I’m not sure what to do. I’ve had a fetish for straitjackets since I was 15. I’m now 35. I’ve only told two girlfriends about it–absolutely no one else. The last one went along with it just to please me; my current one wants no part of it. Problem is, I feel frustrated because whenever we have sex I have to fantasize about her wearing a straitjacket. When I was single the only way I could come when I jerked off was by fantasizing about girls/women in straitjackets. It feels like my fetish governs my sex life. What can I do to lessen my dependency on it? –Mr. Straitjacketed Tightly
I’m not generally in the fetish-lessening business, MST. My specialty has always been fetish facilitation–and you know that, right? It’s why you wrote to me and not to, say, that awful, awful Jeanne Phillips, the demon seed who writes Dear Abby now that her mother, the column’s original author, is too old and sick to break her idiot daughter’s fingers. And as a regular reader of my column, MST, you must have read many of them in which I’ve pointed out that fetishes don’t go away. You can learn to live with them, you can choose to indulge them or not, but you can’t reach into your erotic imagination and yank ’em out.
That said, MST, there is a way to lessen your dependence on this fetish. Unfortunately for your current girlfriend, it’s to indulge it on a semiregular basis. Your fetish dominates your erotic thoughts because in the last 20 years you’ve only been able to live out your fantasies with one partner. Now that you’re with someone who won’t indulge you at all, your fetish is so absent from your present sex life that desire and despair are combining to make it loom larger than it would if you got to fuck a woman in a straitjacket every once in a while.
My advice? While there aren’t that many straitjacket fetishists out there, there are plenty of women into bondage. A girlfriend–a brand-new girlfriend–who’s into bondage should be willing to go there with/for you. Go find one.
I’m a hetero college male who recently started dating a hetero college female. I’m crazy about her, and we’re taking things slow. A few nights ago she asked me to go down on her. I was more than willing to oblige. Trouble is, she wouldn’t take off her pants. She explained to me that her last boyfriend would do it to her with her jeans on. I don’t know what to make of this. She claims she had multiple orgasms while he was tonguing her Levi’s. Is this even possible? I want to get her off, but I feel uncomfortable licking the crotch of her jeans. How do I get her off with the jeans still on? –Confused Cotton Mouth
It’s entirely possible that her last boyfriend chewed on her Levi’s, CCM, and that she got off on it. It’s also possible that she grew up masturbating with her jeans on and enjoys the sensation of damp denim pressed hard against her clit, but is too shy to come out to you as a denim fetishist and is using this “my last boyfriend ate my pussy through my jeans” thing as a face-saving fib. Either way, she must enjoy the kind of intense gnawing, dampness, and pressure that only a guy chewing on her clit through thick denim provides. As for more detailed information about how to get her off with her jeans still on: get down between her legs, place her hands on the back of your head, and start chewin’.
My roommate uses condiments to lubricate his penis when he beats off. He tries to be sneaky when he takes mayonnaise or ketchup out of the kitchen, but I’ve seen him do it. When he does, a rhythmic slurping sound can soon be heard over the radio that he only turns up loud when he beats off. I am seriously disgusted because he puts the condiments back into the refrigerator when he’s finished. I don’t want to make things weird, but I also don’t want to use the same condiments he’s used to lube up his dick. How do I make him stop? –Sloppy Seconds
If you just want to make him stop, SS, I suggest you empty a bottle of Tabasco into the bottle of ketchup in your fridge or squeeze a few tubes of BenGay into the mayonnaise–that will put a stop to his condiment abuse. Or you can be a man about it, SS, and tell him to go buy some actual lube or, if he’s a wet-and-messy fetishist, suggest that he buy himself some playtime-only condiments and keep ’em in a small fridge in his room.
I just need some clarification on the Big Three, your list of perversions that you will never sign off on–to wit, scat, bestiality, and pedophilia. All three make my list (although I would include water sports with scat), but number one on my list is necrophilia: anything to do with dead people is right out. Does your omission of necrophilia mean that you’re down with it? –Dead Against Fucking Stiffs
I’m certainly not down with necrophilia, DAFS, so I hereby amend and expand my list to a Big Four. But I object to dumping harmless little ol’ water sports in with scat. After a six-pack of beer and a liter or two of water, piss is not much more than clear, odorless hot water. And even a dose of stinky piss is close to sterile and won’t make you sick–unlike shit, which comes packed with bugs and microbes and can make a poop fetishist as sick as he is sickening.
I never heard of your column until I started a new job. I found out about it because every Wednesday, when the Village Voice comes out in New York, this creep I work with comes into the conference room at lunchtime, when the rest of us are eating, and reads us the disgusting letters you print from the perverts and degenerates that write to you. He asks us what our advice would be before he reads your filthy answers. If I were to speak my mind my answer would be that you and your readers should have your mouths washed out with soap, but I’m new to this job and don’t want to make a fuss. Sign me (as I’m sure you will appreciate, Mr. Acronym): –Doofus Intentionally Reads Terrible Blather at Group
Knowing that this would be the last time you ever read my column (or had it forced on you), DIRTBAG, I selected the letters above with you in mind. Straitjackets, a denim fetish, a wet-and-messy fetish, piss, shit, and necrophilia–it’s quite a send-off, no? As for your threat to wash my readers’ mouths out with soap, I’ll certainly be hearing from readers who get off on that after your letter appears–and all e-mails from soap fetishists will be forwarded right on to you, DIRTBAG, in case you wanna make good on your threat. But while we wait for those letters to pour in, let’s consider this: Any employer in NYC large enough to have a conference room must also have a sexual harassment policy in place. Perhaps you should be complaining to your human resources manager about that dirtbag you work with and not to me?