How to do the wrong thing right
Double-FF, BDSM, CB-6000, W/S, NSA and K-9: For dear Howard’s audience, such coded abbreviations require no decryption. Honestly, it’s a uniquely amazing pleasure to enjoy a readership engaged so imaginatively in admirable discretions-of-confidentiality — simple, wholesome, good country folk, churchgoing… oh, you filthy, twisted city fuckers! Let’s get raunchily right to it.
Dear Howard,
Two months ago, I met a guy from my church; we’ve been exclusive from Day One. He’s just the type I’d been praying for — clean-cut, always upbeat, the cutest dimples… exactly the sort you’d take home to Sunday dinner at Grandma’s.
Regarding our first “intimate” date, I’d planned initially to wait until kneeling down on one knee. I’ve always been very progressively “open-minded” in the bedroom, understand. I am gay, after all. That I’m a practicing Christian doesn’t mean I’m some puritanical prude. But, whoa, Nelly! Leaving the movie last night, he squeezed my hand, winking, “Let’s get kinky!” to which I consented (regrettably so, in retrospect) with the reply, “No holds barred, babe!”
Well, I’ll spare the godless details of our evening’s absinthe-esque “adventures,” but who knew Crisco had such versatility outside the kitchen, or that it was so difficult a product to wash out of one’s arm hair — both arms. Howard, tossing a hotdog down a hallway doesn’t even do justice to my date’s “accommodations.” I mean, this slut slurpingly devoured the whole darn concession stand and, Hades’ bells, then begged me urinate … inside him! — Duncan
Dear Isadora,
Yeah, yeah, go on … everyone is waiting for your actual, oh, what’s the word I’m looking for? … It’s on the tip of my tongue… Ah, yes! Question, that’s it! Where’s your question? OK, so to the messy-drama: You bedded a dude who relishes fisting and water sports behind closed doors? Oh, pagan horrors! I take it Sunday KFC at Granny’s, and the honeymoon in Branson, is now off? Hell’s ringing belfries, Ida; I’d greedily instigate two hairy arms up my ass, quite eagerly, too — (shoulder-deep!) — if that’s what it took to finally rid me of your sanctimonious, Jesus-freak pearl-clutching.
Dear Howard,
What are the best breeds of dogs to bottom K-9 with? I wanna buy my yard slave a rottie/boxer mix, but …? — Great Dane [Howard’s sincerest apologies, dear readers; this particular question spiraled downward from the point I’ve cut it off — it continued for a further stomach-churning, XXX-rated, unpalatable, non-publishable two full pages more.]
Dear Grating Chihuahua,
We’re gonna muzzle this cold, G.C., right here: There is not much Howard distastefully consigns as being simply too noxiously-untouchable to answer; truly, I’ll tackle (often through grinding molars) just about any questions toxically twisted sisters lob my way — with but two exceptions: Pedophilia questions are 100 percent off-limits, of course, as are animal-cruelty questions; thus, listen up closely, Great Dick Shit: Dog penises have bones in them—all male species of mammals, for that matter, boast penis bones excepting primates (i.e., human beings are primates). Canines in heat, forced to hump homo sapiens, can easily puncture their consigned, DNA-incompatible “mate’s” intestines; therefore, I highly suggest dialing back the kink-o-meter just a teensy-weensy tad and instead perhaps try playing within some of the more, oh, ordinary boundaries of fetish perversions: BB, W/S, PnP, S-&-M dungeon games, and such … you know, the plain vanilla stuff. Subject closed. Enough said. Don’t respond. It won’t be read.
Dear Howard,
My super-jealous boyfriend’s always threatening to lock away my junk inside a CB-6000 and hurl its only key in Turtle Creek “the very next time!” he catches me — again — on Grindr (mind you, the same site I first met him on…hush, Miss Thang!). I reminded the ol’ ball-’n-chain that if she pulled such an idiot stunt, we’d sure be up Shit Creek together, as then neither of us would have any playtime-access to my sweet NSA goodies. But then the stupid psycho went right ahead and really did it! So, what do I do now? Even on its best days, Turtle Creek has zero visibility, and it’s been, like, five days since already—dude, this tight monstrosity itches me raw like a scene out of fuckin’ Saw! — RU12
Dear R2-D2,
Ever heard of, oh, something called a “locksmith?” You might care to Google it, along with the acronymic “24/7” attached. See what blessed angels of relief for your crotch’s agony pop up. Though do note, C-3PO, that this “locksmith” you must summon over will, most assuredly, be heterosexual and the victim of a totally loveless marriage to some sociopathic witch; hence, upon thanking him for his relieved services provided — via your gratitude-proffer of a cold Schlitz with a toke of Mary Jane — you may just get to enjoy (cross your bong-burnt fingers!) that ultimate Mount-Everest-conquering, gayest sex fantasy of all: Converting a straight, sex-starved, husky hunk of blue-collar beefcake to the dark side! Make sure now, too, that you let dear Howard know how it all goes. You’re such an inspiration, Chewie! Why, I just may be encouragingly obliged, myself, to peruse our local smut emporiums for a “100 percent inescapable” male chastity device, then dizzily toss its only key into the very swiftest eddy on Turtle Creek!
— Howard Lewis Russell
This article appeared in the Dallas Voice print edition June 02, 2017.