DEAR READERS: Folks who have the Savage Love app get the Savage Love Letter of the Day (SLLOTD) delivered to their iPhones or Androids. This week, I'm running three recent SLLOTDs to give print-only readers a taste of what they're missing. I'm also giving myself a break: I'm dashing around the country on a book tour for It Gets Better: Coming Out, Overcoming Bullying, and Creating a Life Worth Living. (Order a copy -- or donate one to your old middle or high school -- at www.itgetsbetter.org.)
But I want to take this opportunity to thank Savage Love readers for launching the It Gets Better Project.
My husband and I created the project in response to the suicides of several LGBT youth. The idea was to give bullied and despairing LGBT youth hope by encouraging LGBT adults to reach out to them via YouTube. (For the record: Not all LGBT youth are bullied or despairing.) Savage Love readers helped spread the word about the project, and created the very first wave of IGBP videos. Savage Love readers made the project an international phenomenon and, more importantly, helped save the lives of LGBT kids.
Whether it's taking on a bigot like Rick Santorum, coming to the defense of Constance McMillen or helping bullied LGBT teen-agers, you are a force to be reckoned with. Thanks for all you do.
My fiancé is awesome. I'm very happy we are getting married. But when he gets upset, he literally throws things, punches things (never me), and screams obscenities. What makes him upset? Losing his keys, being overcharged at the supermarket, missing the subway. These moments are humiliating for me. On top of that, I had an abusive father and, though my fiancé would never in a million years hit or abuse me, his tantrums remind me of those childhood experiences.
I have tentatively broached the subject of therapy, but he is not interested. I don't know what to do.
He hasn't hit you ... yet.
I'm not saying he'll definitely get around to hitting you. But a man who goes apeshit when he misses the subway is likely to go apeshit on his wife: Marriages are more stressful than commutes. And it's disturbing that you're already tiptoeing around this guy ("I have tentatively broached the subject") and making excuses for him ("My fiancé would never in a million years hit or abuse me").
Emergency rooms, divorce courts and graveyards are filled with women who once said, "My fiancé would never in a million years hit me."
The time for tentative broaching has passed, and the time for confronting has arrived: He gets his ass into therapy and gets a grip on his anger issues, or the wedding is off. And this can't be about seeing a therapist once or twice to mollify you. He has to solve this problem before you pick out cake-toppers. If he won't get help, or if he can't solve this problem even with help, do not marry him.
I'm female, bi, mid-20s, and involved in the kink scene in NYC. I'm not into public sex or group sex; that's just not appealing to me. One of my closest friends is having a birthday party with a straight-up orgy. I don't want to be a no-show, but sitting around fully dressed, trying to make small talk while a fisting scene is taking place two feet away? AWKWARD. I thought about going for the first half, and leaving before it turns into an orgy. But what excuse could I give?
Wallflower At The Orgy
How about the truth?
If you're mature enough to be part of NYC's kink scene, you're mature enough to tell your friend: "I love you, but orgies just aren't my thing. I'll be at your party, but I'm going to slip out before the first fist disappears into the first orifice."
If anyone should be able to hear that without taking offense, it's a member of an organized kink scene. All kinksters ask is an open mind, thoughtfulness about consent and safety, and clarity about boundaries. No one in a kink scene expects that all kinks appeal to all kinksters equally.
So go to the party, wish your friend a happy birthday, then head for the door when you hear the snap of the first latex glove.
I am a 28-year-old woman, living in a town with a big military base. About a year ago, I noticed this torn-up-looking guy in a bar. His wife had just been deployed and was going to be gone for nine months. He said he didn't think he'd make it. We wound up having sex. I moved in a few days after that. The whole thing revolved around nobody asking questions. Over time, I fell in love with him, and I thought he fell in love with me. If I thought about the future, I told myself he'd leave his wife for me.
Yesterday, he woke up and said, "It's over. She's coming home today." He kept coming up with these unbelievable lines: We had a good thing, he'd miss my love, etc. Then he told me to look away so he wouldn't have to watch me crying!
I know I was a fool, but who was the bigger jerk?
Seeing as you spent the last nine months attempting to be the author of someone else's misery -- his wife's -- it's kind of hard to feel sorry for you. But he's the bigger jerk.
He took up with another woman during his wife's absence, and allowed this other woman to move in. The other woman avoided conversations about the future because she was afraid of finding out that she didn't have one; he avoided conversations about the future because he was afraid the other woman would leave if he told her she didn't have one. And then he tossed the other woman out on her ass the very day his wife returned to the States, giving her very little time to make other living arrangements.
You both deserve new assholes -- but he deserves a slightly bigger one.
Find the Savage Lovecast (my weekly podcast) every Tuesday at thestranger.com/savage.