I'm still on vacation. Here's another column from the Savage Love archives, which are housed at Queens University in Kingston, Ontario. One day, scholars of human sexuality will pore over old Savage Loves, pondering archaic sexual practices like solo piss play and ancient slang terms like "wack."
My girlfriend and I only see each other on weekends. To overcome the overwhelming desire to jerk off during the week, I have discovered that I get great pleasure urinating on myself. I don't know how this happened—one morning I just did it.
About an hour after drinking a lot of water, I lay down in the bathtub. When I can't hold it anymore, I direct a clear stream of urine all over my body. Then I pull my briefs back up and soak them. I keep my eyes closed—but do I need to worry about any long-term effects on my hair or skin? Is there anything wrong with me? My girlfriend knows nothing about this. I have no intention of telling her, and I don't want to be urinated on by anyone else.
We get a lot of letters here at Savage Labs. While every letter is unique, and everyone's dumb-ass problem is compelling in its own very special way, patterns do emerge, and Wet's letter is a good example of a certain type of letter we get. The kids in the mailroom call them HTHs, or "How'd That Happen?!" letters. You see, Wet is doing this completely wack thing—pissing on himself in the bathtub as a substitute for masturbation—and like a lot of folks doing wack things, Wet has some wack concerns. He has questions about the advisability of this wack behavior—"Will urine damage my skin? Is there something wrong with me?"—so he writes a letter. Something that he thinks, no doubt, took some courage. But in composing his letter, Wet chickens out: He fails to take responsibility for his actions, casting himself as a passive player in this bathtub drama. He may be peeing on himself, but it wasn't really his idea, he writes: "I don't know how this happened—one morning I just did it." How'd That Happen?!
I've been taking unsupervised baths for 27 years, and in all that time, I never just "happened" to pee all over myself. The times I have pissed in the tub or shower, it was on purpose—I was too lazy to get out of the shower, or there was someone else in the shower with me and I was fulfilling a special request. But it never just "happened." I did it.
So, Wet, while I'm happy to answer your questions—no, it won't hurt you; yes, there is something terribly, terribly wrong with you—your unwillingness to take responsibility for your actions is what disturbs me most about your letter. Come on, admit it: You're into piss—you like it for its own sake, not as a substitute for masturbation. Repeat after me: "I like piss. I'm into self-administered golden showers." This is not something that just happened to you, like cancer or Candid Camera. It's something you did. You're a perv, Wet. Cop to it.
I was dog-sitting my friend's dog and I fell asleep on the floor in my T-shirt (no underwear). When I awoke, the dog was licking my pussy, and to be honest, it felt so good that I didn't stop him until I came like I never have in my life. I was totally embarrassed and disgusted with myself, but the next night, it happened again. My questions:
1. Can I get infected in any way by dog germs on my pussy?
2. Is this harmful to me in any way?
3. How sick am I to fully enjoy this?
I am too ashamed to ask a single soul in the world these questions. I wouldn't even ask a doctor these questions. I'm so afraid I'm going to catch some kind of infection from his tongue. Please answer me, because I need to know. I feel sick and ashamed.
This letter, at first reading, rings false. The setup—Help Me wakes to find the dog lapping away at her pussy—sounds an awful lot like an urban myth (sans peanut butter). But while Help Me's setup rings false, her anguish seems so real, so touching, that I believe this letter to be a genuine cry for help.
What rings false, of course, is her responsibility-avoiding HTH presentation. The HTH, in this case, is so laughable it almost discredits the rest of the letter: She fell asleep on the floor, wearing only a T-shirt, and "awoke" to find the dog lapping away at her pussy? What probably happened was this: She was dog-sitting, feeling horny, and Mr. Dog was doing those wack horny-dog things horny dogs do (sticking its nose in her crotch, following her around, humping her leg). The dog's behavior was similar to the behavior of males of her own species, and Help Me was intrigued. Tempted. So she did this wack thing, and it felt really good, so she did it again. And now she's freaking out.
So she writes me a letter, but just can't take responsibility for her actions. She can't bring herself to write a letter that begins, "I fuck dogs…" So, she attempts to pass dog-fucking off as something that "happened" to her, not something she did. She fucks dogs. How'd That Happen?! She was innocently taking a nap on the floor, with no pants or panties on, and woke to find the dog between her legs—why, that could happen to anyone! Twice!
Not by a long shot, Help Me. Anyway, in answer to your questions:
3. Pretty fucking sick.
I'm a 200 percent straight guy, married with children. About six months ago, I went to a masseur who finished things with a terrific blow-job. If you wonder why I didn't stop him, the truth is, I couldn't, because he was massaging my asshole with his thumb while blowing me. It was so good that I've been going back to the guy just about every week, not for the massage, but for the blow-job. Now I'm starting to worry that this might label me as gay. I have no interest in blowing this guy, but I wonder if the guy who gets the blow-job is as guilty as the one who does it.
200 Percent Straight
This is my personal favorite: Mr. 200 Percent Straight couldn't stop the big, bad masseur from giving him a blow-job because the masseur had his thumb up Mr. 200 Percent Straight's butt. What, is there a system override switch in straight men's butts? Can't… move… thumb… in… ass… send… help! Come on. I've had my thumb in a few butts, provoking reactions ranging from delight to disgust, but it has never, ever, not once, paralyzed a sex partner or struck him dumb.
But Mr. 200 Percent can't admit that he liked it, that he didn't object because there was nothing objectionable about this blow-job—you let him continue because you were diggin' it, Mr. 200 Percent Straight—or that he might have sought it out (just where did you find this masseur?). So he comes up with what has to be the lamest excuse in the long, sordid history of blow-jobs: He had his thumb in my butt, Your Honor, what could I do? HTH?! Of course, this does not explain why you keep going back, week after week, for more blow-jobs, Mr. 200 Percent Straight. Did the masseur leave his thumb in your butt?