Savage Love

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 backdoor visit. And I get a big kick out of the role reversal. He has been very open to pre-porking 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, your ball sac will gradually become droopier whether or not your honey swings from it, for the very same reasons her boobs will get droopier with time: gravity. Sooner or later your balls will hang down to your ankles; pulling on them, twisting them, wearing ball-stretchers or “ball-torture” parachutes, hanging weights from them, 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 boyfriend 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 expulsive 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 explain how you met: “Bob, this is Dave,” goes one of your mutual friends. “Um, we've met,” you or he mutters. “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 god-damn 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 SF Weekly Readers: I wrote a faux “Confidential” to the Olympic Committee about the bombing of Centennial Park, but SF Weekly's chickenshit, lily-livered, nervous Nellie, wee-wee-wee-all-the-way-home lawyers told SF Weekly's editors that I'd libeled John Tesh, so they took it out!

Those god-danged SF Weekly lawyers wouldn't know “libel” if it snuck up on them and bit their fat asses! Personally, I'm distressed that SF Weekly would put such stock in the opinions of their “lawyers,” as most of SF Weekly's “lawyers” have been disbarred for malpractice. But I'm willing to let it go this time, as I have it on good authority that SF Weekly's lawyers are doing “resort” business in Cuba, when they're not on drunken sex tours to Southeast Asia, and are about to be deported anyway. Censoring my column (to spare John Tesh's feelings!) will be their last little hurrah, so let 'em have it I say. I'll have the last laugh when they're all sweatin' in the Cuban gulag.

But since I've got a little space to kill, and we're on the subject of the Olympics, here's a funny story: Back when I was a teen-ager, I sat with my father and watched the Olympics from beginning to end. My father hoped I was finally taking a healthy interest in sports, and we kinda bonded sitting there in front of the TV. Now, the real reason I was watching, of course, was because I wanted to rim the men's gymnastics team, but my dad didn't know that. Many gay men, I believe, have similar Olympic memories. (Gee, I hope I haven't libeled the Olympic men's gymnastic squad or anything.)

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