My girlfriend of two and a half years recently started smoking. I’ve always been very up-front with her about what a huge turnoff this habit is, but she keeps right on puffing. It’s yellowed her teeth, her breath stinks, and her hair and body constantly smell (never mind the fact that we’ve both had close relatives die of smoking-related diseases). I can’t stand to be around her after she lights up, but she doesn’t seem to care. Before I watch my once-great sex life go up in smoke, is there anything I can do?
Call her puff. If your girlfriend’s new occupation is a deal-breaker, then tell her–explain that she can have you or she can have her cigs, but she can’t have both. You might discover she’s already made a kind of conscious/subconscious decision; she’s, well, sending you smoke signals. Maybe she’s sick of your ass, but doesn’t have the guts to end it herself. So she’s smoking you out. So smoke her right back.
I’ve broken up with people who smoked or failed to quit smoking (yes, outraged smokers, I’ll admit right now I’m a fascist–so spare me the letters). Maybe you and me and everyone else who’s had once-promising relationships destroyed by a partner’s nicotine addiction should get together on a cig class-action lawsuit or demand that the tobacco settlement being kicked around by the states and the feds include cash payments for our pain and suffering.
And while we’re on the subject of pain and suffering, did anyone catch the glam two-page ads in all the major glossy mags last month for Angel Food, a Los Angeles-based charity that provides meals to people living with AIDS? The ads went on about how proud Angel Food’s corporate sponsor was, what an honor it was to fund this agency, what important work it is feeding people with AIDS, blah, blah, blah. The corporate sponsor? Philip Morris. Four hundred thousand folks die of smoking-related illnesses every year in the United States–is anyone feeding them? Perhaps the big-hearted humanitarians at Big Tobacco should take care of folks dying of lung cancer and leave the care of folks with AIDS to individuals and businesses with a bit less blood on their friggin’ hands.
I have a reason to think my fiance’s genes may be defective–he’s a product of incest. I have noticed that his come is always chunky and thick. Is this normal? Men I have known in the past have had easy-flowing come of comparatively normal consistency. Please help with info! –Scared Stupid
Some men shoot skim, most spurt whole, and a few guys seep chunky monkey. Other than he might have an as yet undiscovered thick-spunk gene, the consistency of your boyfriend’s spunk–of any guy’s spunk–tells you nothing about other genetic defects. Your children, when and if you have them, are no more likely to be born with flippers or claws or tails or connected eyebrows than children fathered by a guy with “normal” spunk. And if you are seriously concerned about swimming in your fiance’s gene pool, find a hospital with a genetics clinic and make an appointment for a genetic screening.
I have a fantasy I never heard of anybody else having. My fantasy is to have a girl flatulate in my face and mess her pants, and I have to clean her and put her in fresh clothes. Do you know of any organizations I could contact to find partners? –DW
The number of people interested in a particular kink has to reach something of a tipping point before clubs are formed. So far as I know, poopy-pants fetishists have not yet reached that tipping point and aren’t likely to anytime soon. But don’t despair, DW–you are not without options. Volunteer at a nursing home. Or if intergenerational scat scenes are too freaky for you, buy your next date a difficult-to-remove jumpsuit–something with lots of tricky belts, snaps, and zippers–and treat her to a delicious hamburger/fecal matter sandwich at your local fast-food burger palace. Then hope for the worst.
It’s been a long time since you mentioned your boyfriend. All you talk about now is your research assistant. Did you break up with your boyfriend? Are you single now? Are you screwing your research assistant?
My research assistant, Kevin, while contractually obliged to attend to my sexual as well as informational needs, has not done so for two reasons. First, the last advice columnist he did research for took advantage of him–abused him, really–and whenever I get too close he shakes and sweats and screams, “No, Mommy! No, Mommy!” Kind of a mood-breaker. I would fire him, but his disorder is covered by the Research Assistants With Disabilities Act. The other reason is that my boyfriend Terry and I are still together–though he hardly speaks to me anymore unless it’s to ask for money or poke fun at me in French because I work for a living.
I read with sympathy the letter from Humorous Moniker, who suffers from canker sores. I often fell victim to painful canker sores inside my mouth. Then I discovered L-Lysine.
L-Lysine is an amino acid available in the vitamin section of stores for about $6 for a hundred 500 mg tablets. I take one a day and rarely get a sore. If I do get one, I increase the dosage and that seems to speed the healing. I’ve been taking it for years, and now I live a virtually canker-free life.
–Sore No More
Lots of folks wrote in with “cures” for canker sores. I’m including a few reader suggestions, but bear in mind, Humorous Moniker, that for all I know Sore No More is a serial killer, and L-Lysine is a deadly poison. So. I’m not vouching for his “canker cure,” or for the next two.
Regarding canker sores, there’s a wonderfully effective herbal solution from China. It’s sold as “Watermelon Frost.” It’s cheap, and canker sores heal up in a couple of days at worst. If you spray the powder on a fresh cut it heals up overnight. Pass it on.
There is something that cuts the canker-sore cycle down to two to three days from seven to ten. I just put some prescription paste with Triamcinolone Acetonide in it right on the sore. Dab on a few times a day ASAP after the sore appears. Not a cure, but a big, big relief. Most doctors are unfamiliar with it, but it really works.
–No More White Goo
This week we got a contest. Hidden somewhere in this column is a quote from a classic Hollywood film. Write in and tell me who said it, in what film, and why it’s the greatest movie ever made. Three winners will be randomly drawn from among the correct entries. Grand prize: $10 worth of Burger King gift certificates and a carton of Newports. Second prize: a set of steak knives. Third prize: you’re fired. All prizes will be shipped UPS. Employees of Disney, ABC News, Stern Publishing, and the Russian space program are only eligible for third prize.
Send questions to Savage Love, Chicago Reader, 11 E. Illinois, Chicago 60611.