Posted // January 23,2008 -
Warning: Savage Love is an adult sex advice column. The contents of this article may be offensive to some people. And Utahns.
I’m a 25-year-old male. I’m a zoophile and always have been. I’m a longtime reader (I’m sure you’re thrilled), so I know my interests aren’t on your approved list of sexual activities. Not trying to argue that point. However, it’s clear what turns my head when I walk down the street and it’s never the person holding the leash. I know from your column and many other sources that once your brain is “wired” a certain way, “rewiring” it is unlikely (snowball’s chance in hell), so this isn’t going to go away. My question is what do I do?
Currently, I don’t date. I was married once, briefly, never had sex, marriage quickly annulled. I currently have no sexual attraction to any human, male or female, so I don’t feel the need to date. Also, sharing this information with anyone I attempted to date would probably end in horror, tears, and my needing to move out of state. However, a lifetime without a relationship (two-legged or four-legged) seems unappealing. Here are the options I see:
1. Get a shrink (who I can talk to about this) and a girlfriend or boyfriend (who I can’t talk to about it) and, in terms of the sex, master giving head since my dick won’t want to join the party. 2. Buy a house with a big yard and … well, you know.
I don’t care if you print this. I’d just like another opinion. I mean, honestly, who else would answer this anonymously, for free, and I actually have some faith in his judgment? —Really Unsure For Future
In short … my advice … which is really going to annoy Mike “Man and Animal” Huckabee … is … um… to buy that big house, RUFF, one with a nice, big yard… and do what you gotta do. Inside, please, shades drawn.
Bestiality is wrong, wrong, wrong, because an animal cannot give its consent. But… uh… anyone who’s ever actually owned a boy dog knows that most would be only too delighted to … um … well, you know.
I’m assuming that you want to be fucked by dogs, of course, as that’s almost always the case with dudes into dogs. Man-on-dog is a whole lot wronger than dog-on-man, if I may use a certain former senator’s formulation, most importantly for reasons of safety for the animal, so I don’t smile on man-on-dog. (Actually, I don’t smile on the dog-on-man, either—it’s more like “grimace, cover eyes, look away,” but, hey, that’s the reaction I have to cunnilingus.) Take a torn-up girl dog to the vet, RUFF, and you’re going to wind up talking with the police and having to cross a PETA picket line to get back into your house—and it’ll serve you right.
For the record, I’m con bestiality (and very much pro cunnilingus). I think fucking dogs is wrong, wrong, wrong. But I had pork and beef and chicken at dinner last night—all 100 percent factory-farmed meat, derived from animals that were cruelly tortured every second of their brief and miserable existence—and my particular strain of Tourette’s syndrome commands me to say this: If I were an animal, I’d much rather be screwed than stewed. We murder animals for their flesh, skins, fur, and just for the fuck of it. Those of us that eat meat; wear fur; run around in leather pants, jackets, shoes, restraints, etc.; and kill animals for sport don’t have much moral authority when it comes time to lecture those of you who wanna smooch the pooch.
Finally, RUFF, build a nice, tall fence around that yard, OK? And seeing a shrink probably won’t make you wanna screw humans but, hey, it couldn’t hurt.