Q OK: Female, married 15 years, one young child. No sex with husband over last five years. Have tried therapy, talking, not talking, confrontation—you name it, Dan, I tried it. Lingerie, kink, porn. Seriously, everything. A year and a half ago I got into a relationship with a married guy, a man who also wasn't getting any at home. Our agreement is basically this: no strings, no ties that could hurt our families, have as much fun as we can.
My husband just got diagnosed with late-stage cancer. He is dying. Six months. Leaving him is not an option. On some level, I feel horribly guilty about still seeing my lover, but it's the only outlet I've got.
Am I a complete skank/CPOS? —No Good Acronym
A You are not a CPOS (cheating piece of shit), NGA. You were doing what you needed to do to stay sane and stay married before your husband's diagnosis, and you should continue to do whatever it takes to stay sane and stay married. So if seeing your lover helps, I think you should continue to see your lover.
But do see him less often, NGA, and redouble your efforts to keep the affair secret.
You are less the spouse and lover now, and more the nurse and caretaker. In consideration of the good years you had together and with the knowledge that his undiagnosed illness could have been behind his lack of interest in sex, let go of whatever lingering resentments you have. Do everything you can to make your husband comfortable and make his death "good"—and that includes keeping your affair from him.
Realistically and logistically, NGA, I think you won't be able to see as much of your lover over the next six months as you have over the last year and a half. And six months isn't that long to go without. But if you need to see your lover a few times in order to stay sane and stay married and get through this awful time, then you should—for your own sake, for your husband's sake, for your kid's sake.
Q I've been with my current boyfriend for a little over a year. Since the get-go he's refused to give me oral sex because he just plain doesn't like it, doesn't like the taste. He says he doesn't even like looking at my vagina. He does, however, like me to give him oral sex. I've tried explaining the importance of oral for me, but he thinks I'm obsessing and says the act just grosses him out. I'm resenting this situation more and more. So much so that now I really don't feel like giving him oral sex. Any suggestions on how to improve this situation?
—Needing Oral Tonight
A Your situation will not improve, NOT, until you find yourself a boyfriend who isn't a fag.
There may be a few straight boys out there who don't like to eat pussy, sad to say, but a straight boy who doesn't even like to look at pussy? Unless there's something very seriously wrong with your pussy's appearance—a web of scars from a waxing gone horribly, horribly wrong, the Fox News logo tattooed on your pubic mound, the glowering face of a parasitic twin where your clit should be—your boyfriend is a fag, NOT. Do to your boyfriend what my one and only girlfriend should've done to me: DTMFA.
Q Just wanted to share a funny story with you. It's also, we think, a great example of being GGG. My lady friend generally requires more foreplay than I do, but on rare occasions we focus on me exclusively. Two nights ago, after three years together, we figured we'd give a high-school classic a try: I was going to get a hand job. I must've been temporarily transported back to my Little League days, because as she was contentedly pumping away, I asked if she could adjust her grip, saying, "Baby, could you choke up a little bit?"
"What," she said, the sweetest, most GGG look on her face, "you mean, like, cry?"
I really think she would've done it, too, if I hadn't laughed so hard I nearly fell off the bed.
—Choked Up in Toronto
A Thanks for sharing, CUIT, and now . . . WHEREAS you're writing from Canada; and WHEREAS my Canadian readers do patiently endure my rants about conservative American politicians (like last week's about New Hampshire state representative Nancy "Wiggle in Excrement" Elliott); and WHEREAS my American readers might assume that Canada—where gay marriage is legal, everyone has health care, the boys are hot, and the girls are hotter—doesn't have any batshit conservative politicians of its own; Be It Resolved that I will make an effort to write about Canada's batshit conservative politicians every once in a while.
No time like the present: I could write about your batshit conservative prime minister, Stephen Harper, who's always proroguing the shit out of your parliament. (I don't know what proroguing is exactly, but like the shit in French on Canadian breakfast cereal boxes, it sounds pretty fucking filthy.) But a better example of conservative batshittery would be Vic Toews. Canada's unofficial "Minister of Family Values" doesn't like gays—surprise!—because we're a threat to the family and the institution of marriage. Toews has described gay marriage ceremonies as satanic "black masses" and insisted that adding gays and lesbians to existing Canadian civil rights statutes would bring the "jackboot of fascism [down] on the necks of our people."
You know where this is going, right?
It turned out that Toews—who once warned that gay marriage could lead to polygamy—was cheating on his wife of 25 years. After getting a much younger woman pregnant, he wound up getting divorced. Another marriage destroyed not by gays stomping around in fabulous jackboots but by another straight "Christian" politician slamming his dick into someone who isn't his wife.
Toews's affair became public two years ago, but the scandal didn't destroy him—he became minister of public safety this January—because the Canadian press sniffed that Toews's affair and divorce were private. Excuse me, Canadian press pansies, but a politician who scares up votes attacking the private lives of others, a politician who insists that other people are out to destroy his marriage, can't be allowed to hide behind "my private business!" when it turns out that the only threat to the politician's marriage was the politician's own greasy cock.
Here's hoping that all straight folks everywhere one day realize that antigay ravers come in just two flavors: assholes who are externalizing their own internal struggles against homosexual desires (Ted Haggard, Larry Craig, Charlie Crist, Joseph Ratzinger, et al) and assholes who are attempting to compensate for and/or draw attention away from their own moral shortcomings (David Vitter, Mark Sanford, John Ensign, Vic Toews, et al).
Toews is pronounced "taves," and it seems to me that it should be a word for something nasty. Get on it, Canada.
Confidential to everyone who asked: If the mother of the 13-year-old boy with the latex-glove fetish had written to me and not to Prudie—and she probably didn't write to me for a reason—I would've advised her to leave her son alone, told her that fetishes aren't mental illnesses, and suggested that her son might be feeling "horribly embarrassed and guilty" about his fetish because his mother is hounding him about it. And I would've told her that any wife or girlfriend who won't indulge her son's kink—once he's an adult—won't be worthy of his time or affections.