on," I whispered. "Scoot! Shoo!" I claimed a giddy victory, but when I looked back down, there it was, bobbing to the surface in a fresh pool of water.
Just then, someone knocked on the door, and I started to panic.
"Just a minute."
At an early age, my mother had sat me down and explained that everyone has bowel movements. "Everyone," she'd said. "Even the president and his wife." She'd mentioned our neighbors, the priest, and several of the actors we saw each week on television. I'd gotten the overall picture, but, natural or not, there was no way I was going to take the rap for this one.
"Just a minute!"
I seriously considered lifting this monster out of the toilet and tossing it out the window. It honestly crossed my mind, but John lived on the ground floor and a dozen people were seated at a picnic table ten feet away. They'd see the window open and notice something drop to the ground. And these were people who would surely gather round and investigate, then there I'd be, with my unspeakably filthy hands, trying to explain that it wasn't mine. But why bother throwing it out the window if it wasn't mine? No one would have believed me except the person who had left it in the first place, and chances were pretty slim that the freak in question would suddenly step forward and own up to it. I was trapped.
"I'll be out in a second!"
And I scrambled for the plunger and used the handle to break it into manageable pieces, all the while thinking that it wasn't fair, that this was technically not my job. Another flush and it still didn't go down. Come on, pal. Let's move it. While waiting for the tank to refill, I thought maybe I should wash my hair. It wasn't dirty, but I needed some excuse to cover the amount of time I was spending in the bathroom. Quick, I thought. Do something. By now, the other guests were probably thinking I was the type of person who uses dinner parties as an opportunity to defecate and catch up on his reading.
"Here I come. I'm just washing up!"
One more flush and it was all over. The thing was gone and out of my life. I opened the door to find my friend Janet, who said, "Well, it's about time." And I was left thinking that the person who'd abandoned this man-made object had no problem with it, so why did I? Why the big deal? Had it been left there to teach me a lesson? Had a lesson been learned? Did it have anything to do with Easter? I resolved to put it all behind me, and then I stepped outside to begin examining the suspects.
Posted by jill Hamilton at 11:59 AM
Thursday, August 11, 2011
|E.T. has needs too.|
The censored (thankfully) footage is from a real E.T. porn film. And, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but "E.T. porn" means E.T. is in the porn, like, having sex. I know! E. flippin' T! When I think of E.T., my next thought is generally not "...is so damn sexy!" but, apparently, that's not a unanimous reaction.
If you are too frightened to look at the movie--a highly reasonable position--I'll give you the lowdown. A female-ish E.T. goes about town making sweet sweet love with various friendly Earthlings. The surprisingly nonplussed townspeople getting down with E.T. appear to be from 1800s-era England. (The 1800s? Why the hell not? The whole thing is already weird enough--why not throw some Abraham Lincoln-looking guy in there as well?)
The E.T. costume is saggy and grey and looks to be made from a vinyl-like, highly unbreathable material. Throughout her sexcapades, E.T. wears a dazed, sad expression. Look at that haunted expression in her/its eyes in the photo--I would not describe it as arousal. As one commenter on sci fi site io9.com noted, "E.T. has this weary look, as though she has to do this on every planet she explores."
It's difficult to imagine anything less erotic than this film. I mean, there's the whole involvement of E.T., which is bad enough, plus that creepy haunted facial expression, the baggy, wrinkled costume (with matching grey deflated boobs, no less), the 1800s setting--not to mention a hideously creepy tongue thing E.T. does (about :55 seconds in--oh God, it's so awful!) Am I saying it would be somehow less unsexy if the suit were tight like Catwoman's suit, if E.T. had perky boobs, or if E.T. looked to be enjoying her/itself? I guess not--actually, that would probably make it even more upsetting. (The very idea of E.T. doing the standard girl-in-a-porn dialogue of "Ohyeahohyeah" would send me to the fainting couch with my smelling salts.)
Still, my mind strays to unanswered questions: How infinitesimally small is the subset of people who find both E.T. and the 1800s arousing? How did the film makers present their creative ideas to the E.T. suit maker? ("I want it wrinkly and saggy--with boobs!") How did the actors react when the director gave them such pointers as, "In this scene, you will be wearing a top hat and going down on E.T."? And are these actors ever recognized in public for this piece of work? ("Hey, don't I know you from somewher--" "NO! YOU DON'T!)
Anyway, like I said, I'm sorry I was compelled to show this to you. Next time I hope to exhibit better taste. Although if you come up with someone even worse...please, send it my way.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Real Sex Lives: Trisha, "Giant, Cumbersome Back Massagers Misused in the Cover of Night" and Other Faces of "Lady-bation"
The piece below is from the blog SSL, which focuses on the "specific intersection of science, sexuality, and feminism; particularly paying attention to how female sexual response is discussed, portrayed, and studied in our culture." Trisha is also the filmmaker behind the fabulous "Science, Sex and the Ladies" which reveals that despite pretty much every thing we see about how women come, most chicks actually need to do some outer rubbing to get the job done.
Here's Trisha's My Tribute to the Many Faces of Lady-bation:
Here's to all the ladies rubbing up against their pillows; grinding hips into old teddy bears; laying on the couch spread eagle with their hands between their legs; riding their palms, face down on their bed; legs crossed in class gently pressing thighs against lips; silver bullet vibrators gliding across their vulvas; handle ends of old electric toothbrushes with just enough vibration pressed against clits; giant, cumbersome back massagers misused in the cover of night; fancy removable shower heads held dangerously close to the nether regions; quick rub offs in bed to help nod off; secret, quiet circles on disappointed clits next to sleeping lovers; joyously lip jigglin' in office bathroom stalls with memories of last night; frantic childhood couch arm humping; bored fingers on swollen clits; pick-me-ups between study sessions; unintentional bike seat friction; slow, sensual vulva massages in front of dirty internet searchings; good vibrations sitting on top of dryers; and all the other dirty, sexy, bored, silly, loving, gentle, secret, uninhibited, prohibited, fantastic ways we get ourselves, by ourselves, off.
Posted by jill Hamilton at 2:21 PM