How to do the wrong thing right

Yes, virgin readers, there is no Santa Claus. Not this Christmas. Rather, instead, I’ve got one believer wanting a penis-enlargement recipe (what a shocker!), one requesting a surefire pickup line to lure guys already in monogamous relationships into his own steamy bed instead (yet another thunderbolt out of the clear gay-blue!) and one asking me (sans any irony) for a “plausible” lie to feed his husband as to why he’s returning home from a weekend “business trip” with an utterly destroyed pooter. Although horse cocks, Scruff apps and saggy sphincters do not a sleigh-full of Santa’s toys make, nonetheless, jolly entertainment they sure delightfully do.

So let’s all fill our cups full of cocoa, throw another faggot on the fire, and just get brown-nosed, I mean, red-nosed right to it.

Dear Howard,

What’s a 100 percent foolproof pickup line to use on “monogamous” guys who already have steady boyfriends? Time and again, I’ll spot some stud giving me the once-over at the grocery store or gym, but whenever I make the move to introduce myself and, you know, ask them out for a bite or a flick, they’ll suddenly look all super-shocked and go, “Oh, but I’m dating someone already.” I just want to yell, “Then, why the heck were you cruising my bubble-butt, dude?” Howard, do you know of any surefire comeback that’ll, you know, maybe make them consider giving me at least a hay-wagon shot? — Clay

Dear Cassius,

This is a far easier one than it may initially appear. As you well know, sexual-superficiality is 100 percent my specialty; of course I have the ideal comeback line. It’ll work reliably for you every single time; however, do not begin with the temptingly sophomoric rookie faux pas of boasting that you’re, you know, hung like a Louisville slugger; nor do you oh-so-casually just let it slip that you’ll ensure your Tesla will be fully charged-up this Friday, if he’d perhaps enjoy, you know, going out for a soundless spin. No, instead, the next Miss Prissy Pants who sasses, “Oh, honey, please, I’m dating someone already,” you’re to simply flash him your most dazzling lothario grin and whisperingly purr, “Dump the bastard; I’m more fun.” Trust me, Clarice; they’ll dump him in one millisecond, flat. You know.

Dear Howard,

A few issues back you ran a column exposing some of the “tricks” pulled by male escorts to deceive their clients: Renting out my erection is how I pay the bills. I’ve been a professional call-boy for nearly two decades, but things just don’t go up now so easily as they once did, and with what seems like every Millennial boy now moonlighting in my staked-out territory, the competition just gets stiffer (pun intended) all the time. Those “erectile dysfunction” pills make me feel all woozy, flu-like and plain weird: Does there exist, anywhere, such a thing as, say, a natural food recipe for penis enlargement? — Luka

Dear Lucretia,

Oh, just fuck me, please, Santa, now. OK, believe it or not, there actually does exist a famous ancient Hindu recipe promising anyone a “horse” status within an hour (presuming, of course, one can track down the elusively but necessary seven ingredients). Here’s the “official” English translation of said recipe:

“Take equal quantities of chicana [which, to the best that Dear Howard here can decipher, is either Himalayan yak lard, or, a paste made from Hare Foot Uraria leaves], lechi fruit [not to be confused with lychee fruit; however, either pulasan fruit or rambutan fruit may be substituted should lechi fruit be out-of-season], kosth [aka crepe ginger flower — which, dear unhung hero, must not be confused with ginger root nor the powdered holiday spice available year-round in glass jars from McCormick in the spice aisle], verkand [iris root], gajapippali fruit [whatever the hell that is], ashwagandha root [an Indian herb most commonly used in Kama Sutra love potions], and kanther root [oleander root]. Pound these seven ingredients [using a mortar and pestle, natch] and mix with butter [quantity not provided]. Apply this composition to the organ [i.e., your gossip-of-the-gayborhood’s laughably tiny tee-tee] and after about two ghari [45 minutes] it will attain the largeness of the member of a horse.” Good luck!

FYI, whilst mixing and mortaring-and-pestling your earthily aromatic donkey-dick poultice, make sure you’re simultaneously viewing the 2013 Patrick Moote documentary, Unhung Hero, about a morbidly heterosexual’s hilariously-unflinching quest to make his teensy-weensy penis mutate, miraculously, into something minimally girth-worthy enough for an actual member of the opposite sex to willingly marry this poor hangdog, hung-like-a-light-switch straighty. Meanwhile, stud, best wishes grocery shopping!

Dear Howard,

How do I plausibly get away with coming home to my alpha-top, sex maniac husband from a travel “business trip” having, what one would politely call, a destroyed sphincter? — Dino T.

Dear Dianthia,

Was every businessman at The Red Roof Inn rotating numbers to your ancient-world gangbang for the entire weekend? Who was in charge of peeling the grapes? Hell, sweet Howard’s sphincter is clenched bear-trap-tight at just the frictional thought of how very many assorted erections, fists and arms would be required to, politely, “destroy” it within 48 hours. Fortunately, nonetheless, Lady Echo Chamber, hoodwinking Howard here has a perfect, pass-inspection alibi just for you:

You’re to dash by the local smut emporium on your way home from the airport, pick up a few King Kong sized dildos, and simply wink over-your-shoulder at your already masturbating husband whilst you’re unpacking them Sunday night, shrugging, “Hey, babe, a bored man in a strange city can hardly be expected to survive on just bad hotel pay porn in his room all alone.” Also, Dildolina, don’t forget to grease them down with a bit of Boy Butter to effectively produce that still slightly sticky, just-used sheen. Oh, and a faint tinge of schmear couldn’t hurt either, along with perhaps a few tiny, barely visible stray flecks of randomly attached Tootsie Roll; why, you’ll then be more above reproach to your own husband than even Caesar’s street-whore wife!

— Howard Lewis Russell

Do you (attention-seeking freaks and all) have a question — about etiquette, love, life or work — that needs a special spin from Howard? Send your problem to and he may answer it.