LA Weekly

When I was in my teens to mid-20s, I fought a burgeoning weight problem. My heaviest was 235 pounds on a 5-foot-10 frame. Now I watch what I eat and I work out. I have a six-pack. And here’s my problem: I get too much attention from women. When I was out of shape, women paid attention, but not as much. Now, if I wanted to, I could get all the pussy I wanted. Single pussy, married pussy, all-different-color pussy.

—Lost In Pussy Land

Besides not enclosing a few dozen pictures with your e-mail, there’s nothing wrong with you that I can tell, LIPL. More pussy gets tossed your way than gets tossed into a Dumpster behind a vet’s office — good for you. Why isn’t that slow-pitch pussy turning you on? Maybe you like to work harder for your pussy, LIPL, or maybe you’re not a catcher (as the gays say), or maybe you’re an arrogant douchebag who likes to brag to gay sex-advice columnists about all the pussy he isn’t banging for whatever reason. Or, geez, maybe you’re just turned off by sexually aggressive women — and that’s fine. No one is obligated to be into sexually aggressive women (they certainly leave me cold). But you might want to look into your heart — it’s that tiny, undeveloped muscle beneath your left pec — to make sure you’re not a dumbassmotherfucker turned off by sexually aggressive women because he believes “good” women don’t or shouldn’t have sexual desires or agency.

Oh, and speaking of sexually aggressive women: Did you catch Abigail Van Buren’s advice column last Monday? Now, I generally try to avoid policing the work of other advice professionals — life’s too short to read Jamie “Get Naked” Bufalino — but I’m going to make an exception. In her March 17 column, Abby responded to a man whose wife was seduced, in the middle of the night, by one of his three brothers. The man’s wife doesn’t know she had sex with one of her brothers-in-law, and the husband doesn’t know what to do about it. Abby suggested that his wife may have had an “inkling that it wasn’t [her husband] that crept into her bed” that night, and recommended that her correspondent demand “chapter and verse” from his wife before packing her off to the docs for an STI screening.

Feminist bloggers were outraged — a highly unusual occurrence — because the only correct response, according to Jezebel.com, was something along the lines of, “Your wife was raped! Kill your brothers — all three of them! Now! NOW!!!”

The problem with Jezebel’s reaction is this: That woman wasn’t raped, because that woman doesn’t exist. Regular Savage Love readers are schooled in the art of spotting bullshit letters. So here’s the letter, kids — let’s see if you can spot the clues:

“I am 27, and my wife, ‘Marybeth,’ is 26. We recently went to my folks’ house for supper. That evening, a heavy snowstorm was starting and ... we decided to stay overnight. My old bedroom is upstairs, as are the rooms of my brothers, ages 25, 24 and 22. The guest room is downstairs. [Because] Marybeth said she felt a cold coming on; we decided I’d sleep in my old room. The next day, while we were driving home, Marybeth told me she was glad I had come to her room after all and made love to her. Abby, it wasn’t me! She had mistaken one of my brothers for me in the darkness. We are all about the same size and build.”

Okaaaay, Savage Love readers, let’s pause here. How do we know this is a fake? Well, for starters, there are the ages of the protagonists: 27 and 26. Not 37 and 36, not 67 and 66, but 27 and 26 — which just so happen to be, for most folks, the years of maximum hotness. Fake letters about sexual scenarios always involve the young and presumably hot, never the old and presumably average. Next, there’s the cascading set of circumstances that is, as is typical with fakes, utterly beyond the control of the letter’s author: a snowstorm, a cold coming on, a far-off guest room. And all of his brothers were at Mom and Dad’s for dinner that night too. Or they all still live at home. And they’re all in their 20s.

Now back to the letter:

“I have talked to each of my brothers (they all know about this), but they won’t say who it was for fear of causing a rift ... I told them that unless I find out who it was, there will be a permanent rift between all of us. (Marybeth still doesn’t know it wasn’t me.) How do I handle this?”

How does he handle this? With his right hand wrapped around his cock, that’s how. And how does an advice professional handle this? With the delete key, Abby.

Huge numbers of straight men — those lovable sickos — fantasize about their wives cheating on them with coworkers, siblings, sports teams, governors of New York, etc. Any advice columnist who runs letters that touch on sexual issues has to be cognizant of that. And when someone seeking advice spins out an improbable set of circumstances — including, in this case, a wife who can’t recognize her husband in the dark — that literally climaxes with the realization of a thoroughly common male fantasy (cuckolding), well, that should set an advice professional’s bullshit sensors flashing.

So, Jezebel, let’s not get too worked up about the “rape” of this man’s wife. Repeat after me: She wasn’t raped, because she doesn’t exist. That letter in Dear Abby was the work of a cuckold fetishist or cuckold wannabe. Yes, yes: Abby took the letter seriously, accepted its premise, and her answer was a bit clueless. (As was your credulousness, Jezebel.) But calling for Abby’s resignation while Jamie Bufalino still has a column? Puh-leeze.