How to do the wrong thing right

Howard-RussellDear Howard,
What do you do when (yikes!) your mother actually walks-in on you spanking the monkey? — Trevor

Dear, Dear, Masturbating Boy,
Everything hinges on the seamless swiftness of your immediate “follow-through,” First, you must, of course, lunge-grab for any nearest pillow/blanket; second, you instantly slam your porn-streaming laptop closed; third, you deftly swat away the Vaseline/lube container from off the top of your desk/bed/inflatable floor mattress; fourth, you gutturally moan, “Mom?!” with as much an expression of plaintively monk-like piousness as you can possibly muster; finally, you are permitted to faint dead away once Mommie Dearest flushes pasty-white, backs speechlessly out of your j.o. cave and recloses the door tightly behind her … which, apparently, you’d forgotten to lock in the first place amidst your never-ending throes of 24/7, youthful gay horniness down in your private basement porno-lair/household-laundry-facilities’ room. Fear not, though — you’ll both get over it.

Dear Howard,
I’m totally flustered and confused. Dave, my longtime boyfriend — six years running now — whom I’ve been absolutely faithful to 100 percent ever since our fourth week of dating, berates me all the time for being a “slutty whore,” says that he’s never going to marry “a cheap piece of filth” like me, recently said I am “uglier than something spawned by genetic-splicing between Tori Spelling and the Indominus Rex from Jurassic World.” I mean, WTF?

Worse, Howie, often whenever we’re having sex, I never know what’s actually expected from me in bed. Dave is ginormously well-endowed, which means (you guessed it!) that I’m always obligated to be the bottom in the sack; I’d love for my man to at least once in a while volunteer switching positions, especially considering that his initial attraction to me (which he lovingly voiced on our first date) was that I came supplied “readily equipped with everything for anything.” — Robin

Dear Birdie,
I’m totally flustered, and utterly confused, as to what your question for me is — assuming you even have one. Robin, there’s a scene from Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland where the Dormouse is orating a poignant story at the Hatter’s mad tea-party, improvised of three little sisters living at the bottom of a well who are learning to draw:

“What did they draw?” said Alice. “Treacle,” said the Dormouse. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse, so she began very cautiously:
“But I don’t understand; where did they draw the treacle from?” “You can draw water out of a water-well,” said the Hatter; “so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well — eh, stupid?” “But they were in the well,” Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. “Of course they were,” said the Dormouse —“well in.”

Are you poignantly asking me, Robin, something so sensible as whether you’ve a spousal right to even desire drawing top once in a while to your venomous, hung boyfriend whom you’ve been faithful to well in now over these past five years and 11 months; or, are you asking me if I think Dave deserves institutionalizing because he’s a sexually selfish, verbally abusive, mad-as-a-hatter/batshit-psychopathic prick who’ll probably never drop down on one knee sincerely before you, ring box in hand, no matter how treacly-submissive you attempt watering him?

Ginormous penises come a dime-a-dozen in Gayville, Robin, if that’s solely what you’re searching for:  Run away from this abusive nut now … far, far away! (Additionally, too, do not ever call me “Howie” again.)

Dear Howard,
I feel like I’m getting so old: would you mind illuminating me, please, as to just what the heck is a “taint?” — Mel

Dear Old Codger Calcite,
I’ll certainly attempt my illumine-best for you here, Melvin (even though I think you already know): “Taint” is a slang term referring to the part of one’s body located between the anus and the testicles/vagina—“T’ain’t part of the servants’ entrance and t’ain’t part of the junk in front.” Medically, it’s called the perineum, you ole rake, you.

— Howard Lewis Russell

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This article appeared in the Dallas Voice print edition November 6, 2015.