I’m a 26-year-old straight male interested in ball busting. At a party I met a lesbian who goes by “Buck.” She’s 20, dresses like a boy, and made it clear that she hates males and their anatomy. Before agreeing to play a friendly game of Truth or Dare, she specified that she would not “do anything” with a boy. My friend Kelly asked, “Would you punch a boy?”
Assuming Buck is a butch dyke and not a retarded one, CBT, she knows damn well that you were getting off on her busting your balls. I mean, come on. Would any man submit to being punched in the sack repeatedly during a “friendly” game of Truth or Dare if it didn’t turn him on? And the fact that Buck paused between punches to make sure you weren’t enjoying it indicates to me that she strongly suspected you were enjoying it. Otherwise, why seek your reassurance to the contrary again and again?
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Directly, SMELT, like a grown-up. Anyone in a relationship with a fully functioning adult should be able to say–cheerfully, without judgment, without fear–“You stink, honey, let’s go jump in the shower.” If she can’t hear that without a meltdown, well, maybe she needs a meltdown the same way Buck might need a freak-out. Make up your mind to treat your partner like an adult, SMELT, and one day she’ll start acting like one.
Damn. I’m an idiot. After I wrote last week’s column, HHBM, I went home to my boyfriend and our son. Our son’s birth mom’s phone number is on our fridge; her picture is on our mantel.
