Dear Christy,

I like wearing women's underwear. There, I said it. Am I weird? I'm definitely not gay. I'm just into being comfortable.

—Lad luxurious in lingerie

Chantilly Lace:

As the touch of silk caressed his dimpled posterior, the feel of elastic string hugged his freshly shaved taint. As he rolled on his side, with a twinkle in his thought, he inner-monologued, "Today feels like polka-dots."

(So begins my "69 Shades of Foreplay.")

I wear dude's Converse. Does that mean I'm gay? Nope. I just can't fit into women's shoes. (I'm pretty like that.)

So you have the incessant yearning to tug at your hiney on occasion. That doesn't mean you're gay. Who wants panty lines? "Not me," says we!

Christy Fantz
Christy Fantz

Stereotyping is scandalous!

(To the world of wisecracks: A stereotype a day keeps the wisdom away. Don't be ignorant. We don't go sniffing around your covert closet. It smells like shame in there.)

Sure, the world is alive with hypocrisy. A broad can catwalk a pair of tighty whiteys on Tyra Bank's forehead, and she'd be crowned America's Next Top Dogma.

All you want to do is wrap your testes in taffeta.

(A word from the wise: Women's underwear blows. If I didn't have a permanent skirt sewed to my waist, I'd be free-boxing it all the livelong day.)

So, since double standards abound, it's our job to kick 'em in the crotch. Once conservative congressmen stop judging "the gays" while simultaneously feeding quarters to airport BJ machines, we've made progress.


You shouldn't have to succumb to society's bigotry.

We all have varied flavors of taste and the more we closet our secrets, the more bizarre the world tags it. Own your paradox like a whiskey on the rocks, wearing silk socks. (It rhymed.)

You get your pretty ass out there and whale-tail the ever-loving male out of those skivvies.

In the end, if you're still too insecure about things, just maybe don't take your pants off in public.

Dear Christy,

My girlfriend's best girlfriend does nothing but gossip. It's immature and insulting. Should I call her out?

—Grow up

Grown up:

Eventually, the gossiper will become the gossipee. (I'm like a giant Buddha, covered in malted hops and bong resin.)

In my years of "adulthood" (or so they say), I've come across many a gossip. I've found that these snoops are insecure, so they feed their needs by blathering rumors in order to pump their own failing confidence.

You can try changing the subject when she meddles with hearsay, but many times these parrots are all-consumed and can't zip their lips from puking mud. This evil hobby will rear its ugly head one day and all will take her with a mere grain of fickleness.

Ignore her. The less attention you give the slug, the less she'll come to you for support.

You can also try salting her. Slugs hate that.

xoxo, Gossip Girl.

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