How to do the wrong thing right
Halloween is nearly here, Donald Trump nearly has a shot at becoming the president of the United States and nobody knows yet which is scarier. Nonetheless, should any of you decent Texan queers actually plan to vote for Trump, then please do not pen Dear Howard here another gay lifestyle-related question: Trump, believe me, is no homosexual’s compatriot; worse, his “conservative values’” Indiana running mate — the rampantly-homophobic/ultra-gay, Stepford-ish Mike Pence, who peddles such nonsense as pray-the-gay-away — will become president after Trump dies in office from a KFC-induced heart attack. Thus, a vote for Trump — especially in blood-red Texas, where casting your ballot for either “Crooked” Hillary or (hell’s bells!) “Toker” Johnson — ultimately won’t matter one whit come Nov. 8 anyhow; but it would unquestionably be a vote against our LGBT community’s best interest.
With this impending fright stuff now unburdened from chest, let’s get just ghoulishly right to it.
My lover and I hosted some Grindr/Scruff buds over last weekend — I blame a full moon. After a few Z Tequila shots and “whatnot,” we started playing Twisted Tweaker Truth-Or-Dare. I got asked (by the hottest hulk in the room, thank you!) whose cock would I more like to blow: Donald Trump’s … or Hillary Clinton’s. Wanna guess what my answer was? — Cleet
I couldn’t care less your kinky answer; moreover, those rumors of Hillary being a diesel dyke are greatly exaggerated. I think it’s a safe bet, too, that The Donald has probably engaged in fellatio with fellow males on as many occasions throughout his entire sexually-active, adult life as, oh, Hillary’s own husband has — in other words, precisely zero times. Zero.
My boyfriend, the “actor,” can’t compartmentalize his professional life from our private life. We never enjoy just “normal” intercourse; no, I must be arrested by a “wild west sheriff” and put in handcuffs for mule-skinning; or get raped by some black-masked “cat burglar” sneaking into our bedroom, through a conveniently open window, as I’m “sleeping.” Honestly, I never know whether to laugh or leap for my gun. I’d be down with Mo’s artistic fantasies once in a while, but not every single time he bangs me: our walk-in closest looks like a Hollywood prop department. Just yesterday, Blackbeard emerged — eye patch to shoulder parrot — demanding where my “treasure” was buried!
It’s not that I don’t appreciate Mo’s imagination, but he infuriates me that I’m always assigned the role of victim, damsel, slave, etc. Why can’t I ever play Ted Bundy? Why can’t I ever play a ’70s porno producer scouting for new raw talent? Why can’t Mo ever be the one tied to our bed, gagged and blindfolded? “Because you’re the bottom,” is his stock, dismissive answer: “Dost thou wish to be keelhauled, lassie?” Howard, my man Mo’s brain is sleazily awesome. He’s a total blast in the sack, if borderline nuts: Am I truly just being a whiny, bedroom spoilsport? — Frank
Yes. Yes, you are being a petulant princess. What’s more, you love it: Lookie here, Mo’s not literally stopping you from once in a while brandishing all the whips and shackles, instead of always being the one perpetually “tied, gagged and blindfolded,” so the hell “what if” it’s Halloween every night of the week with your man? Most guys would kill to get laid creatively fun as you, constantly, by an enthusiastic boyfriend — beg Mo to tighten your ropes harder, wench!
Last Halloween, I refused handing out candy to anybody showing up at my door tall as I am; I told them, flat-out, “It’s a kids’ holiday and my candy’s for kids, only.” Well, the next morning, wouldn’t you know, my brand new 2015 Volvo had been keyed! I think I know who did it: Some 6-foot-5 vampire, I remember, yanked his dick out, fully erect, and said, “Eat this, faggot.” If he shows up again this year, how should I handle him, what should I say? — Charlie J.
I’m fantasizing, fingers hornily crossed, that vamp’s dick was proportionally sized? Why, Chuck, do you even ask me, “What should I say?” Hell, you invite Dracula in this year and take the fanged stud up on his “mercy” BJ offer — duh! That, or else actually hand out a bit of candy, you cheap bastard, to everybody who rings your bell. How long has it been now since you even saw a real flesh-and-blood penis besides your own? Probably last Halloween, I’ll wager. .
— Howard Lewis Russell
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This article appeared in the Dallas Voice print edition October 21, 2016.