HUMP!

...or erotic films for HUMP!. That’s why our HUMP! website—www.thestranger.com/hump—focuses on filmmakers right now and not filmgoers. A few words to HUMP! filmmakers and HUMP! stars: The deadline for HUMP! entries is October 6, 2008. That’s just a few weeks away—but there’s plenty of time to make a sexy short film for HUMP!. One of last year’s winning teams made its HUMP! film the day before the deadline! If you’re tempted to make a film for HUMP! but you’re concerned about your privacy—if you’re worried about your future great-great-grandchildren finding your HUMP! film on the interwebs one day—rest easy! We work hard to make HUMP! safe, fun, and anonymous for all. You make a film, you give it to us, we make two master screening copies (one’s a backup), and return the original to you. Our only copies are destroyed live onstage after the final HUMP! screening. We’ve hosted DOZENS and DOZENS of HUMP! screenings over the last three years with ZERO leaks! HUMP! lets you to be a porn star for a weekend—not for life. Let me emphasize that point again: We’ve got three HUMP! festivals under our belts and we’ve never had a leak. That’s three festivals, dozens and dozens of screenings, and thousands of hooting, clapping, cheering HUMP! fans—and not one single security breach. Your dirty movie is safe with us, porn star! Some other frequently asked HUMP! questions: “Do I have to show my face in my film?” Nope! We need proof of age—a photocopy of a passport or driver’s license—for everyone who appears in your film, but you can be shot from the neck down. Or you can wear masks. Or makeup. Or a Sarah Palin wig and glasses. So long as your film is creative and hot, it’ll make the cut! “Does my film have to be hardcore?” Nope! Erotica, animation, mechanical dogs, amorous saltshakers, horny napkins, and nonexplicit shorts all have a home at HUMP!. “Are there cash prizes?” Yep! Big-ass cash prizes have always been a part of HUMP!. We’ve got two $2,000 First Prizes—one for Best Hardcore and one for Best Humor—and this year we’re adding a $500 Best Actor Prize and a $500 Best Actress Prize. All prizes are awarded by audience ballot! “Anything else I should know before I get started on my film?” Films must be shorter than eight minutes. Nothing illegal, please. No poop, no animals, no kids. Films that include shots of Red Square, Dino Rossi, Mars Hill Church, Bellevue, or a jack-o’-lantern are awarded extra points by the HUMP! jury. Films can be submitted in DVD or VHS format. Deadline for entry is October 6, 2008. HUMP! goes down at On the Boards on October 24 and 25. Release forms and more information are available at www.thestranger.com/hump. And finally, TRT, tickets for HUMP! go on sale October 8. Watch www.thestranger.com/hump for details. 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 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 am I missing out on something? 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 a finger in her ass. Being the gentleman I am, I asked if she’d prefer something more substantial in there. She said yes. After a few minutes, I began to smell something. I prayed to the God I don’t believe exists that it wasn’t what I suspected. I finally looked down and saw her ass and my dick were covered in brown. Nearly vomiting, I tried to stay calm and make what I would consider 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 of santorum. You pulled out, you cleaned up, you moved on. Some folks would’ve freaked but, eh, those folks don’t get it. You can put lipstick on ass, my friends, but it’s still ass. Shit happens, as the saying goes. Shit shouldn’t happen. But when you’re fucking ass, shit has to be regarded as a “known known.” The accidental shitter, however, owes the 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, 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 malfunction, SSBB, wipe her 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 enjoy yours. I’m wondering how you display the desk, and if you write at it. Curious Wikipedian 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 her 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.