September 1, 2010

Here’s my problem: I love women. I love the way they look, I love the way they move, I love the way they sound. I like to see them naked. But the idea of actually interacting with women—trying to engage them in intelligent conversation without coming off as absolutely leotarded—absolutely fucking terrifies me. I’m a virgin at 30. I’ve never had a girlfriend. I’ve never been on a date. I’ve never even had a conversation with a woman that lasted longer than a couple of minutes and wasn’t completely superficial and forced.

I cannot even imagine myself doing something assertive like approaching a woman and asking her out on a date. And no woman has ever approached me or even shown interest, from what I could tell. Sex workers are out of the question because I don’t want to risk some asshole cop busting me. Webcam sites are pretty much the only way I interact with women. Sad, no? I’m not at all afraid of vaginas—I’m afraid of women who have clothes on.

Got a piece of advice for me?
Awkward And Alone

I’ve actually got two pieces of advice for you, AAA.

First piece: Get your ass to a shrink—maybe a lady shrink—who can help you with your near-crippling social anxiety and maybe toss some meds your way.

Second piece: Hire a fucking sex worker, AAA, just don’t fuck her. Paid companionship is not a crime—there’s nothing illegal about paying an escort to escort you places. Find a nice woman, pay her for an hour or two of her time, and have a nice, polite conversation. If you like her, make another appointment, have another conversation. Cops—asshole or otherwise—only bust men when they offer money in exchange for sex, AAA, so don’t offer money for sex, or accept her offer to have money for sex, and you won’t get busted. And cops working undercover to bust johns don’t make follow-up appointments or build ongoing relationships with clients. So if a woman sees you more than once—or twice, to be extra-safe—she’s not a cop.

Everyone except Ken Mehlman and Ben Quayle.

It ends up that he likes to be dominated, spanked, and buttfucked—and to cross-dress. Our sexual encounters are a bit different for me, to say the least, but I thoroughly enjoy them. I like spanking him, humiliating him, tying him up, and watching him try on panties (in which he looks darn good!). It’s all rather exciting!

Does this mean that I’m a dominatrix? Would I act this way with other men, or is it just him? And finally, where do I go from here?
Being Deviant Satisfies Me

A dominatrix? That’s a professional title, BDSM, and you’re not planning to pursue a career in kink. (Are you?) To determine if you’re genuinely and independently kinky and not just getting off on beating and binding the boyfriend because he gets off on it, you’ll just have to beat and bind someone else sometime. As for where you go from here, BDSM, if you’re in San Francisco or you can get there for a weekend, you might wanna sign up for Forte Femme, a weekend-long “sensual dominance intensive” hosted by kink superstar/supernova Midori. More info at fortefemme.com.

1. What is a cream pie?

2. Do you find it weird to be turned on by getting fondled up and aroused into sex while sleeping? I have a hard time communicating to partners that I want this! Can you give communication assistance so I don’t sound so freaky?
Freak In Phoenix

1. Google “cream pie.” The first three results are relevant; the fourth (“Banana Cream Pie: Recipe”) is not.

2. Your kink, FIP, barely moves the needle on my kink-o-meter. If you’re having a hard time communicating your interest in fondled-while-asleep sex, just memorize this: “It turns me on to get fondled up and aroused into sex while sleeping.”

If what you describe had ever actually happened to anyone, anywhere, ever, “poopnoodle” could be the official Savage Love term for it. But the poopnoodle never actually happens.

If you and your middle-school friends don’t believe me, CTOAATSOP, here’s what you should do: Go get a couple jars of creamy peanut butter or a few tubs of pre-made chocolate frosting. Refrigerate until firm. Get your dicks hard. Fuck your jars of peanut butter or tubs of pre-made frosting. Fuck them hard. Fuck them like they’ve been bad. Fuck them like you’re never gonna recycle ’em. Then go take a piss. You will not produce a peanut butter or chocolate frosting noodle, I promise you.

And think about it, CTOAATSOP: Buttfuckers fuck butt until they come. Wouldn’t coming dislodge the poopnoodle?

Finally, some general advice for anyone out there who’s interested in anal but now, thanks to CTOAATSOP here, fears the poopnoodle: Wear a condom. A condom can protect you from the poopnoodle and HIV.

I am disturbd by yr splling.

But I cannot tell a lie: Enclosing a nude pic—good nude, bad nude, boy nude, girl nude—can get my attention. But it won’t automatically get a letter into the column, 509. Letters with naked pics arrive in my inbox every day. I could run nothing but letters from readers who were kind and/or cruel enough to enclose pics of themselves, their partners, their welts, their rashes, etc., week-in, week-out, 52 weeks a year. And the letter from the guy in his early 30s who lost his virginity that appeared in last week’s column—the dude who enclosed pics—was the first letter from a pic-encloser that I’ve used in ages.

So cut me some slack.

That said, slogging through hundreds of e-mails a day can get tedious. The odd pic or two—doesn’t even have to be you—brightens the day and lightens the workload. So pics are always welcome.

And if you don’t like it, 509, I suppose you could file charges with the professional body that governs my so-called profession… if there were a professional body that governed my so-called profession. But there isn’t, poopnoodle, so suck it, take pics, and send ’em in.