Hey, Faggot:

A couple of questions for you:

1. I like it when my beautiful and adventurous girlfriend grabs my testicles and twists. Hard. However, she has expressed a distaste for men who wear their balls around their ankles. That, coupled with the desire to reproduce, has led both of us to wonder what exactly the side effects might be. My feeling is that many folks subject themselves to much more severe abuse and come out with tubes intact. My girlfriend’s not so sure. What do you think?

2. Girlfriend here: My boyfriend loves a back-door visit. And I get a big kick out of the role reversal. He has been very open to preporking enemas, but seems to lack technique. During our most recent romp, the smell and the leakage was pretty gross. How can he prepare for me and my strap-on in a more effective way?

Thanks for your time.

–Us 2

Hey, U2:

1. Your girlfriend’s fears are well-founded. While your balls themselves won’t get any bigger from prolonged twisting, your ball sac–all that loose, floppy scrotal skin–will. However, you might want to make the GF aware of this startling fact: Your ball sac will gradually become droopier whether or not your honey swings from them, for the very same reasons her boobs will get droopier with time–gravity. Sooner or later your balls will hang down to your ankles (have you ever seen old men naked? Not all of them had ball-tuggin’ GFs, you know). Pulling on them, twisting them, wearing ball stretchers or “ball torture” parachutes, hanging weights from them, etc, etc, may speed the process somewhat, but since you’re going to wind up with droopy balls one day whether or not you get the pleasure of all that pullin’ and tuggin’, well, why not pull and tug? From a utilitarian point of view, it’s an absolute good.

As for the damage: You can protect your parts and tubes by making sure the girlfriend’s twisting technique is slow and sure–no sharp jerks or sudden snaps of the wrist. If she keeps her grip firm and her twisting slow and steady, you and yours should be fine.

2. Enemas are a nice, but not necessary, prelude to good clean butt sex. If the BF has nice solid stools–and takes a good healthy dump before you grind away with your strap-on dildo–all should be well. If you want to be extra sure his highway is Hershey-free, you can do the enema thang.

To avoid “leakage,” have him clean out at least an hour or two before you’re going to play. Despite his best expulsionary efforts, water can get trapped up and inside the twists and turns of his lower intestinal tract. This unexpelled water can work its way down and out while you’re fucking him, creating the leakage and smell you so rightly find distasteful. But if he cleans out, expels, and then, say, runs around the block for 45 minutes, or goes out dancing, or sweats to the oldies, those irksome water pockets will work themselves out naturally–and since he won’t have a dildo drilling away at his ass when they do, he can deposit them safely in the toilet, not in the sack.

Hey, Faggot:

About six months ago, I met a guy through a personal ad. I was strongly attracted to him, but he wasn’t interested in me. He said he wanted to be friends, but that turned out to be bullshit. No big deal.

The other day I was on a hike with a group of guys and we ran into him. He completely ignored me. I didn’t know how to respond, so I ignored him right back. I felt awkward and uncomfortable. I am certain to run into this guy again. If he continues to ignore me, how should I respond?

It seems silly to pretend like we’ve never met–this guy spent more than three hours spilling his guts to me–but I’m afraid if I speak to him he will either continue to pretend he doesn’t know me or think I’m stupid and/or uncool for not taking the hint that he doesn’t want me to speak to him. The chance meeting caught me off guard. I want to be prepared next time. What should I do?


Hey, H:

He might have stood there ignoring you because you were standing there ignoring him. Or maybe he assumed that if you two spoke, he would have to tell the assembled group how you met: “Bob, this is Dave,” goes one of your mutual friends. “Um, we’ve met,” you or he mutter. “Oh, really? How?” your friends ask, forcing one or both of you to say, “We met through the personals! We’re sluts! Whores! Pathetic geeks!”

In order to spare you the supposed humiliation of openly admitting to trawling the personals, he thought it best to stand there and do nothing, letting you, if you so chose, make the first move. You didn’t move, he didn’t move, and you both felt like shit when you got home.

Or maybe the guy’s an asshole. God knows, I’ve seen men walk past people they’ve slept with–people they’ve rimmed, for crying out loud–without so much as a nod. It happens at my goddamn gym all the time, sometimes only moments after the rimming occurred.

But whether his behavior was due to reason A (he was deferring to you) or reason B (he is an asshole), the solution in both circumstances is the same. You walk right up to him and say, “Hey, Bob, how are you?” When your friends say, “How do you two know each other?” you say, “Oh, we had dinner a few months back”–you don’t have to go into details. If after saying hello he has the nerve to pretend he doesn’t know who you are, if he proves himself to be an asshole beyond a shadow of a doubt, then say, rather loudly, “Oh, I’m sorry–don’t you remember me? You answered my personal ad, remember? We talked all night, you said you wanted to be friends.” Then proceed to reveal all the private, embarrassing details you can remember from your three-hour conversation.

Confidential to the Olympic Committee:

I hope you dopes don’t think we’re buying that fall-guy security-guard story. We all know who really placed the pipe bomb in Centennial Park: you, the Olympic Committee, did it. Upset that TWA Flight 800 pushed the games off the front page and completely dominated the newscasts, you guys placed the bomb yourselves in order to pull the media spotlight back to the Olympics. I wouldn’t be surprised if John Tesh’s fingerprints were all over that green backpack.

But I’m willing to keep quiet about my theory. If Australian diver Michael Murphy is delivered to my hotel room in San Diego on August 11–soaking wet and in his Speedo–I won’t go to CNN and NBC and the New York Times with my allegations. To ensure my silence, you might want to throw in the German diver who won the bronze too.

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