Warped at both ends

We’ll get to the juicy stuff shortly, but first, some “Fun Facts of June”! Did you know that no other month of the year ever begins on the same day of the week as June does? June stakes claim to two of the most fragrant birth flowers — roses and honeysuckle — and three separate birthstones — pearls, alexandrite and moonstone. And June’s full moon is the only full moon of the year to be given a name: The Strawberry Moon! Upon this note, my sweethearts of summer, let’s get all warped buttholes and boiled brains right to it, shall we?

Dear Howard: As an ardent, lifelong member of the BDSM community, on the first Saturday of every month, I always hook up with my posse of fellow buds to enjoy an all-night, marathon handball (ahem) expansion of our horizons. Could you clarify the difference for us, please, between anal rejuvenation and rectal prolapse surgery? — American Beauty Rose

Dear Rosebud: Suffering a smidge of rectum collapse, are we? The perineum — or as it’s known in Gayville, the taint because ’taint neither your butthole nor your vajayjay — is the space between your anus and your testicles (or vagina). Its purpose is to support your reproductive organs and your pelvic floor.

Rectal prolapse occurs when the perineum buckles under too much overuse and pressure — say, for instance, when being gut-punched simultaneously by two separate fists. Hence, the end of your colon starts to slide out of your anus, turning it inside out, to produce that gold-medal accomplishment of all FF aficionados, the blooming rosebud. Eventually, as you age, and with enough repeat performances, your rosebud will stay in bloom forever, thus necessitating rectal prolapse surgery.

On the other hand (pun intended) procedures of anal rejuvenation are each individually-tailored specialty ops, their obvious goal being to repair any abnormalities (such as, and including, a prolapsed rectum) and restore your anal region to a passable facsimile of its original, virginally-gleaming format.

Rectal prolapse surgery (rectopexy) isn’t a medical emergency; nonetheless, fecal incontinence — the inability to hold in one’s own gas and poop — is the most common complaint of those whose rectal tissue bulges out their anus.

OK, kidz, moving on up our medical trotline here, Howard will helpfully unfurl you a defense initiative, should ever you encounter that vermillion-red flag of the mentally maniacal: Extortion. Of which I’ll share with you a textbook example from my own personal archives:
In high-rise living, mutual respect organically arises from the neighborly necessity of living up-close-and-personal amidst strangers whom you’re obligated to be civil towards, like them or not.

For example, never once have I quibbled about the gaudy strings of totally illegal holiday lights kept ablaze all the yearlong through on the balcony directly beneath me. Heck, it’s just Christmas cheer in June, after all; hardly cause for a nuclear showdown with a fellow tenant (flagrantly skirting condo bylaws though she may be).

But her own Luciferian tongue lashings, whipped mercilessly upon me for performing triage on my balcony plants via a watering pail, will one day, I fear, summon forth the very hounds of Hades for my head on a trident! The River Cocytus itself inspires less fear than an accidental droplet of the Trinity River’s H2O spilt upon Lady Vitriol’s flying-reindeer fiefdom below. Invariably, no matter when I’m watering my balcony plants, Lady V’s windows have always been just freshly washed: “Now, Howard, just look what you’ve gone and done to me again! You are the ruination of my life! Nobody should treat a nice neighbor the way I get treated by you! Over, and over again, you go out of your way to destroy everything I hold dear to my heart — me down on my knees pleading with you, please, just stop, stop, STOP?!!!”

I mean, from what hambone school of theatrics does one even pick up such thespian shit? Always, I’m left shaking my head, pondering, whatever must she do when it rains? Sue God?

Although no doubt a good racket while it lasted, Lady Vitriol ultimately overplayed her hand. Apparently, she must have been truant that day from The School of Hard Knocks when they taught lesson number 1-A: “Honey, you don’t never, ever fuck over the gays, ’cause, gurl, you will always lose!”

Her jig went down like this: Late one evening there came a jolting, post-nine o’clock knock at my kitchen door and there swayed Lady Vitriol, her trademark “Lucy-in-the-Sky-with-Diamonds” eyes spiraling about, kaleidoscopic, as she proceeded to berate an invitation at me I could hardly refuse: “Howard, put on some clothes and come downstairs!” The ringlets of her Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? hair extensions practically danced as she added, exultantly purring, “I’ve got something I want to show you! Now, don’t you keep me waiting long!”

Reluctantly, pulling on some sweats and a tee, I tiptoed the one flight down our fire EXIT stairs; Lady V’s door stood wide open. Within, I distinctly heard the laughter of houseguests, though not one word had she mentioned of a party. I began turning heel, but not quickly enough. Premeditation, as I newly discovered, is best served blazing: “This way, Howard!” shouted Lady V, flashing a grin The Joker would envy. “Over here, by the window!”

And within a microsecond flat, all camouflage dropped and there I stood, surrounded, as she rocket-launched a scorched-earth blitzkrieg of humiliation-theater against me. Helpless before her and her accomplices, Lady V rabidly pursued chewing me a new one whilst pointing at her sparklingly-spotless windows: “See this, Howard, see what you’ve created again. And I just had these windows redone not two hours ago!”

Abruptly, her coven fell nervously mute. Backing toward the door, I snarled at her, “I’ll put your money in an envelope for you, per usual, sweetness, and place it down in your mailroom slot.” I made a run for it as she slammed her door.

Time to slay the dragon! Safely back upstairs again in the sanctity of my castle, I immediately penned an identically-worded note on four separate sheets of paper: “The next time you EVER extort money from me again, I am going to the police. Sincerely, Howard Russell.”
Short, sharp, and untouchable.

I then placed one copy under the manager’s door, gave one copy to our 24/7 lobby guard, put one copy in Lady V’s mail slot and taped the fourth at eye-level on the wall in between her floor’s elevators. One hardly expects any humility from a demon, but the civility resultant from having rendered Lady Vitriol’s forked tongue mute sufficed somewhat.

Usurping one’s extortionist using their own humiliation tactics against them is the only way I can think of to escape so slimy a crime. But never presume you’re immune to such entrapments as extortion, either. Trust me, you aren’t. Sooner or later, we all find ourselves forced to master the art of walking on eggshells amidst lunatics.

— Howard Lewis Russell

All are welcome to forward whatever squeamish questions, immoral concerns, or just anything it is you need to get off your tatted chest to AskHoward@dallasvoice.com.