I decided at 12 years old that pregnancy was not something I wanted to worry about. Now, at the ripe age of 26, I’m still a virgin. I exchanged oral favors with my past boyfriends, none of whom lasted more than three months. Approximately half said they wanted more; the other half were only settling for me until someone better came along. At 19 I came to think it was a form of leading men on to date them while giving them no chance of sleeping with me until some arbitrary future date when I was ready to have kids. So I took myself out of the game and haven’t dated in seven years. My self-imposed sexual isolation is complicated by the fact that I am now overweight and have abnormal hair growth (I have to shave my face and chest daily). For years my inner emotional life has been locked between aching loneliness and cold emptiness. My friends and my family, though warm and loving, are no longer enough. I want more. I want physical comfort and emotional gratification. I want sexual contact. But I can’t seem to get over my original reasoning and self-conscious body issues. Of all the columnists I’ve read, you are the bluntest. Help. –Frigid Frustrated Fool
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
The hair? Lose it. Go to an electrologist or a laser-hair-removal joint and have your face and chest hair blasted away forever.
Your 12-year-old self? You need to murder that dumb cunt. That sounds harsh, I realize, but I speak from experience. You see, FFF, I decided at age 12 that parental disapproval, religious condemnation, and social ostracism were things I didn’t want to worry about, so I resolved never to come out of the closet. Instead I decided I would either become a priest or fuck girls, and I gave both options my best shot. (Hey there, Quigley Preparatory Seminary North! Hey there, Wanda!) But by age 26, FFF, I was out, my parents were over it, and I was living in Berlin with my first serious boyfriend. I couldn’t have gotten the physical comfort and gratification that I ached for–to say nothing of the bruises and rope burns–if I hadn’t wrapped my hands around the throat of that pansy-assed 12-year-old faggot and squeezed the life out of him.
I’m an 18-year-old girl with an 18-year-old guy. We’ve been dating for 15 months and have a healthy sex life. Seven months ago I found out that he was cheating on me online with guys. He said there was nothing physical going on and that he wasn’t really interested in these guys–he just enjoyed leading them on. He also told me that he’d stop. A month ago I found out that he’d started doing it again. I talked to a couple of the guys that he was leading on, and it turns out he met more than one and wanted to have sex with them.
Dan Savage, you really are the straight guy’s best friend, even if you do keep trying to get people to put things up their assholes. –I Almost Sent This Without Signing It
