Hey, Faggot:
Call her puff. If your girlfriend’s new occupation is a deal-breaker, then tell her–explain that she can have you or she can have her cigs, but she can’t have both. You might discover she’s already made a kind of conscious/subconscious decision; she’s, well, sending you smoke signals. Maybe she’s sick of your ass, but doesn’t have the guts to end it herself. So she’s smoking you out. So smoke her right back.
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I’ve broken up with people who smoked or failed to quit smoking (yes, outraged smokers, I’ll admit right now I’m a fascist–so spare me the letters). Maybe you and me and everyone else who’s had once-promising relationships destroyed by a partner’s nicotine addiction should get together on a cig class-action lawsuit or demand that the tobacco settlement being kicked around by the states and the feds include cash payments for our pain and suffering.
Hey, Scared:
The number of people interested in a particular kink has to reach something of a tipping point before clubs are formed. So far as I know, poopy-pants fetishists have not yet reached that tipping point and aren’t likely to anytime soon. But don’t despair, DW–you are not without options. Volunteer at a nursing home. Or if intergenerational scat scenes are too freaky for you, buy your next date a difficult-to-remove jumpsuit–something with lots of tricky belts, snaps, and zippers–and treat her to a delicious hamburger/fecal matter sandwich at your local fast-food burger palace. Then hope for the worst.
My research assistant, Kevin, while contractually obliged to attend to my sexual as well as informational needs, has not done so for two reasons. First, the last advice columnist he did research for took advantage of him–abused him, really–and whenever I get too close he shakes and sweats and screams, “No, Mommy! No, Mommy!” Kind of a mood-breaker. I would fire him, but his disorder is covered by the Research Assistants With Disabilities Act. The other reason is that my boyfriend Terry and I are still together–though he hardly speaks to me anymore unless it’s to ask for money or poke fun at me in French because I work for a living.
Hey, SNM:
