Sex machines and true friendship
Ah, ode to joy, the holidaze are amongst us again! Yes, and isn’t it all just too faboo — peppermint bark, cellophane snow, pardoned turkeys, Pocahontas and pilgrims sipping pumpkin-pie-spiced lattes, candy canes the size of prosthetic limbs, cannabis-laced gingerbread nutcrackers! It is a season of such spiked derangement, one only wishes for a warm bath in which to drift away, enchantedly, into Santa-red, spruce-scented oblivion.
I’m sure the only thing anybody truly prays for during this season of lunatic giving is but to come out on the other side of Jan. 1 still capable of standing naked, unassisted atop the bathroom scales, exhaling a warning nod over towards sleeping, sweet baby Jesus in his manger: “OK, kid, understand me loud and clear. The first number I see had better damned well still be a fuckin’ 1! That’s all I’ve got to say to you!”
And, yes guys, on the heels now of several G-rated columns in a row (as you’ve so vociferously pointed out to me) what you desire most from Howard is certainly nothing you’d ever want your grandmother to catch you reading. So here we go, bois — exactly what you’ve been jonesing for, in all its pruriently-distilled, XXX-rated holiday punch. Let’s just get smuttily right to it, shall we?
Dear Howard: What’s the hottest-trending sex toy this year? I got me a brand spankin’ new wildcat boyfriend — more fun than any toy Santa ever left me under the tree — but he’s high-maintenance, you know? These new kids, the Gen Zeers, they don’t get into plain vanilla. Showin’ up with just a pack of condoms of and lube gets you laughed right out of the sling. So, what’s every playroom’s moonshot toy this year, Mister Howard?
— Everready Teddy
Dear Everhard: Well, seeing as how you asked me, why don’t we begin by filling-in some backstory. You see, kidz, first there came tornado rooms until the tornadoes never hit. So they all then got converted into “safe” rooms — safe against those nonexistent bands of marauding, hooligan thieves — until, finally, our love of imaginative fornicating replaced our fears of imaginary psychopaths, and the dungeon playroom was born, today’s modern dwelling being all but inconceivable without one.
You’ve already mentioned the now-requisite sling (including, assumedly, all its accessory necessities anticipatory of your company’s arrival). But if you ain’t got a butt-fuck machine yet, Mr. Everready, you ain’t got nothin’.
Bois, fuck machines are suddenly everywhere — small enough to fit in your backpack, or something capable of raping a mastodon. COVID’s burned out, the world’s in flames, and everything now behind closed doors is all about the gape. No self-respecting playroom, circa 2024, would dare look a leather dom in the face without offering a fuck machine of such myriad complexity as to render even the Antikythera Mechanism envious.
To the tune of a mere $999, Fort Troff’s latest technological marvel sets the new gold standard in automated penetration, promising an orgasmic nirvana of pumping power by which all other such mechanisms of your piggiest fantasies can only dream. All I can say is, thank God, it doesn’t cost a full grand, right?
That said, dear readers, Howard here is not employed to reveal for you the name of this latest, greatest piston-pumping fantasy fuck toy; hence, you’ll instead have to make do with but a few salivating highlights: Boasting water-loaded ballast tanks, this is the only fuck machine guaranteed to remain 100 percent bed-stable and scooch-free “even during the heaviest poundings,” incorporating 3-inch thrust capabilities, at 190 strokes per minute, replete with E-Z grip handles for solo play, multiple toe curlin’, hole boppin’ vibration patterns and turbo-torque rotation speeds.
Yeah, fuck paying the rent. Who needs that when you can just pay to screw your own self, over and over, eternally?!
Dear Howard: The scariest thing in my life happened the other day: I went by myself to a museum, and was asked if I’d like the senior discount. All of a sudden, like, I got dizzy. And then it hit me: OMG, I’m 60 friggin’ years old!
Where the hell did the time go? What am I doing all alone?
I’m about to retire. I’m financially solvent. I own my own business. I’m in good health, I’m attractive still (twinks on Grindr flock to me). But I’ve nobody I could call a real friend. And now, from out of nowhere, I’m suddenly eligible for the senior discount.
Where did everybody go? The friends I once knew? Somehow, they all just drifted away. I worked like a demon all my life to become successful, own a beautiful home, retire in comfort — and what has it gotten me?
Howard, I did everything right. How did my life turn so empty?
— Anonymous Aaron
Dear AA: OK, listen closely. Friendships take investment — personal, one-on-one, long-term investment. Friendships aren’t facilitated via Facebook. As a wizened old neighbor of mine when I lived in NYC sagely imparted to me, “Within any given lifetime, a man is lucky who can count on one hand all his true friends.”
Seldom before, or since, have I heard a truer statement.
The formula for maintaining and strengthening friendships isn’t brain surgery, bois. Nonetheless, it does require using one’s noggin.
Friendships aren’t organic. They don’t just maintain themselves. They require a consistent enrollment of one’s time.
And for those who believe they don’t have even an extra minute to spare, consider this: Minimally, 50 hours of time is what it takes to transform a casual acquaintance into a friend, followed by a further 40 hours on top of that to become regular friends and 200-plus hours to solidify a true, best friendship.
If, anywhere along the way, you start dropping the ball at your end, guess what? Your newly developing friendship, just like a proverbial house of cards, will all come crashing mightily down.
There are other crucial, maintenance factors essential to deepening friendships, too. Always express curiosity about what’s new in the other person’s life. Don’t be afraid to show vulnerability; express what scares you and what you’re struggling with. Let your guardrails down. Keep things vibrant.
Share and compare your bucket lists; brainstorm new adventures; go off-script; permit spontaneity to flourish! And, crucially, just show the fuck up.
Moments that are milestones to your friend — be it a death in the family, a disease diagnosis, divorce or a diploma — all you gotta do is make sure you’re there for him/her. The value and future of your friendship depends on it.
Happy Thanksgiving to you all, everyone! And should you know of any individual within your day-to-day orbit who’s either lonely, hungry or possibly both, give them a second thought the next time your paths cross. Anything you give, it always comes back only better.
—Howard Lewis Russell
Santa’s comin’ next month, kidz! Any Christmas mischief you men plan on getting’ up to, then do please come scooch over here next to me at AskHoward@dallasvoice.com.
