I came out to my family as a gay man nearly nine years ago. While they’ve become more accepting of me, they still hold out hope that I’ll meet “the right woman.” I’ve never seen a woman naked, let alone dated one. How can I avoid the “don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it” argument and convince my family that I’m just not into girls?
Fort Wayne, Ind.
First of all, did they not knock homosexuality before they tried it? Exactly. They’re asking you to be open-minded so they don’t have to. You can always lie and say, “Mom, I had sex with a woman and it was awful! Vaginas are gross! I’m glad I tried it but I’m gonna stick with penis. What’s for dinner?” Another idea is to adopt a baby. Once there’s a baby in the picture, they don’t care who you’re fucking. They just want to squeeze that little tushy!
I think saffron looks so attractive in its tiny plastic cage at the supermarket, but I really have no idea what one might do with it. Any ideas?
New York, N.Y.
I had some saffron rice this very morning, and it looked so yellow and so yummy, but it tasted like a doodie flower. I kept eating it because after each bite, my eyes would glance back at the plate and I’d get seduced all over again. My advice is to enjoy it in the market. Awe in its pure yellow intensity the way you may take in a painting or a gossip rag at the checkout stand. Then walk away.
My mom always gives me a hard time for having the day off from school on Labor Day. She tells me, “I’m the one who went into labor to have you, and I don’t have the day off!” What would be a good comeback that I could say to her next year?
Don’t say anything. Just kick her in the vagina. Then as she keels over, point to her vagina and start to laugh, but then freeze, like you’re in the end credits of Bob Newhart or CHiPs or Barney Miller. If she doesn’t “get it,” then she’s not worth your time anyway.
I’m a happily married man, but lately one of my golfing buddies, Jerome (not his real name), has been acting a bit peculiar around me: holding the door open for me, picking up the bar tab, and looking at me in, well, a way that makes me feel kind of weird. Jerome isn’t married and hasn’t had a girlfriend since I can remember. I can tell sometimes that Jerome has something he wants to tell me. My question is, when Jerome and I have secret sex at the hourly motel, who should pay for the room?
Jim (not my real name)
You are so lucky that I went to etiquette school. The penetrator pays for the motel.
I’ve recently moved to New York City from California. Everything is great but I’m having trouble adjusting to my new habitat. I feel as if I’m an animal on display but with-out a handful of feces to protect myself. What should I do?
New York, New York
This is a tough one. I love New York, but you get more space in L.A., so it can be a pleasant experience just to hang in and be home. In New York, unless you’re rich, you live in a very small space, so your instinct is to get out until you have to come home to sleep. Try to nest. Make your apartment as homey and comfortable as possible—a little haven. Or just shit in your hand.
I’m a chronically depressed shut-in who doesn’t bathe much. My lifestyle has caused a testicular fragrance of vast proportions. What should I do?
Long Island, N.Y.
You may think you’re a shut-in and that therefore you don’t wash your balls. But I’m here to tell you that you are a shut-in because you don’t wash your balls. If you wake up and jump in the shower—or better yet, laze in a tub—by the time you get out and towel off, you are much more apt to feel like going out into the world. This is not a chicken-and-egg scenario. Trust me: balls first, and your life will follow.