How to do the wrong thing right
How in tarnation is June here already, with another stultifying Summer of Trump virulently upon us? Barely is Memorial Day in our rearview mirror, yet my synapses are so sizzle-fried it’s near but impossible to recall what a Trump-free summer actually felt like. Surely a century’s worth of Junes have now come and gone since Our Orange Oracle first descended that gaudy escalator to paid actors’ dead applause, with Melania wearing her impeccable zombie perma-grin, the only message extracted from the whole Grand Guignol farce being, “Damn, but that trophy wife’s sure on some wicked sweet meds.” I vaguely recall June as once being a month of sunshine-seeking pleasures: baseball games, bridal ceremonies, cocaine-white sand on the beach, boating, bicycling and blackberry cobblers… you remember, kisses-on-rainbows stuff, rather than this insane deluge of daily tweets we’re force-fed now.
Well, we will survive this summer’s latest lunacy, irrespective of being unable to comprehend why some bellicose, media-fake kumquat’s scorching vortex of devolved madness swirls constantly about us (like trying to fathom how Sarah Huckabee Sanders is possibly straight). Meanwhile, here you go, girlz, I’m tossing this hissing potboiler to you. Let’s get kissingly right to it.
Dear Howard: I’ve been seeing an “interesting” girl about once a week for almost six weeks. She’s what one would politely call “out there” but in a kooky, fun way. She lives in a quirky treehouse she constructed herself—stained glass windows, dreamcatchers, quartz geodes. You know the kind — everyone’s seen this crystal-gazer/soothsayer chick one time or another. Initially, I met her on, basically, a “straight” site, but after a couple days texting back and forth she sent me a lavender smiley face, acknowledging she could be convinced to possibly hang in the lady-pond, and we had our first date that very night at a romantic Italian place. Truthfully, we hit it off great. But every date since has been a repeat of exactly the same — just hugs and a goodnight kiss afterwards. There’s no — how should I phrase it? — progression. What’s going on here, man? Is she just breadcrumbing me; or, maybe she really is straight, and just needs a good trustworthy friend? — Dee Cassy Haine
Dear Daisy Chain: Allow me to nudge you a good way out on Howard’s trustful limb of mercenary enlightenment: I’m not even going to ask who paid for those six pasta dinners on your dates with Lady Sibyl of Delphi, ’cause we both know Sibyl doesn’t go Dutch — not when it’s a fellow Cassandra winking to her across the table playing footsies with her intuitive dreamcatcher. You’re an intelligent woman, Dee, so I’ll just give you this “stumper” to awl all on your own. Any heterosexual tree-hugger advertising herself as possibly capable of being “convinced” to hang about the lady-pond only beggars Howard’s clearcutting question: What exactly seals your “fun kook’s” convincing? Seven spaghetti dinners, a six-pack of Schlitz shared atop sleeping bags in Big Bend National Park or you taping stacks of “solids” across the headboard in Sibyl’s sequoia? Honey, it doesn’t require too much augur clairvoyance to sawdust an easy-marked “rain” tree.
Dear Howard: My freshman roommate’s ability to decode gay app-speak is atrocious. He’s so bad that I, a lesbian who’s never touched male genitalia, have to guide him. Fortunately, most of these horndawgs lob obvious quicksand grenades (“I’ve lots of positive energy to offer,” “I promise you a night you’ll remember the rest of your life”) so I’ve taught him now to steer clear of them. Unfortunately, my boy has just no street smarts. While tokin’ the other night, “Lyle” exhaled slowly, “Beeyotch, how do you even know all this penis-plumbing, stealth stuff anyway?” Adjusting the tweezers, I told him, “You twisted Hershey hos only think you’ve cornered the perv market.” He snapped his retaliation fingers fiercely: “Girl, with enough hits, anything fits!” Passing back the roach clip, I shrugged, “The heck you say! But not even felching can hold a candle to rainbow kissing.” Lyle pawed for the nearest laptop. “Does a dash go between rainbow and kiss?” I shook my head. “Google ain’t gonna give you nothin’ but the cookies-and-milk version.” Leaning forward, separating out seeds on top of Dallas Voice, I brightly mentioned, “’Course, you could always ask Howard: He might spill the beans to you straight; assuming he can sanitize the definition enough for public consumption.” So, you wanna give it a whirl, Howie? Tell my boy what a real rainbow kiss is. The disco floor’s all yours. — Shelli Styx
Dear Sister Stick It: Well, hell’s bells, Shell! First, I’d like to thank you for the Lesbyterian vote of confidence. My readers aroused by uteruses are too few and far between as it is. Second, what the twisted fuck are you truants smokin’? Is there any sober reason behind asking this question? Shelli, you know perfectly well that nothing repulses gay men faster than imagery of “the crimson tide” (hint: we ain’t talkin’ Alabama football here, Lyle).
You’re playing with matches here, madam. The PR chasm bonding together gays and lesbians teeters but on a bridge near collapse from clichés and stereotypes about one another: lesbians are aghast at gays’ flibbertigibbet sexual predilection to always opt for superficial quantity over quality; meanwhile, gay men are mystified as to why lesbians share exactly the same personality traits of militantly sour, skulking and secretive natures. Yet here you go, setting the river beneath us all on fire. My bois are absolutely gonna lose their lunch when I inform them what a rainbow kiss is. No doubt that was your scurrilous intent — but to what end? Just so that you and your fellow long-haul truckers can gather around Diesel Dot’s homemade smoker, gnawing endangered alligator-gar jerky while pouring baked beans down your gullets by the gallon to guffaw mercilessly at the havoc you have wreaked? Shelli-belly, your question serves zero justice toward developing harmony within our community; nevertheless, you just couldn’t resist testing whether my kahunas are big enough to reveal what a rainbow kiss is.
Well, hitch up your overalls. Meanwhile, men, toss back a stiff snort of Wild Turkey … wild enough, at least, to dull the imagery of what Howard is about to explain. Ready or not, three… two… one: A rainbow kiss is the confluence of a menstrual cycle, mixed with semen, that’s “fed” back. The sperm provider is usually exiled (his usefulness over) so that the two lovers can enjoy sharing what required them endure an aroused naked man in their bedroom at all. (Hope you weren’t in mid-luncheon bite, folks, whilst devouring this deliciousness… as it’s only the version my editor would allow.) Yes, for anyone with interest still piqued, there’s bloody well more, though I, for one, cannot continue for reasons of propriety (even for me!). So, thank you, Ms. Styx, for ensuring the harmony needle stays continually in-the-red-warning zone. I’ll even toast you a sendoff via that infamous quote from gorgeously slutty Julie Christie’s (Oscar-winning!) mod ’60s Carnaby Street goodtime-girl in Darling: “Kisses, kisses, terribly, terribly!”
— Howard Lewis Russell
Do you have a question — about etiquette, love, life or work — that needs a special spin from Howard? Send your problem to AskHoward@DallasVoice.com and he may answer it.
