Is it possible for a man to insert his balls into a woman? It's a topic I don't want to Google. A few months ago, I was making out with a guy and he whispered to me that he wanted to insert his balls into me. I said, "What?!?" and he moved on to other things. I've shared this story with a couple of girlfriends. After laughing, they all said they've never heard of such a thing. Are we prudes or is this something I'm missing out on?
Reconsidering In Toronto
Nothing shrivels the ol' dick quite as quickly as the "What?!?" bomb.
There the guy was, boned for you, and he was brave enough to put his desires out there, to make himself vulnerable (which is what the ladies are always saying they want, right?), and you lobbed the ol' "What?!?" bomb at him and made him feel like a freak. Is it any wonder that he quickly moved on to "other things" and, one would hope, better sex partners?
And that's too bad, RIT, because it sounds like you may have been a little curious, maybe even tempted, by his request. I mean, here you are, all these months later, wondering what that "What?!?" caused you to miss out on. But before I fill you in—or stuff it in—let's pause to consider just what prompted you to toss out that "What?!?" bomb in the first place.
You're not the only person whose first reaction to an unexpected request is "What?!?" Many of us feel obliged—even the sexually adventurous among us—to go on the record with slight-to-mild-to-royal shock when a new partner presents us with a request for something besides standard-issue sex organ stuffed in standard-issue orifice. Our shock—real, feigned, or exaggerated—allows us to establish our moral superiority while placing the other person in a weaker position. It forces the other person to acknowledge that he or she is the bigger pervert and that we, by even contemplating indulging his or her kinks, are doing that person a favor. Tragically for all involved, most people on the receiving end of a "What?!?" emerge less likely to share their kinks with future sex partners, resulting in less interesting sex lives for all.
On to your question: Yeah, a guy can insert his balls into a vagina—or an anus, or a mouth, or the seventh hole of the Augusta National golf course. Some guys like to do it loose; they pack the sack in by hand and the orifice then closes around their sacks, above their balls. These guys derive pleasure from having their balls trapped and tugged. Other guys like to wrap their scrabble bags with a short length of soft rope or a rubber sheath; this pushes their nuts down to the bottom of their sacks and creates, essentially, a firmer, more-easily-inserted, temporarily phallus-shaped sack that they can literally fuck the shit out of you with.
So here's what you missed out on, RIT: a safe and unique sexual experience with a guy who isn't afraid of his own desires but is, it seems, too easily spooked by the odd "What?!?" Who knows? Maybe he was "the one," but your reaction to his kink prompted him to go off in search of more indulgent, less-sex-negative partners.
Your loss, I'd say.
Tell me the name of my fetish! In intimate situations, all I want is the foreplay portion of a hookup: kissing, petting, dry humping. But it goes no further than both parties being shirtless, i.e., no oral, no penetration, no getting off. Is there a name for this fetish?
My Own Crazy Kink
Indeed there is, MOCK. It's called "second base."
At a recent party in Paris, I fucked a Spanish girl in an inflatable igloo. As we were going at it—standing up, from behind, clothes mostly on—she put her fingers in her ass. Being the gentleman I am, I asked if she'd prefer something (slightly) more substantial in there. She said yes; I put it in. After a few minutes, I began to smell something foul. I prayed to the God I don't believe exists that it wasn't what I suspected. I finally looked down and saw that her ass and my dick were covered in brown. On the verge of vomiting, I tried to stay calm and make what I would consider to be a traumatic situation for her a little less embarrassing.
Thing is, she wasn't embarrassed. She didn't seem to mind. In fact, after I lost my erection, removed my socks and underwear and used them to try to clean things up, she sucked me off. The next day, I received a text from her saying that she had a great time. No apology for shitting on me, no quip to lighten things up. I'd suspect that she forgot the whole ordeal (she was drunk), but I'm confident that despite my efforts to clean up, she awoke the next day with shit on her person and skirt. In the days since, my sympathy for the cute little thing has turned into resentment. Shouldn't she have known she had to poop? Shouldn't she have apologized?
Shitty Shitty Bang Bang
You did all the right things after that Spanish tramp shit on you—and we're talking shit here, not a splash or two of santorum. You pulled out, you cleaned up, you moved on to something else. Some folks would've freaked but, eh, those folks don't get it. You can put lipstick on an ass, my friends, but it's still an ass. Shit happens, as the saying goes. Shit shouldn't happen; it's gross when it does. But when you're fucking ass, shit has to be regarded as a "known known."
The accidental shitter, however, owes the mortified shittee the courtesy of being appropriately mortified; the shitter should also quickly assume all clean-up duties (oral doesn't count); and if the shittee is being cool about it, the shitter should thank the shittee for not making a big deal about it. Based on this girl's actions, SSBB, I'd say she was blind drunk, utterly clueless, into shit, or all of the above. Whatever her major malfunction, SSBB, wipe her number from your phone's memory.
I recently read on Wikipedia (which knows all) that you own Ann Landers's desk. I really enjoyed her column growing up, and now I rather enjoy yours. I'm just wondering how you display the desk, and if you use it when you're doing your own writing.
Wikipedia doesn't know all, CW. For instance, the site incorrectly lists my age: I am 34, not 43. And that picture of me they're using? I may have to sue.
But I do own Ann Landers's desk. I bought it at auction after Landers passed away—after securing an okay from Ann Landers's daughter, Margo Howard—and when I'm not writing Savage Love in a bar, an airport, or an inflatable igloo, I write at Landers's desk. And let me tackle the obvious follow-up question: I've never had sex on Landers's desk, you sick fucks. I can't go so far as to say that Landers's desk has been entirely unmolested since it came into my possession, as I'm not the only person with after-hours access to my offices. But if this desk has been violated, it wasn't by me.
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