I have a boyfriend whom I love very much, but during a rough period in our relationship when I was confused about how I felt, I went on a date with another guy. We didn’t have intercourse or oral sex but we did end up kissing. I no longer speak to this guy, and I have no intention of repeating this mistake, so is it ok for me to not tell him what happened? I don’t want to lose him.
I have a hamster, Maude, and she’s beautiful and well-behaved in all the ways hamsters ought to be. She’s the hamster of my dreams, really.
But during a period when I doubted whether Maude completed me, I went to a pet store and held a canary and let him nibble seeds off my palm.
I thought of Maude the entire time. I knew then that I was a hamster girl. It wasn’t a choice or a lifestyle, it was just me. I never told Maude. She wouldn’t understand and I hate to see hamsters cry. Your boyfriend wouldn’t understand either. Keep it to yourself and live with the guilt. I do.
I have a penis, Whaler, and he’s fairly large and handsome, if not particularly well behaved. A year ago, due to temporary forearm fatigue, I jeopardized a long-term relationship with my Left Hand by engaging Whaler with the Right. I didn’t kiss him, and oral sex was no longer an option, (either my back stiffened or the Whaler shortened – I’m pretty sure it’s the former) so I attempted a Right-Hand-helper – which was unsuccessful, no doubt due to an underlying sense of shame or more likely really shitty rhythm and timing. I never told my Left Hand, instead choosing to justify my betrayal with ego-bolstering self-lies like “Well, I didn’t come, so it’s not really cheating” and “I was drunk,”–-a total lie as I’d had a couple of beers, maybe.
I believed for so long that I’d irreparably scarred the delicate bond of trust between Left Hand and Whaler, telling myself, “Don’t bring it up, what’s the use. Left Hand will never understand.” And then I received your letter and I knew it was time. So yesterday I sat Left Hand down and told him everything. He didn’t seem to understand at first, because, well, he’s a hand and all. But after a while I think he came to realize that I was really sorry for what I’d done and that Right Hand was no longer a part of my life, except for writing and feeding myself and wiping my ass and all. Then all of a sudden Left Hand took hold of a pen and flailed wildly at Right Hand, not stopping until he’d written all over Righty with a red permanent marker, signifying danger and blood loss. Keep this dark past to yourself, Janet. No good can come of it, only pain and perhaps a spiteful Sharpie attack.
Is it wrong for my girlfriend to be jealous of the fact I keep in touch with several of my ex-girlfriends? I haven’t cheated on her and don’t intend to, but I also don’t plan to cut these former lovers out of my life. What do you think?
My father’s teaching me Russian, his native tongue. I think this will increase my fuckability quotient with Frank, though he insists I’m insurpassably fuckable already. Hopefully, when I’ve developed my Russian enough, I can travel there, as much as this plan terrifies my mother. I think she fears I’ll be kidnapped and sold into prostitution by mobsters, though I argue they have enough girls to steal as it is.
I’d like to be kidnapped by a gang of esteemed literary critics and forced to copyedit their reviews, naked, with a style guide shoved in my mouth. Learning Russian is helping me and my father reconnect, though we can’t return to how it was when I was eight. He would take me to the zoo and was my most vocal fan when I strummed my pink guitar and sang out “Mona Lisa.” Your girl should get herself a Mona Lisa smile and accept the fact that your exes weren’t gosh darn awful, hideous, wretched skanks. It’d be of more concern if they were or simply came off this way. If your girl can’t deal with the fact she didn’t pluck you out of a virginal tulip coma, she should get herself a pink guitar and sing herself to sleep, alone.
Keeping in touch with an ex or two is great, Markie, but “several”?
Who the frick are you, me? To cure yourself of this X-dilemma, put yourself in her shoes: what if she had a gaggle of ex-lovers emailing and calling her at all hours? Picture yourself actually meeting these guys and having to imagine their little lads spelunking her depths as she cries out with pleasure. Now that you’ve adequately immersed yourself in her world, embrace the status quo and carry on, man. You know you’re not going to change, Angry Frank knows you’re not going to change, and your current woman’s certainly not expected to embrace your proclivity for vulva-past either. So get out there and find yourself a woman as screwed up as you are. I did. Yulia and I are thinking of having an X-revival, where we can all sit down together and trade cunnilingus and blowjob techniques, measure phalluses and calibrate clitoral response ratios. You and your new screwed-up alter ego are welcome to join us.
My boyfriend won’t look at me during sex, he looks off into the distance. He says he needs to do this to concentrate due to his antidepressants. Have you heard of this?
I once asked a friend what her first impression of me had been, and she said I’d appeared sad. She wasn’t the first to say this, and it always annoys me when it happens. Dang it, couldn’t she see I was lost in beautiful thoughts of orchids and gerbils and lost apricots.
Couldn’t she see I don’t need external stimulation to feel occupied or engaged, that there was plenty just inside me? Grr. Suddenly I’m pathological because she can’t distinguish thoughtfulness from depression? Am I supposed to always be smiling in case someone is watching? Talk about becoming paranoid.
I had a friend, note the past tense, who always had this strained uber-smile smeared across her face, even when she ate her mangoes. It hurt my own face muscles to watch her. I wasn’t surprised the next year, when she admitted she was depressed, that joy came as a struggle for her. Normal people don’t need to pretend to be happy or engaged all the time. They just are. The point is, if he fucks you, he likes you enough. Give your guy time to just be who he is.
Kate, you selfish tart. You frolic in the meadow of misconception like a Koolaid-slurping cultist, waiting for her Dixie cupful. Stop donning the Norma Desmond frock as you secretly celebrate your selfish need for compassion, connectivity and devotion. Depressed boy needs time think, time to ponder his immense sorrow, time to go fuck himself.
Certainly Yulia is right and Sad boy likes you enough to get it up, but he’s keeping it up and getting it off while pondering his existence in the cosmos, or more likely, his “close” friend and Dungeons and Dragons’ partner Bob. Dump him like yesterday’s bowel movement.
My boyfriend won’t cuddle with me after sex and it leaves me feeling so lonely and unsatisfied. How do I get him to start cuddling with me?
While in a Soho design store looking for oblong scarves I could wrap around my waist and be tied up with—Japan makes them textiles especially well, hint, hint—Frank and I found the most amazing turquoise bear for his niece. We named the bear Bluebly. He was beautiful enough to write sonnets or carve a pumpkin for, but I knew the bear was worthy of being stalked when I touched him. Squshy, wushy, I couldn’t get my hands off the thing. Intoxicating marshmallow wampdidoo. You see, Bluebly was filled with these gel-beads that mold to your touch and then return to their initial shape within seconds after he’s fondled. Stress be gone. So buy you and your boy a Bluebly, and if you position him just right, you may get a misdirected caress or two. Or consult your certified plastic surgeon of choice about making boobies for you out of Bluebly gel. Enjoy!
Ahhh, the post-coital cuddle, oft maligned by today’s man as a time-usurping burden depriving him of quality cell phone use, email perusal, and the latest stock quotes. It’s about time you saddled up with the latest technology, Lise. Consider forgoing the fake tits and instead attaching a touchscreen pad and LCD to your chest with the latest Bluetooth technology, allowing your man to cuddle up while remaining in touch with what really matters. Or drop the corporate-cuddler, buy yourself the damn bear, shove a vibrator up his blue ass, and hug the stuffing out of him ’til the right guy comes along. Cuddling can’t be taught or encouraged and is non-negotiable according to the Book of Frank.
I don’t masturbate and my boyfriend won’t let me forget it. He’s always saying I should, but he satisfies me and I don’t feel the need to masturbate. Is there something wrong with me?
In a word yes, Monica. In addition to proving yourself entitled to the ultimate act of self-love, masturbation will enable greater sexual independence from assholes who demand that you masturbate. So flog your love guppy, cowgirl.
For my second grade science fair, I decided to study the effect of water pollution on fish. I purchased forty guppies, separated them into two cups of water, and put detergent in one of these cups. I then recorded their hopping and bobbing and diving. Not old enough to recognize the full monstrosity of the project, I saw my study as a cogent lesson for others to respect Nature. I kept the surviving fish as pets. Maybe your boyfriend should get a pet and stop bothering you about whether you wank off, Monica.
After notifying the ASPCA about Yulia’s guppy pogrom, I made a call to MAWWDM (Men Against Women Who Don’t Masturbate,) forwarding your name, email address, and specifics of your militant anti-self love stance.
Prepare for assimilation.
One afternoon about four years ago, I got a call from a phone whisperer. He asked me what I was wearing. I told him I was still in my pajamas. He proceeded to demand I undress, which I did. And then he instructed me how to masturbate. Over the course of three months, our daily phone conversations brought new light to cucumbers, soda bottles, bare pussies (ode to friction), and shower faucets. He said his name was Mike Edwards. He invited me to visit him in Boca Raton. I considered it. Monica, maybe you should speak to Mike.
I got a call from a buddy named Mike. He’s a Giants fan. He had tickets to a home game against the Redskins. We drank beer out of bottles, and his wife made a nice cucumber salad. Her name was Jenny.
Now go masturbate goddamnit.
Is it rude to excuse yourself from a date if a person appears different from how they did in their photo (older, heavier, uglier)?
My tummy hurt tonight (too much of mom’s chicken saag), so I just used an enema. This, of course, pleased Frankie, who says he has a spiritual connection with my third hole. I wonder if this means Frankie feels about my ass as I felt about my friend Angela, a girl who made me believe our souls had been following parallel courses until that one critical night we met in the Fogg. Perhaps your soul’s in parallel course with your date’s ass, John. You might have your girl try my mom’s chicken saag to find out.
Angela had a penguin, Alfonse. I never did know what Alfonse thought of me. Like most bags, he was rather uncommunicative. He wouldn’t have matched my outfits, I know, but then again, those who don’t necessarily fit together can still appreciate the valuable qualities in one another. Take the time to appreciate your date’s skill in misleading you into paying for a fabulous dinner and compliment her on her PhotoShop expertise. I’m going to have Frank take a photo of my ass now. Maybe I’ll be able to see Angela in it.
I say why risk engaging with mankind in general. Forget your aged, burgeoning, aesthetically challenged date: what about all the shit that can happen when you leave the house these days? After getting crapped on by a pigeon in Central Park last week, I returned with an armistice accord requiring the John Hancock of a pigeon of standing with signatory authority, to validate said agreement. I chucked some bread on the ground and waited for just such a bird. A particularly fat, somewhat aristocratic one showed his beak. I explained what had happened, and iterated what I believe were quite generous terms and conditions outlined in the accord. I set the document on the ground amidst some Italian-spiced croutons and the pigeon leader preened for a moment, cocked his head, waddled over and crapped on it. Now I’m not sure if that crap signified his acceptance or not – it’s not as if the little feathered fricker could write after all—but I’m guessing it was his way of saying, “Tell John from Boston that shit happens and get over himself.” So there it is John, suck it up. Get through your shitty date and on to the next. You’re not gonna hit it off with all of them, and sometimes the ones you like won’t like you. I’d impart more words of wisdom but Yulia’s third hole awaits. Ta ta, Johnny boy.
I’ve been dating an older man whom I’m incredibly drawn to emotionally and intellectually. I’m even drawn to him physically and I’m confident he finds me attractive as well. The thing is, we haven’t even kissed yet. He told me kissing for him is like sex and that he doesn’t want us to consummate our connection until another couple of months have passed. Our connection is so intense, I’m tempted to see his point. I don’t want to mess things up by rushing into sex. Still, his reserve is unusual for me. No guy’s ever asked to go slowly with me before. Do you think he’s just old-fashioned or is something else up?
Ivy, Riverdale, NY
All right Ivy, far be it from me to pee on your intellectual/emotional bond, but if the same god that crapped me into this world spat you out, you’re gonna need some sloppy sex pretty damn soon, girl. This charlatan fop needs to rub some snake oil on his feather and start dippin’ the quill.
I took my mom to see “Quills” for her birthday a couple years ago. We bonded over popcorn and pain. Maybe your man friend is afraid to unleash his twisted kinky winky on you due to your relative inexperience. Why not, in the throes of caffeinating yourselves, casually comment to your man how Proust’s dipped madeleine reminds you of when you were fisted? That should crack his pistachio shell.
I read Proust. He writes good. His words are big. His sentences are long. Almost as long as my whaler. His book is in fact longer than the whaler, if that’s possible. By the time fop-boy quills you, you could have read Remembrance of Things Past twice… and forgotten it by now. No small chore at 3000 pages. Speaking of things forgotten, forget the fop and move on.
My man has a small penis. Is penis enlargement a viable option?
The God of Small Things lords over a canon of work Frank and I lovingly term “shiterature.” The book cries poo poo like a fog of crows thick with papaya yearning. That said, let’s take a moment to appreciate the title. Your man is a god, Marika., Rejoice!
While rejoicing, consider getting your little nub of a clit jammed chock full of dead bastard ass fat, ’cause that’s exactly how they’re going to plump your man’s wee willy. Can you spell cadaver cock?
Unless they harvest a slab of flab from your man’s inner thigh—that’s always a real laugher.
Laugh, Marika, laugh! Just think, your man may profit from dead bastard’s smart ass fat and become a chess grandmaster suddenly bent on touring the world for tournaments. Then what good will his big cock be? You’ll be a wealthy chess cock widow.
After enhancing your wispy clit Marika, increase your breast size by ripping your tits up by the roots and stretching those floppers out another inch or two– that’s how they’ll lengthen your boy’s toy, yanking one or two inches of inner connectivity into the ever-lovin’
light of day, seriously destabilizing little willy for a possible inch or two gain that may scar and retreat post surgery.
Retreat, Marika, retreat post-haste like a cock pawn that has tasted the sticky greed of big pussies.
May 2003 Playgirl
You’ve Got Questions. He’s Got Problems.
Spawn from an immortal booty call paid to Love Goddess Aphrodite by her favorite piece of ass, Angry Frank credits his acute observational powers and infallible sex-speak to his inheritance of the mythological peniscontemplati gene – enabling cogent, prudent sex appraisals emanating from his ample love quiver. In other words, like any man, he thinks with his dick, which in all actuality qualifies him for a job at Wal-Mart, but hey, they weren’t hiring, so he decided to tell people how to fuck instead.
Hey Angry Frank,
My boyfriend doesn’t go “down there” enough, but he’s more than happy to practically demand oral sex at least twice a week. Is there anything I can do to get some more tongue action?
If you’re not gonna ask for it by name Cherylingus – how can we expect a genius like Suck My Dick to step up to the plate and lick it clean?
For all SMD knows “down there” could mean Australia for Christ’s sake.
Repeat after me Cherylingus, “Eat my pussy you underemployed nothin’-better-to-do motherfucker – eat it now. Note: even if he’s not underemployed, adding “nothin’better-to-do motherfucker” lends credibility to any argument – thereby putting the onus on SMD to not only eat your pussy more often, but go out and get a better paying job.
Or you know, you could engage SMD in a more subtle campaign of vaginal awareness. Pull a “Close Encounters of the Pussy Kind” – sculpting a big helping of mashed potatoes into a big gravy-coated love muffin – then eat without the use of fork – in the exact manner in which you want SMD to trifle on your lily. If that doesn’t work, consider undergoing the somewhat controversial “make my pussy taste like a Snickers Bar” procedure – everybody eats those fuckin’ things.
Ultimately none of this shit’s gonna work and you’re gonna have to get a new boyfriend girlfriend, this one sucks – and suckin’ ain’t quite the same thing as lickin’ now is it.
Hey Angry Frank,
How come guys spend a month or more wining and dining me, trying to get into my pants, and then flee like they’ve got ants in theirs as soon as I put out?
I fail to see how your inability to properly subdue and manacle your fuck-buddies has anything to do with me, Cindy-Loo-Who. But if you must know, you’re datin’ the wrong guys. “Wining & dining,” what’s all that shit about? Sounds to me like these assholes have jobs Cindy-Loo-Who – a precursor to that dreaded “independence” thing.
You’ll want to latch on to some struggling artsy-fartsy schmuck. Some jackass who says he won’t compromise his art by securing fulltime employment. Perhaps a gravelly voiced musician-type who sings like he hasn’t taken a shit in six years – or some “writer” who craps a sex column out of his ass, ’cause Walmart wouldn’t hire him. If you’re looking for a ring, (that you may well have to pay for yourself) find a frickin’ actor for Christ’s sake – those “in-the-moment” slack-asses will cling to your crotch like herpes.
Dear Angry Frank:
I’ve been engaged to my fiancé for three months now (together for 3 years), and although the overall sex isn’t bad, he’s sloppy at oral sex. He seems to be really into it, but he’s all over the road, with no clear path home. How can I get my man to be a neater eater?
The key to a quality tongue thrashing and any other worthwhile sexual (or romantic) encounter is communication, Jeri. And when I say communication, I’m obviously referring to a massive media campaign geared towards shaming your saliva-happy hubby-to-be into a cotton-mouthed, clit-articulate cunnilingus connoisseur.
Start with a simple family newsletter announcing that your August wedding has been postponed until, and I quote “Sloppy eats my pussy with specificity, alacrity and orgasmic intention.” Back up your letter with a website highlighting some naughty oral Polaroids over captions like “Sloppy: Lost again, and won’t ask for directions.” A good domain name might be sloppypussyeater.com, that is, if it’s not already taken.
If all else fails head to the nearest rib joint and get that sloppy pussy eatin’ future husband of yours a plastic bib and some wet wipes.
Dear Angry Frank,
I’m a kinky little S&M chick who happened to hook up with a vanilla sex history professor recently. I think he might be open to experimenting, and although I’m usually anything but shy, I really like this guy and worry about scaring him off. How do I bring him into my world without freaking him out?
Bring him over with a sexual history lesson from none other than “Old Blood & Guts” himself, George S. Patton. Outfitted in full W.W.II regalia purchased from your local Army / Navy store, start barking military-like orders including phrases such as “You’re a disgrace to yourself, this unit and God Himself” and “Lose those skivvies Lieutenant!”
Begin placing little plastic army men and vehicles about his body, spouting some bullshit about “theatre of operations,” “outflanking the enemy” and “subduing his mighty howitzer.” Start tracing battalion movements across his flesh map, uttering “we’ll take the forest here”
as you snap your baton across his pubes or “The enemy has the high ground here” as you tap his potato masher (German hand grenade-for those non-history buffs). With your riding crop, begin to swipe enemy positions off his topographic man-scape as you lay waste to the German ground forces. Order an aerial assault on enemy HQ with your classified, top secret “tongue of fire” weapon and finally bring in the mustachioed love bunker as you engulf his dictator, hollering “Take that Rommel, you magnificent bastard!”
Or you know, dress up like a crack whore and let him play a rogue vice cop who’ll give you a pass for some raunchy sexual favors in the back of his squad car. Ok, the back of his Saturn. What the fuck do I know?
BY FRANK BOGUES & YULIA STESHENKO, ©2005