By Charles Lam
By R. Scott Moxley
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By HG Reza
Do you ever have questions about that stuff in your pants? Do you wonder what the books and movies are talking about when they use words like "begat" and "came into"? Do you get the impression that you must have been home sick on the day they taught cunnilingus in school?
Well, don't worry. Lots of us were plagued with the same questions before we were tossed into the crucible of life. When we emerged, crispy and with our hair a little mussed, we had the answers, and some, such as myself, are privileged to be in a position to share them with you. On occasions when I can't find something depressing to write about, I will sometimes devote this column to answering your questions about love and sex. When you don't have any questions, I will make up some from imaginary people. Though imaginary, these people are funnier than you, so don't even try with the funny stuff. Write in with your genuine problems and questions, and leave it to us to get people to laugh at you.
Ever since I was a little girl, I've been fascinated with the way other species mate. Now that I'm in college, I've started fulfilling my fantasies. Some recent dorm mating scenarios have included the Cricket, where I use emery boards taped to my legs and fiddle rosin to make that chirping sound while my boyfriend mounts me; the slow and sensual Amoeba, where we snuggle between two glass tabletops in our own private petri dish; and the Frog, where he crouches on my back all day and fertilizes a thousand eggs as they come out of me (I use strings of fake pearls. Is this sort of how Melissa Eth eridge's partner had David Crosby's child?).
My problem is my boyfriend. Although he assured me he was into kink during our Llama and Snake period, he has been like a bump on a log during these recent trysts. I would love to go Praying Mantis on a guy, and I just know he wouldn't be receptive to the idea. I'm not psycho: I can't even imagine how I'd begin actually eating a guy's head. I was thinking my partner might affix a rice-paper head next to his—looking sort of like Rosie Grier and Ray Milland in The Thing With Two Heads—and I could content myself with chowing down on that during "the act." Should I drug my present boyfriend into compliance or look elsewhere for a more enthusiastic lover?Miss Mandible Costa Lotta Dear Miss: If it weren't against every law of man and nature, I'd say why not just date critters? A water buffalo is more macho than any guy you might date, yet he has no sweat glands and could care fuck-all about the Super Bowl. I'd say lose Mr. Too-Cool-to-Wear-Fins and get yourself a real mouth breather.
What can you tell me about "water sports"? What would you say is the freakiest water sport?Curious Yellow San Clamente Dear Curious: Synchronized swim ming can be very lovely. Water polo is fun, though my horse drowned. The freakiest water sport is marrying an aging U-boat captain and getting him to talk German to you in the tub. That should pop your rivets.
I saw Deep Throat three times, but I just can't seem to get it down Pat. Any advice?R.M. Nixon Yorba Linda
P.S. I've been dead for several years.Dear R.M.:Your body is like an automobile, probably a '72 Chevy Nova in this case. Have you tried getting a ring job and having your timing checked?
P.S. Keep up the good work.
One of my girlfriend's catty pals gave her a strap-on for her birthday, and now she expects to use it on me. I like her and all, but if I knew this is what I was signing on for, I would have joined the Marines.William Fold Rolling Stop, Nebraska Dear Billy: Your body is like an automobile—accept that it's gonna get rear-ended once in a while. Make sure you're KY-compliant, and take it like a man.
How can I drive a woman crazy in bed?Joe Nomath Crumple Zone, Wisconsin
Dear Joe: There are many ways to drive your woman crazy in bed. The best would probably be to step aside and get me to sleep with her. What's the secret that makes me such an asset in any boudoir? It's the sequence of prime numbers. I read somewhere that the sequence of prime numbers occurs naturally in the DNA chain. That got me thinking, "Hmmm, if the primes are such a deeply ingrained organic archetype, nested at the very core of our existence, I wonder if they can get me laid?"
I don't know if they can get you into the sack with someone—maybe try making eye contact across a crowded room and blinking 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, etc.—but once you're together, there's nothing like those primes to prime her love pump. You think I'm kidding, but read on.
Actually, if you're a woman, you've already read too far. Stop now because you really don't want to know what goes on inside guys' heads when we're making love to you.
Now, guys, don't confuse the sequence of primes with the mental techniques we men use to avoid premature ejaculation when confronted with the glory that is woman, such as mentally adding the jersey numbers of sweaty linebackers on the scrimmage line or imagining that we're a minnow in the Long Beach Aquarium with mud sharks chasing us. I told you women you'd read too far, but you didn't believe me, did you? You probably think we men cry out during lovemaking because of something nasty you've just done with your hips, but we're in another world, crying because the shark just nipped our tail and made us forget Rosie Grier's 1965 stats. Men just can't let go. That's why we need you, to vicariously enjoy your wanton abandon, you slutty little minx. Stop reading this now!
So men, what you want to do is start stroking her with whatever you're stroking with using the arrhythmic method of the primes. There are several techniques: you can stroke consistently but lightly, emphasizing only the primes as they come up; you can tease by keeping a count in your head and stroking only on the prime numbers (cruelly, the primes occur less frequently the further you go); or you can pound along like John Bonham's floor tom but stop and pause each time you reach the next prime number higher than the one you stopped at before. So if you stopped at 31 the last time, you go until you reach 37 the next time, and so on. I guarantee that long before you hit 8,563, she'll be reaching the orgasm of her life—that or reaching for a clock radio to club you with.
Don't even try introducing these techniques until she's pretty far along and won't notice what you're up to. No woman likes to think you're using her yoni as an abacus. And for that matter, no one wants to read a sex column that references Rosie Grier twice. What's wrong with you people?