How to do the wrong thing right
QUESTION: What do the following capriciously queer queries all have in common: Knowing how to felicitously “work” an HQB (High Queen Bitch) cocktail reception; jonesing to guzzle sunny warm urine, covertly, straight from the “tap;” and Helen Reddy’s Greatest Hits album?
ANSWER: Honey, not one single sorry damned gay thing. Let’s just get bitchily spinning ’round the floor and get right to it.
Dear Howard,
What’s the best way to spend the absolute minimal amount of time at (yet another!) summer’s-end pool party without offending (yet another!) snooty, High Queen Bitch/host(ess)? Howard, it seems every haughty Mz. Thang in Dallas this time of year is psychopathically hell-bent on one-upping the rest of their kind with their laughable “Just sailed back from Santorini!” fake spray tans, their outlet-bought Robert Graham “limited edition linen” cocaine gangster moll ensembles, their ever-tinier new noses and all the luridly Kardashian affectations. Man, I so loathe these S&M (Stand & Model) parties. Please, please help me escape the looming Labor Day round of them? — Dane M.
Dear Damien,
Oh, you poor demonized thing — bless your shallow heart! HQBs can, indeed, be quite tricky witches to placate if you want to avoid them posting on their Facebook page every perceived sinister party offense you commit the very second you depart. Thankfully, Howard’s Summertime-Party-Guest-Escape-Mantra is simple to follow: One must only (and always) arrive at the party’s high-water mark (just as the shrimp boat needs re-icing on the buffet); always dress (shirt-to-sandals) in plain old “reverse chic” basic white; never stop to linger in boutique conversation with any of the other equally bored-numb deplorables (guests, I mean… nonetheless); and — this is so crucially important — you must pay a dazzlingly benign complement to, literally, everyone in attendance whilst simultaneously never halting your float-about. For instance: “My heavens, but somebody smells absolutely divinely delicious! Why, Shasta Lovejoy, whatever is that chic cologne you’re Northparking?” You get the picture, Desmona? Then, as soon as you’ve sparkled magnanimously at everyone, you beat the hell out of there: Twenty minutes, tops, girlene, and the agonizing pain’s over.
Dear Howard,
I have a secret urolagnia fetish. Am I just some perv freak? I feel humiliation — like I’m publicly wearing the letters “W/S” stitched to me for everyone to sneer at my shame. How common is urolagnia? — Robby
Dear Ruby,
Well, aren’t we sure being just all dictionary-highbrow fancy: I’ll bet when you lick your gnawed-to-the-nub thumb, and press it against that scarlet W/S branded upon your urine-shamed derriere, every queen on Cedar Springs can hear the steam just sizzle! I’ll tag along with you for a moment here, Ru—Say she’s got no future and never made no past — before shoving my lube-less scarlet snark-catheter, into your crazy pee hole: Urolagnia (also known as urophilia and undinism) is a form of salirophilia, which is a form of paraphilia… which, dear befuddled readers, is just a highfalutin way for big ol’ Ruby to ask me whether she’s insane to enjoy drinking piss, and/or being pissed on, within the privacy of her own bedroom? Ruby, sweetie, you’ve nothing to break down into a fool about: Of all the many amazingly imaginative forms of fetish-sex gay men enjoy behind closed doors, urolagnia is second only behind felching (the sated pleasure of slurping spent semen from someone’s anus, frequently post-gang-bang). Just live with it.
Dear Howard,
I am female. I am straight. I am 45, and recently (at last!) married. Happily, my new husband loves my gay posse of longtime friends. On Sunday mornings, we all gather at Starbucks, en masse, and read your column out loud: I’ve seen coffee spurt out of my husband’s nose from laughing so hard. I don’t have a question, really — I just wanted to share with you, Howard, that even hetero “breeders” get fun kicks, too, out of your satirical bent. — Angie
Dear Angie Baby,
Oh, how you do flatter; I’m stupidly touched, despite my now having to hear Helen Reddy roar “I Am Woman” in my head all the rest of the day. Sincerely, I much appreciate your “coffee spurts from my husband’s nose” compliment. Rarely do people actually get that my column is total latte-foam satire: It’s scary ridiculous how many of our 21st century LGBT community possess not one scintilla of humor, say nothing of self-deprecation. So thank you again, Angie baby. Girl, you’re a little touched, you know.
— 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.
This article appeared in the Dallas Voice print edition August 25, 2017.
