I’m a 31-year-old attractive single
woman, and I recently went on Match.com and found a guy. Our e-mails and one
phone conversation went well and he seemed kind and was okay-looking in
his picture, so I met him for drinks. It was disappointing, to say the
least. He looked 15 years older than his picture and was socially
awkward to the point of sheer misery. He told me he didn’t want to eat
cheese because he “had the craps,” announced to the waitress that this
was our first date, yawned when I talked about my job, and said, “I
could tell you were really into me the minute you walked in the
room.”
Standard bad date so far, right?
Here’s the bizarre part: On the phone he’d
said, “The most beautiful sound in the world is applause. I hope I can
hear you clap for me sometime.” He is a music teacher, so I thought he
was...
...p class="savage_question">Here’s the bizarre part: On the phone he’d
said, “The most beautiful sound in the world is applause. I hope I can
hear you clap for me sometime.” He is a music teacher, so I thought he
was referring to applause after a performance. But when we met in
person, he asked me to clap for him, for no reason, in the restaurant!
I asked him why, and he said he just really loved the sound of
clapping. I ignored his request, finished my drink, and said it was
nice to meet him but I didn’t think this was going to work. I shook his
hand good-bye in the parking lot and at this point he asked again for
me to clap—but now in a whiny voice, literally begging me to do it. The
worst part? I did it, just to shut him up, before speeding away in my
car. I’m simultaneously creeped out and intrigued.
Have you ever heard of a clapping fetish?
Clap Off The Clapper
I get letters every day from people asking
if I’ve “ever heard of” a particular sex act, fetish, kink, or hang-up
before. The assumption, I guess, is that the thoroughly skanky author
of this thoroughly skanky column has heard of everything. And
that’s fine; I’ve heard of and, er, done quite a lot. But the folks who
send these EHO letters aren’t seeking confirmation that they’re not
crazy—or in COTC’s case, that this really happened—but some form of
absolution, as if my having heard of whatever it is they’re doing, were
asked to do, or refused to do, makes it—whatever it is—a
little less bizarre.
But almost invariably I haven’t
heard of the sex act, fetish, kink, or hang-up the authors of EHO
letters ask about. Like this clapping fetishist COTC encountered—I’ve
never heard of that one before. I don’t doubt COTC’s story for a moment
because, hey, if it can be named, performed, swallowed, or worn,
someone out there has a fetish for it. So while I can’t offer COTC
absolution for the sex act she performed—yes, it was a sex act—in that
parking lot, I can offer her the next best thing: bragging rights. Not
only did you stump me, COTC, but this is a bad-first-date story you’ll
be dining out on for the rest of your life. Congrats!
I had a kinky inspiration in the
shower when I noticed the force with which the shaving cream came out
of a new can. Orifice and body-cavity invasion turns me on and I was
inspired to insert the tip of the shaving-cream can into my urethra,
pinch it shut, and press the button. I felt some burning. On removing
the tip, a narrow ribbon of shaving cream exited my penis.
Pleased, I repeated this a few times. Do you know if what I am doing is dangerous? Have you ever heard of shaving-cream penis enemas?
Cream
Dreamer
No, CD, I haven’t heard of shaving-cream
penis enemas before. But then I’ve always been lucky in love.
As for the health risks presented by
shaving-cream penis enemas, I would ring up one of my medical guest
experts if I weren’t (1) on vacation, (2) writing this column over
margaritas at Phil’s in Saugatuck, Michigan, and (3) unwilling to
scream, “Are these shaving-cream penis enemas going to kill this
motherfucker?” into my phone, putting everyone else at Phil’s right off
their chips and baked-Gorgonzola-with-dried-cherries dip. Sorry.
Here’s my layman’s opinion: At the very
least, you risk irritating the very sensitive tissue that lines your
urethra; at worst, your friends and relatives are going to snicker all
through your memorial service. (“Didja here? Uncle Walt gave himself
one too many shaving-cream penis enemas and his bladder freakin’
exploded!”) But tragicomic exit strategies are a known risk of orifice,
body-cavity, and Iraq invasions.
I identify as 100 percent gay.
Sometimes I surf straight porn sites to see fresh faces. I ignore the
girls and focus on the guys. However, I’ve discovered that I get turned
on by looking at pictures of cute men eating pussy. Not by pussy, just
by the men eating it. Have you ever heard of this before? Is there a
secret subculture of gay men who get off on other guys eating pussy? Or
do I have unique tastes?
You Gonna Eat
That?
I’ve heard of lesbians turned on by gay
porn, straight men turned on by chicks-with-dicks porn, and the odd gay
man turned on by standard-issue hetero porn (vaginal/anal). But I’ve
never heard of a gay man turned on by images of straight guys eating
pussy. Most gay men are too grossed out by pussy—let’s be honest,
guys—to linger over images of hetero cunnilingus, no matter how hot the
guy. So there’s no secret subculture, YGET, and you are freakishly
unique. Congrats.
I am a 33-year-old male who got back
in touch with an old college girlfriend (now married). Long-distance
catching up turned to flirting, flirting to planning, and we recently
had our first sexual encounter since college. When we were together in
college, she told me about being abused by a male cousin when she was a
young teen. There was some emotional fallout, but she seemed okay.
However, during our recent encounter, she ended the cunnilingus portion
of our evening, and the entire evening, saying she never liked that
because it reminded her of the abuse.
Have you ever heard of an abuse-related
sexual dysfunction manifesting years after psychiatric help was sought?
Or is this a way of not admitting to me that she’s having cold feet
about our affair?
Eagerly Awaiting Trusted
Homo’s Enlightening Response
Let’s end with something I have heard
of:
Yes, EATHER, sometimes abuse-related sexual
dysfunction crops up years after help was first sought. And, yes, some
people point to past sexual traumas—real or invented—as a polite,
face-saving way to bail on consensual sex that they’re not enjoying.
(“It’s not you, honest, and it’s not me. You see, lo these many years
ago my uncle….”) As it could be either, EATHER, the only way to avoid
being a complete asshole—and the adultery already has you teetering on
the edge—is to assume she’s telling the truth and back the fuck
off.
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