Do gay men have anything resembling lesbian bed death? My gut instinct is hell no.
I may need to ask for a lifeline here. Lesbian readers: is lesbian bed death a myth? Many straight men will argue that they, too, catch a dose of lesbian bed death from time to time.
Shaw wrote that marriage will remain popular because it combines the maximum of temptation with the maximum of opportunity. Remember that Shaw went to his grave a virgin, and so had no fucking clue what he was talking about.
The answer is yes, all cohabiting couples eventually taper off, no matter how ruddy their libidos, or obliging their natures.
Master Right put a hand down his pants the other day, and confirmed what we both suspected. It had fallen off.
I leapt in to the helpful-spouse drill. "Well, where do you remember last having it out?"
“If I recall, it was at the candy counter in the Karstadt.” he replied. “Perhaps we should phone their lost-and-found?”
“Nah. It’s probably been sucked up some vacuum cleaner hose by now.” I observed, mildly aroused at the thought.
As for my own todge, I regularly remind the hub that like anything else in cold storage, if he doesn’t eat it soon, it’ll go off.
That said, no man is lonely if he has a free hand and a little imagination. Broadband helps, too.
How do I go about finding a new gay best friend (I've got the lesbian best friend covered)? I haven't had one since college, and I'm feeling the fag hag lack. Fair warning, though: I live in the benighted South, where football is king, everything is fried, and people wear trucker hats without irony.
Gosh, do they wear trucker hats without irony? You mean wrinkled, straight off the clothesline?
Enough joking. One of the terrible things about the Honourable Husband's inability to meet a deadline, is that the answer I would have given your question, when you asked it, may be interpreted completely differently under current conditions. Gypsy, if these comments grate a bit, given your state of mind and heart, forgive me.
I suspect you don’t really want a fag to hag.
Before I moved from New York to Munich, and changed its name to Deutschland über Elvis, I called my blog High Maintenance Hags.
It reflected the outlook of a middle aged gay male. As I got older, the genuine female friends had begun to sort themselves from the hags. And the hags had become insufferable.
Maybe it was a New York thing. Sex and the City made a certain kind of shallow, label-chasing, sexually-demanding loveless single woman flavour of the month. And one of her must-have accessories was a fag.
As I grew older and wiser, the role of handbag became less rewarding. Especially when handbag turned into suitcase turned into steamer trunk. Frankly, if I wanted a woman with whom I had no sex, but who demanded the intimacy and emotional support of a lover, I’d just turn straight and get married.
Shopping with them was torture. Shoes? What is it with women and shoes?
I wrote a post on this before, which speculated that a woman’s peak hag years are under 25. Perhaps a fag and his hag are lovers who are too immature for an adult sexual relationship?
Am I being unfair? Maybe. But experience shows boys make extremely bad girlfriends, in the long haul.
Most of the hagships in my life have matured into proper friendships between equals, which involve two complete, fulfulled lives that intersect. Gypsy, perhaps one of the reasons you don’t currently have a fag to hag, is simply because you’ve outgrown it. If you actually did hold a light-loafered lad on a leash, you’d soon grow tired of him. And he’d grow tired of the leash, fo’ shizzle.
My advice is to make ten new male friends. Statistically, at least one of them will be gay. And as a bonus, the other nine will be eligible. It works, even in the South.