General

A condom ashtray? 

Yeah, I was faked out by their headline, too.  I was doing research on condom carrying cases and HAD TO CLICK on their “put your butt in my condom” link.  Really, I was hoping for so much more.  It kinda felt like finally whacking the pinata but good, only to have breath mints fall out.

At any rate, I loved the question I was researching:

 

Yo, Mike!

I have a condom issue that I thought you might be able to help with. I consider safer sex to be an extremely important thing, and so I simply will not have sex with someone unless a condom is involved. My problem: If I don’t have my own condoms with me, there is often a good chance that the other guy either doesn’t have condoms or doesn’t have ones that are comfortable for me (I’m not huge, but I am thicker than average, and that one ubiquitous brand that seems to be handed out for free everywhere just doesn’t cut it for me). But I also was always told that carrying condoms in your wallet or pants pocket is a good way to make them completely ineffective. So, where exactly CAN a guy carry his condoms so that he’s always prepared like a good Boy Scout?

 

This question is a perfect example of why I love writing my columns.  He could have just emailed me a simple “Where’s the best place to carry a condom?” and be done with it.  But instead, he gives me background, color, opinion and context.  And really, I find that so much more fascinating than the question itself.  

 

 

 

About 30% of men suffer from premature ejaculation.  The rest suffer from not having anybody to ejaculate on. If you’re dating what the Brits call a “Five-Stroke Bloke,” give him a hand with hints from my new video:

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American Idol’s 2003 runner-up Clay Aiken came out in a People Magazine cover story.  I’ve got mixed feelings about this.  On the one hand, it’s a good thing for Middle America to see that many of the people they like and care about are gay.

On the other hand, there’s a certain “Duh!” factor that makes you think the editors hit the cooking sherry a bit too hard.  Clay Aiken coming out as gay in People Magazine is like Gordon Ramsay coming out as a chef in Cooking Magazine–completely unnecessary.

Still, I’m glad Aiken came out.  If homophobia is a brick wall, then every falling brick helps.  I just wish we could get rid of the bricks faster.  Imagine how many would fly off the wall if a conservative right winger like Idaho Senator Larry Craig or the Reverend Ted Haggard came out on the cover of People Magazine. 

I guess that’s my only hesitation about Aiken’s cover story.  It used up a lot of ink telling people what they already know.  To shed new light, reach new people and change more minds we need to have unexpected people gracing the covers of magazines.

 As Lewis Black once said (I’m paraphrasing), “Gays are a serious problem confronting this country, but it’s on page eight, right after ‘Are we eating too much garlic as a people?’”  We need to put “Gay” in its proper place—on Lewis Black’s page eight.  But, for too many people it’s on page 1.  And for that, millions of gay men and women have to lie if they want to serve their country, lie if they want to serve God and lie if they want to stay in their families.  And for the growing number of us who don’t have to lie, we still have to measure everything we do or say in relation to the risk it brings.  Just ask somebody who’s completely out how that adoption search is going.

Bottom line:  Thanks, Clay.  Even if your news came out of the Department of Redundancy Department.  

Nobody seems to have a problem talking dirty in the office (“I need to whip it out by 5,” “Just stick it in my box,”) but a lot of people are too shy to do it in bed. If you’re one of them, take a look at my new video–it’s the Berlitz of Tabasco Talk.

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 I’ve learned that telling somebody your real age is like a root canal:  You shut your eyes and brace for impact.  So when “Steve” asked me how old I was, I steeled myself and said, “Age is just a number.”  He said, “What’s the big deal?  I like older guys.” 

“How old are you?”  I asked.

 “24.  You?”

 “36.”

 “Damn,” he said.  “You’re the oldest guy I’ve ever gone out with!”

 “I thought you said it wasn’t a big deal?”  “Yeah, but I didn’t know you were that old.”  We dropped the subject, kept going out and eventually fell for each other.

 A few months later,

He waved my book at me, and said, “Tell me how old you are, and don’t  lie!”  Now, I know that I never revealed my age in the book, so I wasn’t  going to fall for his trap.  Just as I was about to insist I was telling the truth  I suddenly remembered the dedication to the book:

                                “To Richard:                                             For teaching me how to lie about my age.”

 Busted by my own book.  So, I told Steve the truth.  He sank down in the  chair. “You’re almost as old as my dad.”  he said. I know I should have felt bad, but I didn’t.  Lying about your age is simply “foreploy”—a misrepresentation for the purposes of getting laid.  Yes, it’s wrong but it’s not a felony.  More like jaywalking.  It didn’t take long for Steve to get over my truthiness.  We ended up together for years.  I learned a valuable lesson about lying:  It’s SO worth it.

 Just don’t leave a paper trail…

Dallas Drag queen “Ilene Alloverya” crawled across the floor in the middle of her act to accept a tip. Then, in the grand finale, she stood up, threw out her arms…

And dropped dead of a heart attack.

To the song, “Nobody Does it Like Me.”

I tried not to laugh, I really did. But when my friend Richard called to read me the story in the Dallas Voice, I lost it. The paper’s attempt to stick to the facts just made it all the funnier.

“Well,” Richard said, wiping tears from his laughing jag. “At least she died doing what she loved.”

“Yes,” I said. “On her knees begging for money.”

All deaths are tragic, but some are tragic comedies.

Somebody actually sent that question in to my sex advice column on Manhunt. I used to ignore that kind of stupidity on stilts, but a few years ago I realized I was letting 24-karat gold slip through my hands. Phrasing is everything in a column. It commands the kind of attention you can’t get with a more, er, intelligent question.

So in case you’re wondering… Here’s where you should put that butt plug:

In your ears. If it doesn’t fit, try your poop chute. Butt plugs are toys so there aren’t any “rules.” What feels right for you may not feel right for someone else. There’s two reasons to use them: To stimulate the anal opening (academic talk for “it feels good!”) or as a sort of training device to get your sphincter muscles ready to take on cargo.

Remember, the sphincter has two muscle rings—The outer ring, which you can squeeze it at will (it’s what stops you from taking a dump when you read this column) and the inner ring, which you can’t squeeze voluntarily (it’s why you can’t stop from taking a dump when you read this column).

It’s that inner ring that causes most of the pain in anal sex. If you can relax it you’re in for a great ride. If you can’t, you’ll punch your partner into the next room.

Now, the idea of anal sex is to scream for more not yell for help, so “training” the inner sphincter muscle to relax is critical. That’s where butt plugs come in. If you keep them in long enough, the inner sphincter muscle relaxes on its own (muscles can’t stay contracted forever—at some point they have to release).

You’re going to have to use more than a butt plug to stretch the inner muscle if you want painless anal sex, though. So, gradually introduce bigger and bigger toys until you can insert one the size of your partner’s penis without pain.

Let me say that again: WITHOUT PAIN. Remember, pain is a signal that something’s wrong. It means you’re stretching the sphincter too much and causing micro-tears. Go slow. You can’t just hang over a railing and get the dust pounded out of you without ending up in the E.R. And really, that’s not a club you want to try to get into. The lighting’s horrible, the outfits are ugly and there’s no VIP line.

People have a phobia about age.  Whatever you say after forty they hear as a communicable disease.  So if you say “I’m forty-three” they hear “forty-leprosy.” 

That’s why ya gotta lie if you wanna get laid.    

 

Yes, yes, I understand that’s not being true to yourself, that you’re just perpetuating ageism, that you’re not accepting who you are, that you’re not growing old gracefully.

 

Blah. Blah. Blah.

 

It’s not that I disagree with all that.  It’s just that I want to get laid.  And if the only thing standing between me a Category 5 blow job is a number, then I’m going to say that number and deal with the consequences later.

 

I’m a man, after all.

 

Okay, now let’s get into some sound lying strategies.  Always take ten years off yourself.   When you’re drunk and he asks you what year you were born you don’t have to deal with complex mathematical formulas.  And believe me, when you’re drunk, simple subtraction can leave you paralyzed.  My 10-year strategy makes it a simple equation:

 

Let’s say you were born in 1959.  It’s 1959 + 10= 1969.  You were born in 1969! 

 

I don’t care how drunk you get, you can do that kind of math.  The kind that can help you stop using your right hand as a sleep aid.

 

Okay my love affair with the personal ads in the London Review of Books continues with my next three faves:

 

I’ve divorced better men than you.  And worn more expensive shoes than these.  So don’t think placing this ad is the biggest come-down I’ve ever had to make.  Sensitive F, 34. 

 

Nothing in this world makes sense.  Apart from Sphenodon punctatus, last survivor of the reptilian order Rhynchocephalia.  If only there were a woman like it–cold, efficient and brutal in love, but also able to feed off small animals, inhabit the breeding burrows of certain small petrels and be in possession of a vestigial third eye.  Zoologist, M (51) possibly a little too close to his work.  And his mother.  Box no. 8643.

 

Your stars for today:  a pretty Cancerian (35) will cook you a lovely meal, caress your hair softly, then squeeze every damn penny from your adulterous bank account before slashing the tyres of your Beamer.  Let that serve as a warning.  Now then, risotto?  Box no. 7394.

 

These all come from the funniest book about personal ads EVER: