For Valentine’s Day, I thought about taking some fetish pictures for my husband, but I’m nervous about getting hacked. I’m a well-known lawyer, so it could be weird. Am I too paranoid?
— Legal Eaglette
It may cost you an iPhone X to fund the antiquated machine and its film, but you’re a lawyer, so be quiet. (It’s really not that expensive.)
Polaroid will produce one copy. It’ll only leak if your husband snaps a picture of your anal beads and blasts it to Vladimir Putin and Co.
If you trust your dude, you’re safe.
If your bits do become gifs (Sliding through Monday like… *naked picture of you riding a pig that’s dressed in shiny black latex with an apple in its mouth*), just ride it out. There will be less of a trace with no face, so wear a gas mask.
If your privacy is compromised, well, you’re a lawyer. Amicus curiae. De facto. Per curiam. Overruled. Lawyer jargon. Sue Russia.
Avoid anything that is panic-inducing. It’s not worth it for your health. Gift your dude a Glamour Shot instead. I’ll get Ronald McDonald on the horn — he does a bang-up makeup job.
I’ve heard that once gals have sewn their wild oats in their 20s and hit their 30s, there’s no more fun sex. I’ve been told that girls who perform freaky sex when they are young only do it because they are trying to land the guy, so they turn it all on during the courting period.
— Looking for Fun Sex
See: Glory Hole:
“Courting period.” Are we at the fucking malt shop? You’re a moron.
Unless sex has been commissioned for an LED screen, she’s not performing, she’s participating. (Well, for you, she might be “performing” because you suck in the sack.)
Oh, how the days have changed, Mr. Ball Sag. Pray tell me, what’s considered “fun sex”? Her staring at your hemorrhoids while you 69? Slopping mustard on her buns while you rub your hot dog in it? Twisting your nipples while she milks your prostate?
Like cat or dog lovers, vegans or meat eaters, Republicans or Democrats, people have different ideas of “fun sex.” Take our president, for one …
Ugh, never mind. Pop goes my libido. Just thinking about him is birth control. I need a drink.
Anyway, with age and maturity, fetishes morph and limberness dwindles. Take a 25-year-old woman who’s gang-banging hanging from a chandelier, then hits 30 and throws her back out a couple times a year. She doesn’t hate fun; she just can’t twist like a pretzel anymore.
Instead of pinning your lack of enjoyment on others, seek out what the ladies like and respect their requests. That’s sexy. Then after she falls asleep, you can jam your Lil Smokie in the Nutella jar with one thumb up your ass and the other in your mouth.