Making any special plans for New Year’s Eve? Prepared for Y2K? Laying in any provisions? Arming yourself? Worried about the world coming to an end? Ready for rapture?


I’m writing this column before New Year’s Eve, but by the time you read it in the Chicago Reader New Year’s Eve will have come and gone. If you’re reading this, well then it looks like the world didn’t end.

Personally, I’m not too nervous about the prospect of Y2K and consequently haven’t laid in any provisions, nor am I, as of this writing, armed. But on the off chance that a Y2K bug sends Russian ICBMs flying our way, which we’ll respond to in kind, ending life as we know it, there are a few things I want to get off my chest:

First, nothing you’ve ever read in this space about Kevin, my research assistant, is true. Not one single word. Kevin is not bipolar, he’s not a Korean exchange student, he’s not living in the United States illegally, and he’s never threatened to sue me. Kevin has never disappeared with my credit cards, he doesn’t like to be urinated on, he’s not six-foot-three, and he never worked for UNESCO. Kevin has never appeared in a “crush” video, his sister is as nice as the day is long, and his mother is a saint. He’s competent, conscientious, and attractive, and I’m proud to work for him.

Second, have you seen those TV commercials and magazine ads for Xenical? A new wonder drug from those lab-coated whiz kids at Roche Pharmaceuticals, Xenical, “combined with a good meal, can actually help you lose weight.” How? By preventing your body from absorbing fat, that’s how.

What goes in, however, must come out, and that’s Xenical’s dirty little secret. Here’s the fine print from the Xenical ad in Life magazine:

“Because Xenical blocks about one-third of the fat in the food you eat, you may experience gas with oily discharge, increased bowel movements, an urgent need to have bowel movements, and an inability to control them.” The even finer print on the back of the ad warns of “oily spotting,” “fatty stools,” and again, that pesky “inability to control bowel movements.” Excuse me, Roche, but why on earth would anyone take this drug? Why would we risk shitting our pants in public when we can stick our fingers down our throats in private?

The third thing I want to get off my chest is–actually, there is no third thing. Making it up to Kevin and expressing my overwhelming fear of uncontrollable and/or oily bowel movements just about covers my millennial anxieties. But there are a few people I want to thank for making what could be my last year on earth a memorable one: the lesbian traffic cop who didn’t give my boyfriend a ticket he richly deserved; the person who found my bankcard in an ATM and turned it in to a teller without cleaning out my checking account; the bartenders at the Hopleaf on Clark, the waiters at Dish on Southport, and the go-go boys at Berlin on Belmont for making my last book tour a memorable one. Oh, and I’d like to thank Entertainment Weekly for naming my book The Kid: What Happened After My Boyfriend and I Decided to Go Get Pregnant–An Adoption Story one of the ten best books of 1999. The check is in the mail, EW.

Finally, I’d like to thank Matt Stone, Trey Parker, and Marc Shaiman for creating the best American musical comedy of the 90s: South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut. I got the CD for Christmas and, like a good show queen, won’t stop listening to it until I can sing every word in every song from memory. Two words for you, boys: on ice. My 21-month-old son sat in his car seat farting along to “Uncle F**ka” on our way to Grandma’s house–we’re hoping he knows all the words by the time he starts preschool (that is, if the world doesn’t end)–and seeing “Uncle F**ka” performed in an ice arena would be the highlight of his little life. “South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut on Ice.” Do it for the children!

While we’re on the subject of the world ending, there is an upside: No more Robin Williams movies, we won’t live to see another George Bush in the White House, and Matt Damon will remain forever young. On a more personal note, I’m looking forward to never receiving another Savage Love letter like this one:

My girlfriend had an affair with my best friend’s dog. She told me it was rough and furry. What shall I do?


Or this one:

A month ago I persuaded a straight guy in my building to let me rim him. He loved it. Now he comes over several times a week wanting me to do it again. What’s the problem? I want more. I’d love to “introduce Peter to Rosie.” Should I ask and risk scaring him?

–Good Gay Neighbor

Or this one:

I hate eating pussy! It’s slimy and gross. But I like to get my cock sucked. Do I have to eat pussy if I want to get a blow job from a woman? Dicks aren’t slimy and they don’t slime up your whole face, so I don’t think it’s a fair trade.

–Can’t Stand Licking Down There

Not getting letters from dog fuckers (real or imaginary), gay men who’ll lick anything, or straight men who won’t lick the one thing all straight men ought to lick is something I’m looking forward to. But I don’t want to end what could be my last-ever column on a sour note:

I am a horny, steamy, and sexy straight male in my late 20s. I am looking for a sexy, hot female. Where can I find a female? My girlfriends all left me because I am too sexy and they were unable to handle that much sex. Please help me to find someone! I have a dream of having a threesome with two bi females. Is this possible?


PS: Please publish my E-mail address so that someone hot and sexy and interested can contact me:

Threeways are always possible–had one myself last October with a couple of the waiters at Dish on Southport–so there’s hope for you, Mike. As this is my final column for this millennium–and perhaps my final column ever–I’d like to do a good deed, and getting Mike laid qualifies. So, sexy ladies, I’m counting on you. Contact Mike at your earliest convenience and make his dreams come true. He sounds like a real jerk, but you only have to fuck him–you don’t have to talk to him.

OK, assuming the world hasn’t come to an end, tune in next week, Chicagoland, for more Savage Love.

Send questions to Savage Love, Chicago Reader, 11 E. Illinois, Chicago 60611 or to