“…Homosex-shuh-ality is not God’s best. I come from that value system of the scripture. I can’t pick and choose….I just try to love them and treat everybody with respect.”

You can’t pick and choose? Um, excuse me, but obviously you can — you choose to focus on persecuting gays but then totally skip over all the other directions given to you in the Bible like stoning adulterers and putting folks to death who dare work on the sabbath. And how respectful is it to treat a certain group people as lesser beings and not worthy of the rights of everyone else? Choose your words a bit more carefully, Joel — the ones you’re spewing now make you sound as stupid as your hair looks. 

And what the fuck is with Barbara and Whoopi not throwing a verbal beat-down on this guy’s ass? And Joy Behar — what’s with the kid gloves with this jerk? Open your mouth and call that “life-coach-slash-minister” out on his shit on behalf of gays everywhere.

Who do you think is watching your sad sorry show anyway, ladies?

A few weeks ago, The Fella and I went to a David Sedaris reading in a neighboring city. As one would expect, Sedaris was both intelligent and hilarious.

Afterwards, we got a few copies of our books signed.

“Hello,” David smiled at my fella. “What’s your name?”

“Tristan.”

“And you are?

“Dirk.”

“Do you have any autumnal plans this weekend, Dirk?”

I was struck instantly mute. David Sedaris had just asked me a question and despite my best efforts, I could not think of a single witty quip or humorous bon mot to throw his way. Suddenly, a response came to me.

“No.” 

Unfortunately, I was so nervous that it came out as a three syllable word (“Nuh-oh-oh.”)

Obviously struck by my dead-on “…and Jeri Jewell as the orgasmic special needs ‘mo” impression, Sedaris surveyed me for a moment then turned his attention back to my saucy man candy companion. “How do you two know each other?” he asked as he began a sketch in Tristan’s copy of When You Are Engulfed In Flames.

“We’re dating,” Tristan replied.

David looked up, his eyes going from Tristan to me then back to Tristan. “Really? I wouldn’t have taken you for a homosexual.”

Tristan smiled. “Neither would my parents…as they’ve told me time and again.”

“How did the two of you meet?” David asked as he went back to his sketch.

“Online.”

“I hear a lot of people do that these days. How long have you been going out?”

Tristan looked at me and smiled. “A little over a year and half…”

“Are you living together?”

Awkward silence.

“No,” Tristan replied. “Not yet.”

Not yet.

As in “not at this time, but perhaps at some point in the future.”

As in “his snoring isn’t a big enough impediment to us moving forward with things at some point many years down the road provided something better doesn’t come along.”

As in “maybe.”

The rest of our brief interaction with brilliant writer is a bit of a blur because all I could do was stand there with a big dumb grin on my face as I tried to process the fact that Tristan seems to be entertaining the idea of us co-habitating at some point.

“Not yet.”

In the fucked up relationship universe of one Mr. Dirk Mancuso, those are some pretty wicked awesome words.

Yeah, the whole “famous-author-thinking-my-boyfriend-has-a-retard-fetish-going-on” thing aside, it was a pretty spectacular evening.

As most of you know October is Gay History Month and in an effort to help my community, I decided to enlist the aid of two of the most opinionated women I know –  the smart and sassy Elle the Pirate of Belle et la Brewski and my whack-a-doodle mother Lola — to share their hearts and their wisdom with my people. Thankfully, they both said yes, which meant I’ve only had to do 6 posts a week instead of 7 — bless you , ladies. As I’ve stated before, Elle’s comments are courtesy of the interwebz  while Lola’s responses are tape recorded and then transcribed by yours truly as a soon to be gone pesky cataract has made reading damn near impossible (she holds one hand over her left eye while attempting to read — a condition which further complicates her hunt and peck typing style). Please note that while I love them both dearly, neither one is a licensed professional nor should their advice be taken as either sound or good. In other words, this is purely for entertainment purposes. Don’t follow their advice. Never change lanes at an intersection. Always wait on hour before going into the water after eating. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Now, with those disclaimers out of the way, let’s get rolling…

Dear Elle and Lola,

I’ve been dating a woman for the last couple of months who I had instant chemistry with. Recently, she told me that she wants us to put on costumes and do role playing to spice up our sex life. I think our sex life is fine the way it is plus I would feel stupid dressing up and acting. I think we have something good but I’m worried if I give into this the next thing will be even more weirder. What should I do?

Vanilla Gal

Dear Vanilla,

Let me get this straight.  You will feel stupid dressing up and acting while having wild sex??  Squirrel, please.  Take it from a woman who has at LEAST 5 costumes in her closet and utilizes them ON THE REGULAR…..do….that….shit.  Everyday is Halloween up in this bitch.  Sexy fireman with boobies poppin’ out the top??  Yes, PLEASE! Tinkerbell with no panties??? I’ll take two!!! Pirate whore with her plastic sword?? Pillage THIS booty!!!  There is nothing wrong with role playing.  At all.  And dressing up does not lead to weirder stuff.  I mean, if you wake up one morning and you have a gag ball in your mouth and are surrounded by angry midgets wearing nothing but grass skirts and halos, that’s your own damn fault. Not that that has ever happened to me.  I’m just sayin’.

Now put on that Little Bo Peep outfit and bend over.  Oh yeah….mama likey.

Trick or treat THIS,

Elle

Lola says: …don’t dress up! What’s the matter with these goddamn people who have to spice up their love life? They know what they’re getting into when they sign up for that old shit to begin with and then they want to go and put on fancy clothes and pretend? Jesus Christ. I don’t understand what more spice that silly bitch needs — ain’t licking pussy enough spice? Bleech! I don’t even want to think about that. Next question…

* * * * *

Dear Elle and Lola:

my partner (38) and i (41) have been living together for 3 years. we have a very healthy sex life. One of the most imporant things for me is honesty and faithfully since I was cheated on by pass boyfriends. Last week, I went to check my mail and I discovered that my partner had been talking to men on line and having cyber sex (he left the computer on and left his mail open and i read it). I haven’t said anything yet but I am really hurt by this. i don’t care that it is with a guy he’ll probly never meet. If he is talking to men on line sooner or later he’ll met somebody local and fuck them and i’m mad that he gave the guy his e-mail when he knows that i have his pass word and could go into his mail and read it any time i want.

Dear HaCiC,

Ugh.  Seriously?

Ok….first off….I’m gonna go ahead and say what OTHERS are thinking but WON’T say….It’s “half the time”  not “have the time”.  ”Past”.  Not “Pass”.  ”Probably”.  Not “Probly”.  I won’t even bring up the smaller infractions.  Sorry to be The Grammar Bitch on you, but I’ve had a SHIT ASS DAY full of dirty snatch and FAKE ASS CRYING people that act like they give a shit about someone they ALL talked shit about mere months ago and THIS email put me over the proverbial edge, my friend.  You’re welcome.

And REALLY???  You need someone else to help you with this?  One of TWO things is happening with this whole bullshit scenario….

a) He doesn’t GIVE a flying fuckity fuck that you found out, hence him letting you have his password and whatnot.

2) He thinks you are a complete IDIOT and wouldn’t find out.

I hope ya’ll are using condoms because if not, you are fixin’ to take a sorrowful trip down “Let’s Guess What STD I Have Today” Highway.  He will, if he already hasn’t, CHEAT ON  YOU!!!  SAY IT WITH ME!!!!  HE IS A FUCKING CHEATER!

I say call him on his shit.  Grow some fucking CAJONES (that’s “balls” in espanol….who KNEW I was bilingual!!) and get in his fucking face and CALL HIM ON HIS SHIT!

I don’t think you will do this.  Shit…he KNOWS you won’t do this.  Which is ALL THE MORE REASON TO GET IN HIS FUCKING FACE AND BREAK BAD ON HIM!!!

If you choose not to, I say take a Sharpie marker and draw faces on his balls.  Then, when he asks why ON EARTH YOU WOULD DO SUCH a THING, you can reply, “Well since I’ve been letting SYBIL fuck me in the pooper for the last few years, I just wanted to get to know the multiple fucking shithead personalities, up close and personal, when your balls are smacking against my stomach.  Carry on.”

Idiot fucking porn surfin’ cheatin’ motherfucker.  Him…not you.

Bitter til the very end,

Elle

Lola says: …I don’t understand. Read that to me again. (Dirk reads it to her again) What’s “cyber-sex”? (Dirk explains) You’ve got to be shittin’ me! You mean to tell me some gay guy types “I’m gonna stick my pecker in your asshole” and the other gay guy gets hard over that? Je-SUS. I’ve heard of it all now. The first thing this guy needs to do is throw out that fucking computer. God only knows what nasty shit that other quuer’s gotten all over it. (Laughing) God-damn! Typing shit to make yourself cum. I never heard of such bullshit in my life.

Dirk: It’s mental stimulation…

Lola: It’s mental all right. Is that what you and Tristan do? “I wanna take my pecker and stick in your mouth?” Tell that guy to dump that computer nut and go get a real man. Go to a gay meeting or something. Maybe he can meet that other guy whose husband or boyfriend or whatever he is that was cheating. But if they get together, they need to get rid of the computers. Those goddamn things are nothing but trouble. That typing gay guy is gonna mess around and talk to that guy on “To Catch a Predator” and then he’ll be getting screwed in the ass in prison and he won’t have to type about it no more.

* * * * *

And so as Gay History Month comes to a close, so does this series of posts. A huge, huge, HUGE thank you to the immensely talented and funny as hell Elle for her participation in this as well as to Lola for…well, for being Lola. And a big thank you to everyone who sent in  questions — these ladies would be nothing without your problems.

Have a great weekend everybody!

As most of you know by this point, what with October being Gay History Month and all, I decided to enlist the aid of two of the most opinionated women I know –  the crazy ass Elle the Pirate of Belle et la Brewski and my insane mother Lola — to share their hearts and their wisdom with my people. Being longtime giver goddesses, they both said yes and from all appearances they are a hit. As previously noted, Elle’s comments are courtesy of the interwebz (hey, we live half a country apart people — we ain’t coffee klatching it after work every day, sharing girl talk and giggling about boys we think are cute!) while Lola’s responses are tape recorded and then transcribed by yours truly as a soon to be gone pesky cataract has made reading damn near impossible (she holds one hand over her left eye while attempting to read — a condition which further complicates her hunt and peck typing style). Please note that while I love them both dearly, neither one is a licensed professional nor should their advice be taken as either sound or good. In other words, this is purely for entertainment purposes. Don’t follow their advice. Always consult a doctor before embarking on any diet regimen. Don’t drink and drive. Neither a borrower nor a lender be. Yellow’s mellow, but brown goes down. Now, with those disclaimers out of the way, let’s get rolling…

Dear Elle and Lola,

For years my boyfriend was told by his previous partners how ugly and unappealing he was. As a result he developed a very negative self-image and horrible self-esteem. Over the 5 years we’ve been together I’ve made a point of telling him every day how beautiful he is inside and out. The problem is after years of positive affirmations, he took everything I said and went out and had several one night stands with anonymous men as well as a few of our friends.

Elle and Lola, I am emotionally devastated. I love this man and have built a life with him but now the sight of him reduces me to tears. I can’t eat, I can’t concentrate at work, all I can think about is how he has betrayed me. I don’t want to throw away 5 years but I don;t think I can ever fully commit to him again. What should I do?

Sleeping single in the guest room double bed

Dear SSITGRDB,

What the….? Are you serious? SUCK IT UP, SOLDIER! I don’t give a fuck if your man is Brad Pitt (yum, by the way) or Quasifuckingmodo……listen to ME.

He.

Cheated.

Numerous times.

That’s complete and utter bullshit and JESUS backs me up on this! Trust me! We talk. A lot.

That makes him UGLY on the fucking INFUCKINGSIDE and I want to punch him in the throat. Can you tell I’m bitter???? No???? Let me elabofuckingrate.

People who take your love, roll it into a fucking ball, and toss it off a fucking bridge into the River of Hate are no good. At all. I don’t GET that shit. If you’re NOT happy in the relationship you are in, given WHATEVERFUCKING reason…..LEAVE. There is NO need to get sneaky and fuck around and suck a strange dick and let them put it in your no-no hole why their LOYAL significant OTHER is clueless….at home….baking a fucking cake. Pack your shit. Get the fuck out. Go be a man-whore. Make that your life. But do NOT stay in a relationship and kill the very SPIRIT of the person who is backing you up, 24-7-365.

God, I’m all riled the fuck up on this because it seems like you are the one that needs a little LOVE and to have someone tell YOU that you are worth so much MORE than who you are right now.

Fuck that bastard.

And punch him in his ugly face on the way out the door. Fucking dirty herpes dick sucking hunchback pimply back havin’ cockmunching son of a bitch.

Oh….and you are a Super SUPER motherfucking man. Jot THAT down.

Totally high-fivin’ your dick,

Elle

Lola says: … First of all you shouldn’t have praised him and give him a big head. Men eat that shit up. Second of all, throw his ass out; that’ll straighten his ass up. He thinks he’s got a sure deal and you told him he’s handsome so now he thinks he can go lay up with anything with a dick. Sorry for you, my friend. I’d tell him my asshole was closed for business. Ain’t no man gonna go out chewing on strange peckers and then bring home crabs or some other shit to me. This guy don’t know what’s up them buttholes. Dump that fucker’s ass. There are other fish in the sea. And dicks, too! Surely he can find something better to tie up with. They’re plentiful as hell — everybody’s going gay on the tv. That guy must be a real damn man to sit around and whine until he builds up some stamina and then go knocking on every door he can stick a dick in. Put his shit on the curb and call for extra pick-up.

* * * * * *

Dear Elle and Lola,

I’m a 47-year-old lesbian who recently started dating a much younger woman (she’s 24) over the summer. We met at a gay marriage rally, went for a drink afterwards, and were in bed before the night was over. Ever heard the old joke what does a lesbian drive on her second date? A U-haul. Well, it’s true. After 2 weeks of constant togetherness, she moved in with me and it’s been pure heaven ever since.

The problem is the holidays are coming up and my son and his fiance will be coming to visit and I haven’t told him about this much younger woman who also happens to be a much younger woman he dated back in high school. My girlfriend says it’s no big deal, he’s engaged to be married so he’s clearly moved on but I think it might be awkward when he realizes that his mother is sleeping with the same girl he did (and yes, my girlfriend has confirmed they had a sexual relationship).

How should I handle this? I love this girl but my son is my life. Help!

Never happier, never more worried

Dear NHNMW,

SWEET!!!!!! Not only are you a LESBIAN but you’re a COUGAR LESBIAN!!! CAN I GET A WHAT WHAT????? Raise the ROOF, bitch!!! THAT’S AWESOME!

I think your son will be fine with it all. Totally. And if he isn’t, just send him to his old room for a good ol’ fashioned TIME OUT!! You are STILL HIS MOTHER, DAMMIT! I don’t care whose vagina you are bumpin’.

And really??? SERIOUSLY?? He’s got a fiance (say it like Holly Hunter in Raising Arizona….FY-ANCE) and he shouldn’t be worried about who YOU are lickin’ nowadays. We all have needs and yours just happens to be some hot young piece of ass he USED to date less than ten years ago. No big deal, right?

(Work with me HERE…)

And if all else fails, just lie and say she is his ex-girlfriend’s LONG LOST TWIN SISTER that he never knew about because she was given up at birth because she had a cleft palate and was sent to a third world country so she could get surgery for FREE because her parents didn’t have insurance and was then adopted by none other than Madonna!!!

It just might work!!!

Let me know!!

Totally jealous that you have a younger woman,

Elle

Lola says: …First of all, she’s a crazy bitch. Second of all, her son should have her ass committed. There is more to life that licking a goddamn ol’ pussy. If they want to be licking on something, why don’t they get a nice ice cream cone? Jesus. The more I hear about these women the more the make the rest of us look like sludgerats. People haven’t got no damn sense. I could just see if I was a gay ol’woman and you walked in on me with my nose buried in some ol’ fur patch. Jesus! I think that young girl needs to go back home to her mother and get some training — real training, not lesbian training — about how to act like a fucking lady. One night and you’re in bed together! That is so dumb. God forbid don’t let that 47-year-old lesbian get a dog! Oh don’t put that down — don’t give the damn pig any more ideas!

(Later that evening I received a call)

Lola: I been thinking about that old lesbian with the young girl and I say just tell the son that she’s robbing the cradle and it was one in his nursery. Nearly 50-years-old and got some little wet behind the ears bitch licking her pussy! No wonder these damn girls’ teeth are rotten. That young one must be homeless and she’s eating pussy to have a roof over her head. Either that or she’s still hung up on that son and she’s trying to get close to him again but I hate to tell the damn silly bitch that eating his mother’s pussy ain’t the way to do it. *Sighs* 47-years-old…when do these damn nasty woman quit with that sex shit? Here I have to suffer with this arthritis and she’s getting her snatch eat out…

* * * * * *

Dear Elle and Lola,

My boyfriend and I have been together for 6 years, living together for 4. He’s a good man who treats me with respect, works hard, will do anything to help our friends and family, and is fantastic in bed. I dearly love him except for one bad habit: instead of going to the bathroom to answer nature’s call he uses the kitchen sink as a urinal if he’s cooking or grabbing a snack. Every time I call him out on this, he tells me that urine is sterile when it comes out of the body and he rinses the sink afterwards so it’s no big deal. I disagree. I think it is unsanitary and just plain disgusting. What do you think? Am I over-reacting? If I’m not, what can I do to help change this behavior?

At The End of My Rope
 

Dear ATEOMR,

Yuck.  Does he eat his own scabs too??  Sicko.

Before I get called out on this, I’m just gonna go ahead and throw my SELF under the bus and save someone else the trouble.  I, too, have peed in some strange places.  The first that comes to mind was quite recently and it was when Princess was here and we were sitting out back, drinking beer and talking mad shit about STUPID MEN and stuff and mid sentence, I got up….walked 10 feet to the dirt in my backyard, turned back around to face her, lifted up my sundress, squatted down and peed about 2 gallons of hot frothy urine. All the while, I was saying, “Giirrrrrrrllll, I can’t BELIEVE he did that shit and it just pissed me off DON’T LOOK AT MY PACHINA and does he even know who he is DEALING WITH?”  

She didn’t even flinch.

Then there was the (numerous) time I have peed in the bathroom sink.  The main reason I do this is because my CHILDREN like to fuck with me and sit on the toilet, long after they are done peeing and I am dancing around like, “COME ON I GOTTA GO” and they giggle and say, “I’m POOPING MOM!  GO UPSTAIRS” and um HELLO??  I don’t give a shit that there are THREE toilets in this house, I’m a SINGLE MOTHER and I’ve given birth TWICE out of my vagina and it HURT and my bladder doesn’t work all that well anymore (just ask anyone who has had the unfortunate opportunity to be on a trampoline with me) and CLIMBING stairs while URINE is pounding on my bladder is NOT a good idea.  But it only happened a few times and I totally felt bad about it for like….an hour.

That being said, here is what I think you should do….

-Make a nice big crockpot full of chili.  Yum!!

-Go into the bathroom.

-Thoroughly clean the toilet.  I’m talking bleach and Scrubbing Bubbles and Comet.

-Once it’s sparkling clean, take a nice long piss in said toilet bowl.

-Pour your AWESOME CHILI into the toilet.

-Hang a metal ladle on the side of the bowl.  Set some chili bowls on the sink.

-When your man asks “What’s for dinner, honey!!?” direct him to the bathroom.

When he starts to pitch a fit about OH EM GEE I’M NOT EATING OUT OF THE TOILET just look at him and say, “It’s ok, dear.  I peed in there first.  It’s completely sterile.”

Problem solved.

Love me some chili,

Elle

Lola says: …he is not over-reacting. Put that dumb son-of-a-bitch out the door and let him piss in the street. And throw the pots and pans out after him — God only knows what he did to those. That gay guy’s gonna end up in the hospital with e-coli from that urine gravy on piss chicken. Does this guy shit in the sink, too? That might not be chocolate pudding that stupid son-of-a-bitch is putting in front of him. How in the hell do you love somebody who pisses in the fucking sink? That’s not a love affair, that’s pure filth. God-damn.

And so ends another installment of Dear Elle and Lola. Tune in next Friday for what I hope proves to be an epic conclusion to the series. And if you haven’t done so already, there’s still time to ask these ladies for their help with your most pressing gay dilemmas. Send your questions and queeries (hee hee) to dirk.mancuso@gmail.com and be sure to include “Dear Elle and Lola” in the subject line. Deadline for submissals is October 28.

A Geneva, Illinois teacher was given a warning letter for offensive remarks made in class.  According to published reports, while talking about the National Endowment for the Arts the teacher said “‘How would you feel about your tax dollars going to pay some black fag in New York to take pictures of other black fags?”

A warning letter.

Seriously?

According to the report, the teacher in questions earned over $100, 000 last year. 

It’s good to know that the city of Lake Geneva supports the use of racial and homophobic slurs. Too bad he used the word “black” — maybe they’d have given him a raise if he’d used the n-word.

In honor of Gay History Month, I turned to two of the most opinionated women I know — Elle the Pirate of Belle et la Brewski and my insane mother — and asked them if they would share their hearts and their wisdom with my people. As luck would have it, they both agreed. Elle’s comments are courtesy of the interwebz while Lola’s responses are tape recorded and then transcribed by yours truly as a cataract makes reading difficult (she holds one hand over her left eye while reading — a condition which further complicates her hunt and peck typing style). Please note that while I love them both dearly, neither one is a licensed professional nor should their advice be taken as either sound or good. In other words, this is purely for entertainment purposes. Don’t try this at home. Never shake a baby. Don’t drink and drive. We’re all the same size laying down. Now, with those disclaimers out of the way, let’s get rolling…

Dear S in S,

Really?????  Like a giant zucchini?????  Dammit, you gay men have ALL the luck.

Seriously though….I say do the whole “Sneak Attack” thing.  Lord KNOWS that one has worked on ME quite a few times over the years.  One second I’m bending over picking up a rogue strand of tinsel and the next second, I have a penis in my ass.  

Works every time.

Takin’ one in the pooper for the team,

Elle

Lola: You ought to be stretched out if you are that goddamn dumb. Why do you men want to stick your dicks up another man’s ass? What do you think you are going to feel like later in life? I’ll tell you: RUINED. His asshole is going to be all stretched out and won’t close right and he’ll leak shit and have to wear a diaper. I worked with a woman whose husband used her asshole and she’d shit herself if she got to laughing too hard. Jesus Christ, if you have to stick that nasty fucking thing somewhere, stick it in your mouth, but don’t swallow that old nasty shit that comes out. I’ll tell you one thing: he wouldn’t be riding me like that in the first place. He needs to find a guy with a smaller pecker. That isn’t healthy.

*  *  *  *  * 

Dear Elle and Lola,

I’m a 57 year-old lesbian in a 27 year partnership. We are still very affectionate as far as hugging and kissing go but after 26 years of amazing sex, we have finally experienced Lesbian Bed Death. I am still very sexual woman and we have only had sex twice in the last year and a half which I find unacceptable. As a woman of a certain age, can you offer any suggestions that might help get my wife in the mood again? What gets you in the mood? I’m open to experimentation and anything that will get her sweet honey flowing for me once again.

Down But Not Licked Yet

Dear DBNLY,
WTF????  TWICE????  IN A FUCKING YEAR????  I just shed a fucking TEAR for you.  I have sex TWICE in a day. Albeit, it’s with MYSELF but STILL.  Ok….here’s the deal. You need to get some whipped cream, chocolate syrup, sprinkles, some fucking cherries and you need to make yourself a fucking ice cream sundae and eat the hell outta that bitch.  Then pack her=2 0shit and send her on her way because the DAY that MY PARTNER doesn’t want to LOVE ON MY LADY GARDEN is the day that I start whoring myself out for some oral.  That is complete and utter bullshit.

And what gets me in the mood?  That’s easy.  A 30 pack of Keystone Light and a man that makes homemade chicken wings.  You bring that shit to the table and I’ll ride you all night like fucking Seabiscuit.  Jot that shit down.

Somebody lick me, 

Elle

Lola: Sex once is one time too many for me, especially if it’s with another woman. I bet her old lips are chapped from licking that pussy. I gave it up permanently at 60. Damn. Get a life. I don’t blame that other lesbian — I’d smack her hand if she even grazed my pussy. At their age they ought to cleaning house and doing laundry and watching PRICE IS RIGHT. When are these lesbians gonna get that old twat lickin’ off their minds? Don’t nothing get me in the mood — it was always a “have to” case for me. Hell, if she really loves that other lesbian she ought to just tell her she’s going to the candy store and get a lick elsewhere. No, don’t tell her that — I don’t need no pissed off lesbian at my door because I told her girlfriend got some stray. What they both need to do is forget their pussies and read some nice Amish books.

* * * * * 

Dear Elle and Lola,

OK here’s my question…

I have recently started looking into beginning a Master/slave relationship.  How can I judge the quality slaves from the inferior ones that are really just wanting to be told what to do in bed? And should I start with just one slave or go ahead and get a whole harem?

Sincerely,

No more -bater for this master

Dear NMBFTM,

I say get yourself a harem of them there bitches.  I don’t know about YOU but once I start ordering people around and stuff, it’s kind of ADDICTING and you are just gonna wanna have ten or so in the long run so just jump the fuck right in.

Quality slaves have tramp stamp tattoos and they drink Coors Light.  Oh…wait….that ain’t right.  Um….quality slaves have GREAT pedicures.  OH OH!!  Quality slaves have fake boobies!!!!!  And they burp a lot.  Swear.  I read it in like, Quality Slaves for Dummies or something.  Thank me later!

Smack me once and call me your bitch,

Elle

Lola: …I don’t understand this question

(Dirk  explains Master/slave dynamic)

Lola: Why would you get a whole harem of men and beat on ‘em? This whole goddamn world has gone to hell in a fuckin’ handcart. Damn, what a bunch of kooks. Is that man nuts? He’d smack me once and that son-of-a-bitch would play hell drawing his next breath. What does he want a woman to beat on for?

Dirk: It’s 2 men. No woman.

Lola: Jesus Christ. When I was a kid gay meant happy. If you’re gay you ought to love on one another. I could just see you on all fours and Tristan beating on you. He pulls that shit, he’ll have me to answer to. I don’t understand wanting to beat on somebody you live with. You know you have to go to sleep some time and that slave or whatever is going to kick your ass and you’ve got it coming. Goddamn squirrelly men.

* * * * *

That’s it for this week, folks. Tune in next Friday for more of your letters. And if you haven’t done so already, there’s still time to ask these ladies for their help with your most pressing problems. Send your questions and queeries to dirk.mancuso@gmail.com and be sure to include “Dear Elle and Lola” in the subject line.

After the housekeeping witnessed fuck session (followed by a trip to The Disney Store and dinner at Bennigan’s), The Fella and I settled in early for the evening so as to get a good night’s sleep for the awe and wonder of (no longer) teen pop star Debbie Gibson the next day.

All night long I tossed and turned, like a child waiting for Santa. As The Fella gently snored, I watched the clock, counting down the minutes until we could get our big gay on and hit Halsted Street.

I was in the shower at 7 am sharp, dressed by 7:20, and shaking Tristan awake at 7:21. He stared at me through one half open eye.

“You do realize she doesn’t perform until 2:30, right?” he asked between yawns.

“Yes, but Tristaaaaaaaaaan,” I explained ever so slowly since he was obviously still in the throes of slumber and not thinking clealry, “it’s Debbie Gibson.  There will crowds, possibly even traffic jams. Debbie.”

He sighed and padded off to the shower.

One quick train ride later — unlike a certain other ‘mo, The Fella is a master of the mass transit system — we found ourselves in Boystown, epicenter of Pride 2009. As if the gaily (hee hee) colored banners and balloons festooned Halsted Street weren’t enough to assure us that we were nearing our date with Deb-stiny, the banners confirmed it:

I could barely contain myself. Debbie Gibson! (Forget that Deborah shit — she’s always gonna be Debbie to me.)

Since the songstress extraordinaire wasn’t due to perform until 2:30, we took advantage of the 3 hour wait time (I was NOT going to risk missing the genius behind ELECTRIC YOUTH!) and strolled about the street festival, taking in the sights. There were skewered lamb kabobs laying in the 90+ degree heat, a gay cheerleading squad, one of the pushiest HRC reps that I’ve ever seen (when I am looking for my boyfriend in a teeming throng of hot, sweaty gay mens, do NOT ask me if I need his permission to make a donation to a worthwhile cause, m’kay?), and a veritable shitload of saucy window displays celebrating our shared ‘mo-ness.

Seriously, who doesn’t love a genital-free three-way?

But even as The Fella and I meandered about enjoying the chance to just be us, in the back of my mind was one persistent thought: Debbie Gibson….Debbie Gibson…Debbie Gibson.

And as befitting any venue sporting Grade A talent such as my beloved Ms. Gibson, no expenses were spared.

Classy, right? (For the record, though, I must admit that the sights outside…

…were much better than those inside.)

After a quick lunch at a quaint little place I once dined at when I dated a certain older gentleman, it was off to the North Stage where I forced a path to the front of the stage and endured an hour of female drag queens (kings?).

By 2:20, there was a crowd of literally hundreds of tens, all salivating to shake their love with the pop princess of the 80’s.

I turned to The Fella. “Are you goose-bumping? ‘Cause I am SO goose-bumping,” I squealed, balled up fists making small circles in the air on either side of my jowls.

A moment later, the final drag king exited the stage and the emcee came out. I was thisclose to pissing myself in 90 degree plus weather and then standing there in my own filth. Debbie Gibson was about to perform!

But instead of introducing the greatest singer to ever write, produce, and record an album in her parents’ garage, he began announcing a change in the line-up. What? Huh? First syllable, sounds like…

It seemed that Thelma Houston had a family emergency, necessitating her needing to leave earlier than expected and ever the consummate professional, Debbie had agreed to switch slots with her and would instead be performing at 4:30.

Fuck.

Me.

Hard.

I felt as though I had been kicked in the ‘nads.

And as Thelma Who-ston — a.k.a. Big Bird — took the stage, I felt my Debbie Gibson dream slipping away…

TO BE CONCLUDED

Since neither of us had ever attended a Pride event (but mostly because my beloved Debbie Gibson was performing), The Fella and I decided it was high time we joined our fellow faggots in a celebration of all things super-gay. So he made the arrangements and it was off to the big gay city for a weekend of frilly fun and frou-frou frolicking.

Now one of the weirdest things I’ve discovered about The Fella and I as a couple is that whenever we stay in a hotel, we get horny. Exceptionally horny. The kind of horny where the second we get to our room we fuck for an hour until we collapse in a hot sweaty heap followed by a foray to the nearest restaurant to appease our ravenous appetites before we go back to the hotel and fuck some more.

The only problem was that when we went into this particular room, I thought the ten ton door had slammed shut on its own.

It hadn’t.

No, our door was equipped with one of those big brass security guard things and when we entered, the arm somehow flipped open and prevented the door from closing.

Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t be such a big deal.

But again, we were big with the horny and before you could say blow-job, our clothes were hanging off the lamp shade and we were going at it pretty fast and furious, each of us unable to get enough of the other. I can’t be sure how much time had passed or how many of the various sexual positions we’d sampled when it happened.

There we were, Tristan flat on his back and me ridin’ cowboy on his seven and half inches when housekeeping passed by, and seeing the door ajar, opened it to see what — if anything — was amiss.

“Fuck!” The Fella hissed.

“Mmm-hmmm,” I replied, eyes closed and not missing a beat.

“Dirk.” His voice took on a more insistent air, his finger jabbing my chest.

I opened my eyes and turned to follow his wide eyed gaze to the member of housekeeping frozen in place at the foot of the bed. Suffice it to say, I think that poor woman is probably still traumatized (not to mention snow-blind) from the sight of my fish belly white backside grinding away on my uber hawt boyfriend’s member. I paused for a moment, not sure if I should or even could pull off The Fella’s turgid pole.

“Oh…oh…sorry…,” the woman mumbled, supressing a smile as she lowered her eyes and quickly spun on her heel and fled. Seconds later, we heard the click of the door shutting behind her.

Alone once more, we both finished — the interruption seemed only to increase our horniness, a troubling development to be delved into another time —  amidst a gale of laughter. And while the orgasm was definitely amongst our most memorable, the remainder of the day was tainted by a the fear that management would ask us to leave the second they saw us passing the front desk.

But that was all forgotten after the earth shattering events of the following day…

TO BE CONTINUED

Lola: Did you see where the government is talking about letting the queers from other countries stay over here if they have already been with another queer for a while?
Dirk: You mean partnered.
Lola: Is that what your kind calls it?
Dirk (rolling eyes): Yes, mom. But don’t tell anyone, okay — we’re trying to keep the phrase hush-hush so that  you breeders don’t start using it.
Lola (pursing lips to express her displeasure): Anyway, they’re going to let that Filipino lezzie stay here with her girlfriend ’cause they’ve been together so long. The Filipinos are nice people and really pretty, too.
Dirk: …
Lola: What? They are. I say let the foreign queers stay as long as they aren’t from a dirty country. You know who else is pretty? The Swedes.
Dirk: …
Lola: They are. Now just imagine if Tristan had a Swedish boyfriend and the government wouldn’t let him stay.
Dirk: I’d be pretty pissed off. Tristan is my boyfriend — why is he dating a Swede?
Lola: Jesus Christ! Would you stop with that “boyfriend” bullshit?! That sounds so stupid…
Dirk: Unless someone’s dating a Swede in need of a green card?
Lola: Oh shut up! Just go put on your yellow coat and dance around like a fairy so everybody knows you suck dick.* Jesus Christ.

__________

*For full effect of this  statement, extend pinkie and simulate limp wrist in an approximation of the universal sign of total faggotry.

Over the weekend, I bought an adorable yellow hoodie at Old Navy.

Lola’s response?

“Jesus Christ — do you have to advertise you suck dick?”