Welcome to our weekly feature in which I, Gary, The L’s wooden goose, shall answer the questions asked of Audrey Ference, The Natural Redhead, in the current issue of the L.
A letter you received from a woman whose boyfriend googled Eva Longoria on her Blackberry while she was giving him fellatio just about sums up the ugly picture of men today. I see them with their faces buried in their cell phones and Blackberrys, cut off from the world with their iPods. I find men in New York to be very physically unattractive (I am not a lesbian). They seem to have lost a great deal of their natural masculinity. They look like clones of each other. None stand out like a force of nature. They have no presence. They look vapid and vacant. Their souls are mostly corrupted. They are obsessed with sports, beer-guzzling and making money. They’re self-absorbed and narcissistic. Most are just putzes. Since they lack any real male-ness, any distinctiveness, I am consistently turned off. I am a very sensuous, gorgeous young woman and no one is spurring any desire in me. Please don’t tell me to move, because New York is my home and I know that men all over the world, for the most part, are in decline as a species while they practice their misogyny. Even gay men are looking tired, lost and like robots. What do you suggest?
Let me see if I get this straight: you’re a heterosexual, “very sensuous, gorgeous young woman,” based in New York, and constantly disappointed with the quality of men in New York. Dear lady, permit me to ask: have you ever considered expanding your conception of an ideal mate? Beyond, say, your own species? Once you go goose… um… you’ll never get loose, that is, you’ll never escape from the sweet embrace of gooselove, because you wouldn’t want to. Please have sex with me.
I read a story today about this Australian guy fucking a jar of pasta
sauce in a car. Why are men always trying to pleasure themselves with
something weird? Are both his hands broken or something?
Why would a man wish to stick his dick in a jar of pasta sauce, you ask? In this, as in all things, the answer lies with Prince.
Presumably, it was there. And you never know until you try.