I’m 19, female, bisexual, and have been with the same guy for a year and things are great. I came home for Christmas and he went to his parents’ house, and I’ll see him in a few weeks. For Christmas, my mom got me some typical “mom” gifts—socks and underwear—but the panties had Disney princesses on them. I feel like a pedophile just owning them! I get it: She doesn’t like the idea that I might be having sex, especially with the alarming rate that babies are popping out of teenage girls—but, come on.
Even if Mom was trying to send you a coded message—and I am not convinced that was her intent—you can turn the lemons of your mother’s disapproval into the lemonade of a good, safe, responsible sex life. So Mom is not happy about her daughter being sexually active—that’s too bad for Mom, right? Show Mom that her fears were misplaced by making sure you don’t get your 19-year-old ass knocked up or knocked around.
As for feeling like a pedophile, HB, there’s nothing pedo about a 19-year-old bi chick in Disney-princess underpants. A little girl in those panties is innocent and darling. A sexually active 19-year-old in those panties is ironic and daring. (A quick poll of straight men—or man, as the sample size was small—also revealed that 100 percent consider 19-year-old bisexual girls in Disney panties “sexy as fucking hell.”) So when your boyfriend eats your pussy through a pair of your new Disney underpants—when he filters your vaginal secretions through an image of Jasmine or Ariel or Belle—he will not only be helping you assert your right to sexual fulfillment despite your mother’s disapproval, HB, but helping you deconstruct a patriarchal heteronormative discourse that reifies female purity and holds up female undergarments as moral status markers. And when he services your clit, HB, the boyfriend will also be servicing those princesses. His efforts will transform them into the fully sexual beings their corporate creators never intended them to be.
To think your boyfriend can accomplish all of that—and strike a blow against repressive monarchical systems, too—just by eating your pussy while you wear your new panties, HB! And all you have to do is lie back, pull the stick out of your ass, and enjoy.
I realize Savage Love is a sex-advice column (as evidenced by much vulgar language), but I’m going to ask anyway.
(1) What is your definition of love?
(2) How do you know if you’re in “love”?
(3) How do you know if they’re the “one”?
(1) Love is making out with someone after you’ve blown a load on his/her face.
(2) You know you’re in love when you’re eating breakfast in a restaurant together the morning after he/she blew a load on your face and you suddenly realize that you didn’t wash your face when you got out of bed that morning and you don’t care.
(3) You know he/she is the one when he/she realizes that you’ve just realized that you’re eating breakfast in a restaurant the morning after he/she blew a load on your face and you didn’t wash your face when you got out of bed that morning and he/she smiles, leans over the table, and gives you a kiss.
I am a 27-year-old straight male. My girlfriend and I are getting serious, but one issue stands between us and a bright future. It is an issue that literally causes me to lose sleep and it is starting to become destructive to our relationship.
I have always been paranoid regarding the size of my penis. I know from research that, when erect, I am just slightly to the left of the bell-curve peak. I thought I had learned to accept this. My renewed feeling of insecurity stems from a comment my girlfriend made in an attempt to offer me some reassurance about the size of my genitalia. In an attempt to alleviate my worries, my girlfriend observed that it sometimes hurts when a penis is “really huge.” She then let it slip that her ex-boyfriend of five years was famous in their high school due to “locker-room gossip.” I remember from high school that the only boys who were the subject of locker-room gossip were the ones carrying around a third leg. Further buttressing my fears, my girlfriend confessed that the only time her ex-boyfriend’s penis hurt her was after having three or more encounters in a single day. On a separate note, my girlfriend likes really hard sex. I have had sex with over 30 women in my life and I have never run into a girl who likes sex as hard as she does. The harder I bring it, the more she likes it. (Admittedly, I like this aspect.) Unfortunately, I fear that I am not satisfying her due to her having once been accustomed to being roughly used by a man with a very large penis.
I have more information that I believe contributes to my feeling that she wants a larger penis, but I would like to keep this reasonably short as I know you are a busy man. But my final thoughts are these: She says she is having the best sex of her life with me. I see two possible explanations for this assertion on her part: (1) She is telling the truth and really is having the best sex of her life with me; or (2) she is not satisfied and is lying to me and eventually our relationship will break down due to her lack of sexual satisfaction.
If you are still reading this, then you have my sincere appreciation. All I seek is your blunt, objective opinion, however harsh it may be.
Long Insecure Man Pensive
Oh my God, LIMP, shut up. Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP. I cut your letter by four-fifths and it’s still fucking interminable. If you’ve managed to land a girlfriend who can put up with your florid rhetorical style—you don’t by chance own a comic-book shop in Springfield, do you?—you should count your blessings and suck up the angst about the size of your dick.
I’m sorry, LIMP, but if your girlfriend’s assurances about the quality of your sex life and her preference for average-size cock isn’t enough to set you at ease, nothing I can say in this space is going to do the trick. I’m familiar with dudes like you—insecure bags of slop always harping away about the size of their dicks—and there’s just no debuttressing your fears. Even if your girlfriend was a virgin when you met and yours was the only dick she’d ever laid thighs on, LIMP, you would still be paranoid. You would send me letters insisting that your girlfriend could never truly be satisfied with you, having never experienced the substantially more girthsome appendages of males lucky enough to be more impressively endowed blah blah blah.
Stop obsessing about your dick, LIMP. Just stop. Your dick is your dick and obsessing about size only makes you miserable. And verbose. If size were all that mattered, Ron Jeremy would be People‘s “Sexiest Man Alive” every fucking year instead of, you know, those mouse-dicked motherfuckers George Clooney and Matt Damon and Brad Pitt. If knowing your girlfriend used to be with a guy who had a huge dick—with him three or four times a day, for five long, pussy-punishing years—is more than your fragile ego can handle, do your girlfriend a favor and dump her now.
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