Ms. Behavior®: Practicing Proctology Without a License
Dear Ms. Behavior:
I’m not a proctologist (at least not by formal training,) but as a gay man in my extremely early 40s, I’ve had many first-hand experiences with an amazing variety of assholes. These “exams” have invariably delighted my graciously accommodating partners. However, a recent sexual episode has convinced me that I need the advice of someone who has her finger on the pulse of gay ethics and morals.
My quandary: Last week after immobilizing a very recent (instant) acquaintance with duct tape and clamping a gas mask over his face — not MY scene, but I try to be accommodating — I noticed a strange irregularity in my trick’s rectum. A ridged bump just beyond the prostate. Mentioning this suspicious growth at the point of discovery, would have ruined the atmosphere that the sling, mirrors, saran wrap, 50 feet of rope and three lengths of chain had taken several hours to create. (Honestly, these days I sometimes feel more like a combination sailor, mechanic, fashion consultant, and interior decorator than a sex pig.) I figured I could spill the beans after he spilled his load.
Yet after I managed to cut the duct tape off his torso, take the gasmask from his face, and introduce myself, I had second thoughts about my diagnosis. I was honestly concerned for his health, but I am not a physician and I didn’t want to needlessly ruin the remnants of his summer vacation with anxious thoughts of colon cancer. I figured I’d have him jot down his e-mail address and perhaps suggest via the Internet that he make an appointment with a qualified physician in his hometown.
Unfortunately, I didn’t notice the illegibility of his handwriting until mid afternoon of the next day, three hours after his plane flew out of the airport. (I think the cotton swabs dipped in head cleaner that he insisted I shove into the gas mask tube must have affected his motor skills.) “Sex Pig Kevin in D.C.” is vague search criteria even for Google, so I fear locating him may unlikely. I’m worried for my new . . . friend. I feel guilty, but I don’t know what to do. My motto has always been “make the world a happier place — one ass at a time.” Somehow I feel that I’ve failed my mission in a most elemental way.
I’m not sure if I’m looking to you for absolution or perhaps asking you to warn others of the negative effects of saran wrap, or head cleaner, or duct tape, or faulty penmanship, or a combination of all the above. I’m in your hands.
Clearly, Ms. Behavior needs to write an etiquette manual for sex pigs. Since many of you are gentlemen who are very concerned with the happiness of your partners, you need detailed instruction on gracious ways to proceed in these delicate circumstances.
Upon discovering your date’s rectal irregularity, you should have cut off his oxygen supply until he lost consciousness and etched your best guess at his proctology diagnosis into his buttocks (backwards) with a razor. Upon awakening, the painful skin of his rump would have caused your date to look in the mirror, where he would see the crusty scab detailing your medical opinion. He’d immediately know that: a) you’re a loving concerned man; b) you’re a skilled diagnostician; and c) his ass is safe with you. Of course hindsight is of little use now, so you’ll have to think of another way to contact him.
You might try placing an ad in the personal pages of a few D.C.-area gay publications or perhaps some relevant Facebook pages, saying something like, “Kevin, who likes gas masks and duct tape, it’s very important that you contact me.” Then leave your e-mail address and hope that he’ll follow through. Of course, you’ll probably have to weed through countless responses from other men who long to be restrained and gassed, but that’s the price you’re bound to pay for your lack of thoroughness during this recent encounter.