How to do the wrong thing right
I’m a pre-med intern — typically overworked, underpaid, with no spare time to cook for myself even if I had some leftover energy to. My fellow slaves and I, of which I’m their token, barely-accepted “homo” in this physician-wannabes’ posse, are all regular/repeat customers at practically every greasy spoon within a quarter-mile radius of Baylor; fractiously, I’m the sole one of us who bothers considerately tipping our equally overworked, underpaid servers. I put myself through undergrad waiting tables. I know first-hand exactly what sorts of rapacious vengeance gets served upon cheapskate “regulars” once the undertone snickers of “fudge-packer,” or some similarly expressed ilk, get overheard by any waiter maligned by snarky customers. Sweet karma, I secretly smile, is always such a delicious bitch, though, don’t you agree? — Stuart
Indeed, I deliciously do: Kudos to you, too, Stu, our future medicine man miraculous, for somehow resisting any comeuppance temptation to point out the so-simply obvious lesson still yet to be learned by your disbarment-worthy medical profession colleagues to whom you’re homophobically shackled: Perhaps we should just keep it our jizzy little secret that it’s solely due to your regular dining companions being flagged as nefariously-inexcusable bad tippers that they’re getting to enjoy that extra added squirt of sweetly flavorsome, creamy “secret sauce” on their burgers and in their beers — freshly homemade, daily, by the very adeptly practiced hands of their regularly stiffed, albeit graciously smiling “fudge-packer” servers themselves.
I’m mortified to ask this question: My fly boyfriend is super-stoked into “water sports” hardcore. In all SM honesty, man, this fetish is about the only bedroom burlesque I just do not at all twist into. But “Randy” laid all down on the table with me from our very first date, spelling out exactly what he enjoys doing most behind closed doors; miraculously, even I bit my toxic tongue for once about slinging Dallatude by not, oh, snarling, “What a coincidence! I’m also a total water sports’ enthusiast — you know, Michael Phelps and I even train together at the very same pool; trust me, too, those size 14 Aquaman flippers on him don’t lie, either —wink, wink!”
No, instead, my backfired cocky-comeback retort was, “Proper hydration is my passion!” which Randy sleazily interpreted 100 percent at face value. It totally whirlpooled me, like, urinal-drain deep smitten with him instantly, and now, every morning since I’m awakened by my boyfriend smarmily, seductively spooning me with his forked tongue flickering in my ear, whispering, “Tonsils, baby, or tush?”
Usually, I just sigh and choose “tush” because, well, morning pee isn’t exactly what the FDA labels a sunshiny day draught of orange juice, identical in color though it damned revoltingly is; ridiculous as this sounds, it’s just a lot less bothersome, hygienically, for me to wear old man’s incontinence underwear at work through noon, ’til my back-end leakage finally drips dry, than it is to guzzle down my boyfriend’s proud, fresh, hot homemade “breakfast” to his last yummy drop every morning, instead. Howard, how do I stop this, gently, what I’ve absurdly started? — John Hancock
You can’t. Not unless you’d rather belong to a different boyfriend, which you clearly do not: Listen, Johnny Lavatory, the man laid his deal-breaker fetishes at your back door from the absolute start, to which you delivered before him a big wide slutty smile of enthusiasm. On the hunk-o-meter scale, 1-to-10, exactly how far into the red zone beyond 10 does your needle quiver for this “fly” boyfriend? He surely must be some more off-the-charts specimen of filthy fine man flesh in your eyes because of his water sports’ obsession, truth be told, is all I can tell you; otherwise, morning piss from anybody (be it up the gut or down the gullet) is worth neither the medicine cabinet of Alka-Seltzer one must keep fully stocked, nor the man purse full of Depends one must pack every morning for the office; fortunately, if you indeed love this “Randy,” urine is hygienically sterile: Think of the relationship more in terms of you perhaps being, oh, goldenly-showered lucky — after all, stud, there exist oodles of lovesick bedroom fetishes far less [ahem!] . . . tasty.
This isn’t really a question so much as it’s a “light bulb” revelation I wish to share: Last week, my youngest son of three exemplary boys, who is only 16, “came out” to me. Hesitantly, tactfully, concernedly, I asked if he was sure he’s gay — that it didn’t matter to me, at all, I only wanted him be happy — but how was he certain he knew already? He lobbed back, “Dad, when did you know you were straight?” I blustered, “Well, son, but I’ve known all my life” . . . and suddenly then I got it, my “illumination” moment: I truly hope Paul meets a wonderful man down the road to fall in love with; I’ll be just the happiest, proudest father in the whole wide world! — Michael.
— Howard Lewis Russell
Do you have a question — about etiquette, love, life or work — that needs an answer? Send your problem to AskHoward@DallasVoice.com and he may answer it
This article appeared in the Dallas Voice print edition February 26, 2016.