Hey, Faggot:

My girlfriend often gives me head, but she won’t let me return the favor. I’ve tried repeatedly to go down on her, but she always cringes and turns her vittles away from me. When I ask why, she just answers, “Why would any man want to put his mouth where I pee?” I don’t want to find another woman for this, but sometimes I can’t even enjoy sex with her because I know my lips will never go below her navel. For me, there is nothing quite like the aroma and taste of real pussy juice. Is there anything I can do to gradually make her succumb to me? –Thirsty

Hey, Thirsty:

You pee with your dick, don’t you? The exact same dick she puts in her mouth when she gives you head, right? Confront her with this bizarre double standard. Say, “Honey, I wanna put my mouth where you pee, for the exact same reasons you wanna put your mouth where I pee. S’fun.”

Drawing attention to the illogic of her irrational oral-sex phobia probably won’t turn the trick, however: I’m guessing (hoping!) she already knows men pee with their dicks and she’s simply blurting out, “Why would any man want to put his mouth where I pee?” because what’s really going on in her head is far more complicated and harder to articulate. It probably goes like this: “I was taught by (a) my mother, (b) unreformed Catholic nuns, or (c) feminine-hygiene product commercials that women’s genitals are dirty and unattractive and that they should be scrubbed with Brillo pads, flushed with noxious chemicals, and stuffed with sterile paper products. Since I believe my twat is filthy and putrid, how can I allow you, the man I love, to plant your face in the middle of it?”

It’s called a hang-up. Your mission is to undo the damage done your girlfriend’s genital self-image in her formative years. You must convince her to love her twat in all its flowering, flushed, flowing beauty. Talk to her about eating pussy, why you love it, and what you love about her pussy in particular. Lick your sticky fingers and wax eloquent about how delicious her juices are and how sublime it would be to enjoy them right from the source. Hang-ups of this sort–poor body image–can be laid to rest pretty successfully by a determined partner’s praise and encouragement. Good lick.

Hey, Faggot:

I am a 30-year-old male. For the past year I’ve been experimenting with the two-girl menage a trois. After having broken up with my girlfriend three years ago–after five years of living together (I didn’t want to have kids)–and after becoming sick of the single bars, etc, I decided to “order in.”

I “ordered” a couple of Asian babes and loved life for an hour. I’ve done this several times and now feel like I’ve had my share of empty, loveless fun. And I’ve finally met someone. When the subject of past lovers came up, I froze. She knew something was up, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to ask again. Should I tell her of my “fantasy fulfillment” or keep my recent past to myself? She could be the one. –Feeling Sorry I Slutted

Hey, FSIS:

Tell her, “I had a kinda slutty period after breaking up with my last long-term girlfriend.” If she wants to hear more, tell her you had a few one-night stands and a couple of three-ways. You don’t have to go into how you met these girls, and if you don’t act like there was anything out of the slut-ordinary about these experiences, she probably won’t ask how you met them. Commit only the sin of omission and offer to get tested for every last bug under the sun.

Hey, Faggot:

I’ve been trying to change since I was a kid: no luck thus far. I’m now in college and there’s no way I’m coming out anytime soon. The social, psychological, and theological conditionings are just too strong. I’m a 21-year-old male (virgin) too afraid to initiate direct contact. I’m somewhat handsome, height-weight proportionate, so appearance isn’t a factor whatsoever, but I’ll be damned if I’m not a prisoner of my mind, my fears, my peers, etc.

I live vicariously through the gays I see in the gay neighborhood of the city I live in. I imagine what it would feel like just to kiss another guy, let alone be cuddled and embraced by one. Do any of your readers truly understand the impossibility of my situation?

Not only am I in the closet, but I’m hidden deep within the clothes, and even if someone were to search the closet carefully, I would simply sequester myself to the inner chamber of the closet, deeper still. Nevertheless, I love boys, all boys: Asians, Latinos, white and black, green and purple. I have a lot to offer. But reality sets in: I don’t want to lose my heterosexual friends, for I care for them also.

But, and I say this with sadness, I’m afraid I have no choice but to gaze upon male beauty from afar; full of longing, desire, and unfulfilled fantasies. –No Name, No Game, No Flame

Just a guy with many friends and no one to love.

Hey, Dumbfuck:

I’m guessing you left No Clue, No Spine, and No Guts off your list because they don’t rhyme with Name, Game, and Flame. But they belong, Miss Self-Pity ’96, and right at the top.

Does anybody understand what you’re going through? Yes, anybody who’s queer-and-out does: we’ve all been there, done that. You aren’t special, and to be perfectly frank, in late 1995, you aren’t all that interesting. If you’re miserable “deep within the clothes (?),” then come the fuck out. If you’re happy “sequestered in the inner chamber,” then stay there. I have no sympathy for guys who know full well that they’re gay, have access to urban gay institutions, can articulate their desires, yet choose to remain in the closet out of sheer CHICKENSHITTEDNESS. Or, in your case, because they’re too enamored of their own existential suffering to come out.

One word of advice: your pathetic, mock-poetic posturing won’t be nearly as alluring at age 40 as it is now–other 21-year-olds are much likelier to fall for the angle you’re working. So you might not want to wait until you’ve got a drinking problem, a potbelly, and alimony/child-support payments to make before you finally screw your courage to the sticky place. In the meantime, spare out queers your strained, eye-rolling closet metaphors, and for cryin’ out loud don’t come running to us for sympathy. You bit this off, you chew on it. Don’t have the balls to come out, now or ever? Fine. Don’t. Rot in the closet. And don’t come cryin’ to me about it. It’s BORING.