How to do the wrong thing right

Oh, Cupid, pierce my heart! Here we are once again, holding our collective breaths for some grotesquely-grinning, winged and diapered teratophile, sporting a well-stocked quiver on his feathered back, poised to fire a potion-tipped arrow into our February fornications. Of all the ridiculous holidays clogging our calendar, there’s actually a quite simple explanation behind why an invention so cretinously vapid as Valentine’s Day forever hovers amongst all A-list favorites in the public’s affection: Sanctified sexual predation. More bluntly, Valentine’s is the solitary holiday that promises any swingin’ dick who so desires can score himself a little tasty piece of sumpin-sumpin.

Hence, if you’re of the persuasion that a Valentine’s void of sodomy is about as libido-arousing as a porno with condoms, then come sit by me: In 2018, for the first time in VOD subscription history, the search for “Paternal Gay Incest” videos (“real” dads seducing their “real” over-18 sons) overtook “Brutal Gay Twink Bondage” and “Extreme Gay Slave Torture” — combined — as the No. 1 most popular internet porn-engine categories. (Pornography, by the by, exclusively keeps the internet afloat; far back in second place is “Ancestry/Genealogical” searches. In other words, the World Wide Web would die without providing a sexual-fantasy outlet for men involving anyone other than the one to whom they’ve promised their lifelong fidelity.) So let’s get faithlessly right to it.

Dear Howard: How do you go about successfully seducing a straight dude’s pants off? I’ve been cohabitating in the same bed together with my partner for almost four decades. I was just 15 when we met; he was an old fossil of 25. To say we’ve enjoyed growing, well, “asexually eccentric” over these past 40 years would be like saying, “Michael Jackson gradually enjoyed some comforting milk before bedtime every dawn to help him sleep.”

Our sex life is a cuckoo’s nest of wacky quirks: In my mid-50s now, I’ve officially joined Grant in grizzled daddyhood, and we’ve conspiratorially made it our Valentine’s missions to see which of us can get our building’s newest hetero hottie into bed first. He’s a stud I’ve personally nicknamed Steve (because he’s a dead ringer for my first celebrity boy crush, Steve Austin of The Six Million Dollar Man, but whom Grant refers to as Heath … as in Heath Barkley from The Big Valley). The only times our paths ever cross with Steve/Heath is in the laundry room, where he always has a new giggling bimbo skank welded to his side. They wink at us while purringly petting the laced-up bulge straining Steve/Heath’s leather biker pants.

Grant’s so in lust with him that he’s laughably taken to streaming Lee Major’s sexiest scenes from The Six Million Dollar Man and The Big Valley on side-by-side laptops. Grant says watching the same heartthrob at two sexily separate ages is even more hypnotizing and lurid than any so-called “real” dad/son porn. Grant surfs through every “straight” BDSM hookup site he can find, hoping to stumble across Steve/Heath’s ad, which he’s convinced is lurking out there, somewhere, considering the sheer volume of pussycats he runs through weekly: “Wait, wait, I think I found it!” Saliva dripping off his tongue, he said. “Listen to this: User Name, DockMyCock. XXXL MassiveHung Sk8r looking for cuckold couples to…”

Interrupting him, I dismissively shook my head. “Cuckold? That dumb thing’s never heard such a word in his life. Move on. Next!”

Grant waved his Fuji bottle of Stoli at me. “No, listen! XXXL Sk8r looking for cuckold couples to party & chill with while watching MILF porn.

Donations to my houseboat fund buys admission to whatever floats your boat. The more generous the donations, the more I return favors in kind.” Grant swilled triumphantly of his plastic Fuji flower-bottled vodka. “See, I told you it’s our Heath Barkley! Oh, Heath can be had.” I corrected him: “Ding-dong, it’s MILF porn he’s into—Moms I’d Love to Fuck, not Daddies. And nowhere does he say cuckold gay couples. Just give it up — the ad’s not his.”

Grant refused to concede defeat. “But what about Heath being a professional Sk8r ice skaters only come in two flavors: closet queen or screaming.” I rolled my eyes. “You, idiot. Steve’s hardly referring to the kind of ice produced by water at 32 degrees Fahrenheit.” Grant blinked his eyes, uncomprehending as Audra Barkley (aka Linda Evans), posing on a staircase, whose only apparent function was to spout a line of defiant morality into thin air while showcasing the latest 1960s hairstyles to her fellow Earth inhabitants of the 1860s: “What a pair of horny old fools are we?” said Grant.

“We can rebuild him, though,” I assured my life’s partner, softly finger-raking a fresh dab of wax through his flip, as I remembered Steve/Heath’s odd soliloquy in the laundry room last Sunday while Grant was downloading naked celebrities. “You mean, we have the technology?” Grant smirked, as I told him how Steve/Heath had set an empty guitar case on the floor by the door and slurred, “My five-year plan is easy — I just wanna save me up enough to buy a houseboat, where I get to do nothin’ except fish all day long, fuck ’tween meals and fart where I sleep. Houseboats come in three styles — standard, custom and luxury; I’d like to afford me a Sunstar, a Thoroughbred or a Bravada. Any help you could provide would be most appreciated.”

So, Howard, this brings us to our question: Is there a secret key or formula that’ll guarantee instant access into any given Heath/Steve’s hetero pants?

How does a middle-aged, over-educated, non-wealthy nancy-boy lure a young, hung, full of cum 20-something straight moron … short of purchasing him a Bravada houseboat? — Sex on a Stick

Dear Sticky Dick: Surprisingly enough, the odds are stacked in your favor. Keep in mind — the same number of men are truly straight as are truly gay—about 10 percent, and if you’re older, all the better; it’s programmed into human DNA to choose sexual experimentation with older men versus younger… provided the younger is convinced that intimacy between two males isn’t really gay. (Try out the famous “Julius Caesar speech” on him, should Steve/Heath prove initially hesitant.) Innocently arouse his curiosity to the point he wants to picture you naked; if there’s a smirk or a giggle, he’s yours. Any man who doesn’t feel gay will go all the way. Additionally, if only interested in an NSA fuck buddy, have him make the first move on you. This way, you neither risk rejection nor detection, and your extramarital peccadillos shall eternally remain a secret — the young stud won’t go blabbering slanders about you.

Now, to all you Valentine voyeurs, the inherent paradox in penning an etiquette column for those needing guidance on how better to get away with something they ought not be doing in the first place, is that there’s no advice I can dispense that any randomly-selected John Waters movie couldn’t answer for you far more adroitly. I play everything for the lowest common denominator: laughs. My columns don’t clarify, or solve anything, say nothing of dispense any relevant advice. There is nowhere to go with this stuff that’s not farcical — there is no up. A few minutes’ distraction from reality is as good as it gets, kids. The only direction I can lead is across, which is why on this February day, of all comforting places, we arrive in ye ol’ barber’s shoppe, upon where we discover ourselves shamelessly eavesdropping, quite involuntarily, on Presidents Trump, Obama and Carter getting Valentine’s haircuts for date night.

Barber 1: Mr. President, would you like me to splash on a bit of after-shave?

DT: Hell, no, Melania would think I had spent the afternoon in a whorehouse.

Barber 2: How about you, Mr. President?

BO: Sure. Michele doesn’t know what the inside of a whorehouse smells like.

Barber 3: You, preacher?

JC: No marked-lady sauce for me — I’ve only ever been unfaithful in my thoughts, never my heart.

Teenage floor sweeper: Too dang bad Bill ain’t here. He’d pass around some of his Monica Polaroids and teach all three of you popes how it’s really done.

For exactly as with houseboats and American presidents, Valentine’s adultery only comes in three styles: Standard, custom and luxury. Sea to shining sea, in this land so gratefully fair, what one can romantically get away with is directly proportionate to what one can faithlessly suffer losing. Boredom in bed isn’t the fault of the mattress.

— Howard Lewis Russell

Have a question about etiquette, sex or anything else? Sent it to [email protected] and he may answer.