Hey, everybody: I’m still on vacation, so here’s another classic column from the Savage Love archives.
My girlfriend and I only see each other on weekends. To overcome the overwhelming desire to jerk off during the week, I have discovered that I get great pleasure urinating on myself. I don’t know how this happened–one morning I just did it.
I lie down in the bathtub. When I can’t hold it anymore, I direct a clear stream of urine all over my body. Then I pull my briefs back up and soak them. Do I need to worry about any long-term effects on my hair or skin? Is there anything wrong with me? My girlfriend knows nothing about this. I have no desire to be urinated on by anyone else. –Wet
We get a lot of letters here at Savage Love. While every letter is unique, and everyone’s dumb-ass problem is compelling in its own very special way, patterns do emerge, and Wet’s letter is a good example of a certain type of letter we get. The kids in the mailroom call them HTH, or “How’d That Happen?!” letters.
You see, Wet is doing this whack thing–peeing on himself in the bathtub–and like a lot of folks doing whack things, Wet has some whack concerns. He has questions about the advisability of this whack behavior–Will urine damage my skin? Is there something wrong with me?–so he writes a letter. Something that he thinks, no doubt, took some courage. But in composing his letter, Wet chickens out: he fails to take responsibility for his actions, casting himself as a passive player in this bathtub drama. He may be peeing on himself, but it wasn’t really his idea: he writes, “I don’t know how this happened, one morning I just did it.” How’d That Happen?!
I’ve been taking unsupervised baths for 27 years, and in all that time I never just “happened” to pee all over myself. The times I have pissed in the tub it was on purpose–I was too lazy to get out of the shower, or there was someone else in the shower with me and I was ful½lling a special request. But it never just happened. I did it.
So Wet, while I’m happy to answer your questions–no, it won’t hurt you; yes, there is something wrong with you, something terribly, terribly wrong–your unwillingness to take responsibility for your actions is what most disturbs me about your letter. Come on, admit it: you’re into piss, you like it, for its own sake, and not just as a masturbation substitute. Repeat after me: “I like piss.” This is not something that happened to you one day, like cancer or Candid Camera, this is something you did. You’re a perv. Cop to it, fer Christ’s sake.
I was dog-sitting my friend’s dog, and I fell asleep on the floor in my T-shirt (no underwear). When I awoke, the dog was licking my pussy, and to be honest, it felt so good that I didn’t stop him until I came like I never have in my life. I was totally embarrassed and disgusted with myself, but the next night, it happened again. I was so embarrassed and disgusted with myself. My questions:
1. Can I get infected in any way by dog germs on my pussy?
2. Is this harmful to me in any way?
3. How sick am I to enjoy this?
I am too ashamed to ask a single soul these questions. I wouldn’t even ask a doctor these questions. I’m so afraid I’m going to catch some kind of infection from his tongue. Please answer me, because I need to know. I feel sick and ashamed. –Help Me
This letter, at first reading, rings false. The setup–Help Me wakes to find the dog lapping away at her pussy–sounds like an urban myth (sans peanut butter) or some dreadful letter to some dreadful porn mag. But while Help Me’s setup rings false, her anguish seems real–even touching–and that leads me to believe her letter to be genuine. This is a cry for help from a real person with a real problem.
What rings false, of course, is the responsibility-avoiding HTH setup. Help Me would have us believe that she fell asleep on the floor, wearing only a T-shirt, and “awoke” to find the dog lapping away at her pussy. Right. What happened was this: Help Me was dog-sitting, feeling horny, and Mr. Dog was doing those horny dog things horny dogs do (nosin’ around her crotch, humping her leg). So similar was the dog’s behavior to the behavior of males of her own species, Help Me was intrigued. Help Me was tempted. So she did this whack thing, and it felt really good, so she did it again. And now she’s freaking out.
So she writes me a letter, but Help Me wants to avoid taking responsibility for her actions. She can’t bring herself to write a letter that begins, “I’ve been fucking dogs.” So she constructs a scenario in which dog fucking wasn’t something she did, but something that happened to her. HTH! She was innocently taking a nap on the floor, with no pants or panties on, and woke to ½nd a dog between her legs–why, that could happen to anyone! Then guess what? “It happened again.” Oh, she didn’t do it again, mind you. It just happened again. HTH?!
Anyway, Help Me, in answer to your questions:
3. Pretty sick.
I’m a 200 percent straight guy, married with children. About six months ago, I went to a masseur who finished things with a terrific blow job. If you wonder why I didn’t stop him, the truth is, I couldn’t, because he was massaging my asshole with his thumb while blowing me. It was so good that I’ve been going back to the guy just about every week, not for the massage but for the blow job. Now I’m starting to worry that this might label me as gay. I have no interest in blowing this guy, but I wonder if the guy who gets the blow job is as guilty as the one who does it. –Unsigned
This is my personal favorite: Mr. 200 Percent Straight Guy couldn’t stop the big, gay masseur from giving him a blow job because the big, gay masseur had his thumb up Mr. 200 Percent Straight Guy’s butt. What, is there a system-override switch in straight men’s butts? Can’t…move….Thumb… in…ass….Send help. Come on! I’ve had my thumb in a few butts, provoking reactions ranging from delight to disgust, but my thumb has never, ever, not once, paralyzed a sex partner.
But Mr. 200 Percent Straight Guy can’t admit that he liked it, that he didn’t object because there was nothing objectionable about this blow job–you let him continue because you were diggin’ it–or that he might have sought it out (just where did you ½nd this masseur?). So he comes up with what has to be the lamest excuse in the long, sordid history of blow jobs: He had his thumb in my butt, your honor, what could I do? HTH!
Of course, this does not explain why you keep going back, Mr. 200 Percent Straight Guy, for more blow jobs. Did the masseur leave his thumb in your butt?
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