I’m 19, female, bisexual and have been with the same guy for a year and things are great. I came home for Christmas and he went to his parents’ house, and I’ll see him in a few weeks. For Christmas, my mom got me some typical “mom” gifts – socks and underwear – but the panties had Disney princesses on them. I feel like a pedophile just owning them! I get it: She doesn’t like the idea that I might be having sex, especially with the alarming rate that babies are popping out of teenage girls – but, come on.

Holiday Blues

Even if Mom was trying to send you a coded message – and I am not convinced that was her intent – you can turn the lemons of your mother’s disapproval into the lemonade of a good, safe, responsible sex life. So Mom is not happy about her daughter being sexually active – that’s too bad for Mom, right? Show Mom that her fears were misplaced by making sure you don’t get knocked up or knocked around.

As for feeling like a pedophile, HB, there’s nothing pedo about a 19-year-old bi chick in Disney-princess underpants. A little girl in those panties is innocent and darling. A sexually active 19-year-old in those panties is ironic and daring. (A quick poll of straight men – or man, as the sample size was small – also revealed that 100 percent consider 19-year-old bisexual girls in Disney panties “sexy as fucking hell.”)

I realize Savage Love is a sex-advice column (as evidenced by much vulgar language), but I’m going to ask anyway. What is your definition of love? How do you know if you’re in “love”? How do you know if they’re the “one”?


Love is making out with someone after you’ve blown a load on his/her face. You know you’re in love when you’re eating breakfast in a restaurant together the morning after he/she blew a load on your face and you suddenly realize that you didn’t wash your face when you got out of bed that morning and you don’t care. You know he/she is the one when he/she realizes that you’ve just realized that you’re eating breakfast in a restaurant the morning after he/she blew a load on your face and you didn’t wash your face when you got out of bed and he/she smiles, leans over the table and gives you a kiss.

I am a 27-year-old straight male. My girlfriend and I are getting serious, but one issue stands between us and a bright future.

I have always been paranoid regarding the size of my penis. I know from research that, when erect, I am just slightly to the left of the bell-curve peak. I thought I had learned to accept this. My renewed feeling of insecurity stems from a comment my girlfriend made in an attempt to offer me some reassurance about the size of my genitalia. In an attempt to alleviate my worries, my girlfriend observed that it sometimes hurts when a penis is “really huge.” She then let it slip that her ex-boyfriend of five years was famous in their high school due to “locker-room gossip.” Further buttressing my fears, my girlfriend confessed that the only time her ex-boyfriend’s penis hurt her was after having three or more encounters in a single day. Unfortunately, I fear that I am not satisfying her.

She says she is having the best sex of her life with me. I see two possible explanations for this assertion on her part: She is telling the truth, or she is not satisfied and is lying to me and our relationship will break down due to her lack of sexual satisfaction.

All I seek is your blunt, objective opinion, however harsh it may be.

Long Insecure Man Pensive

I cut your letter by four-fifths and it’s still fucking interminable. If you’ve managed to land a girlfriend who can put up with your florid rhetorical style — you don’t by chance own a comic-book shop in Springfield, do you? — you should count your blessings.

I’m sorry, LIMP, but if your girlfriend’s assurances about the quality of your sex life and her preference for average-size cock isn’t enough to set you at ease, nothing I can say in this space is going to do the trick. Even if your girlfriend was a virgin when you met and yours was the only dick she’d ever laid thighs on, LIMP, you would still be paranoid. You would send me letters insisting that your girlfriend could never truly be satisfied with you, having never experienced the more girthsome appendages of males lucky enough to be more impressively endowed blah blah blah.

If size were all that mattered, Ron Jeremy would be People’s “Sexiest Man Alive” every year instead of George Clooney, Matt Damon and Brad Pitt. If knowing your girlfriend used to be with a guy who had a huge dick — with him three or four times a day, for five long, pussy-punishing years — is more than your fragile ego can handle, do your girlfriend a favor and dump her now.

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