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Dear
Mynx

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    PlanetQuake | Features | Dear Mynx | Murfburger.
   

This Week:  Rubbers, toe jam, unrequited lesbian love, and dark penises.  Does it get any better than this?  Don't miss the poop puddle Embarrassment, either - there's one I know I'm aways terrified of!


  Care and Feeding of Pet Condoms
I have a condom in my wallet. Now, I know that after awhile condoms should not be used, just like any other perishable item, but how long is too long?

-Ribber

The official word is that you shouldn't carry it in a wallet more than a few *hours*.  The longer you carry it around, especially if you carry it in your back pocket where you sit on it, the more risk you take that you're damaging it somehow.  Being exposed to the constant heat and pressure of your hot hairy ass can only lead to trouble, because as we all well know, condoms just weren't designed for hot hairy asses.  Extreme temperatures, most especially heat, can make latex gummy or brittle like an old balloon.  And who wants a brittle gummy old balloon on their tool?  There is really no need to carry a condom with you everywhere you go.  You're probably not going to be smacking the squirrel with the cute checkout girl when you trot off the the grocery to buy some cheese and such.  Chances are, you'll be aware ahead of time if you'll be in situations that may possibly require barrier contraception.  So, slip one of those stretchy bad boys in your wallet before you head in to such occasions, and drop it back in the drawer when you get home.  Always check your condom before you use it, too.  When you're gearing up for the roll on, make sure the package is not torn or pierced in any way, open it gently, and be sure the latex isn't sticking to itself.  Oh, and for petey's sake, make sure you put it on the right way, eh?  If you stick it on backwards, you've just ruined that raincoat.  It's kind of hard to do in the dark and I've made that mistake myself, but just pay attention to the task at, er, hand, and you should be fine.

  Ew, Yucky.
I've got this problem, You see, I'm turned on by toe jam. I steal it from womans shoes and rub it up against my naughty places then giggle like a school girl. When I look at womans feet I wonder what kind of toe jam they have. When I masturbate I fantasize about womans toe jam. On the beach I stare at peoples feat and wonder about their toe jam! It drives me crazy!

It all started when I was 7 years old. My father owned a shoe store and I was dares to lick thoroughly the inside of old tradein shoes and get toe jam on my tongue. After that little event I couldn't stop thinking about toe jam. When I'm at work I stare at my bosses feat when she talks to me and wonder what kind of toe jam she'd have to offer. Even thinking about the toe jam that your lovely feet hold turns me on. (would you mind sending me a batch of your toe jam?)
But I feel that this toe jam fetish of mine will ruin my sex life totally, no one knows about it except for you, myself and everyone who reads this.  Please mynx. There must be something you can do. You are my last hope!

-Jammin

Ergh I'm not sure even I can help you.  That's pretty freakin gross.  I mean, yuck.  I guess I should give you my obligatory line of 'whatever yanks your pud and makes you smile' or something, but that's still pretty squicky.  I've had a man or two lick my toes, but nobody ever seemed all that intent on licking between them, and I'll tell you, that's just fine with me.  I'm ticklish.

So, no, I won't be sending you any toe jam.  I'm not even sure I actually produce toe jam, although I do have extraordinarily cute feet.  Most fetishes can find a place in a normal healthy sex life, you just need to find a partner willing to indulge you, on occasion.  I mean, hey, if your chick is cool with you lapping up the lint between her toes, then what's the problem?  Just make sure you indulge her fetishes, too. ;)

  Chasing Amy
For the past year I've been going to this IRC channel.  I've made lots of friends there during that past year, in particular this girl who lives in Maryland (I'm in Oregon, and for those of you who are not geographically knowledgeable, we live on opposite ends of the USA).  This past summer I discovered that I began to have feelings for her that go beyond friendship.  My affection for her has just grown and grown since then, but I find my feelings for her are being hampered by a few important facts.

1.  She's 14, I'm 19.  But don't let her age fool you, she's wise beyond her ears.  In fact before I knew the truth, I thought she was closer 16 or 17 rom the way she handled herself. 
2.  She plays for the _other_ team, and has a girl she's fixated on at her school, which she of course tells me all about and makes me kinda depressed that I'm not the object of her affection.
3.  I'm a big wussy and can't bring myself to tell her how I really feel about her.
4.  She loves me like a brother.  In fact she even calls me her big brother in the chat room.

I don't want to tell her how I feel and then have our friendship ruined because of it.  I want nothing but the best for her, and I love to see her happy, but I'm about 99.9% sure that she won't return my feelings on the matter.

What should I do??

-Holden

Welp, lemme see.  How to phrase this delicately... Oh, I know: GET OVER IT.  Not only is she practically still a child and you're way too old for her at this stage of life, but she's gay.  Gay!  As in, she smurfs murfburgers.  She likes the beans instead of the weenies.  She's all about slot B and nothing to do with tab A.  And you, honey, are Tab A all the way. You are just gunna have to accept that this inkwell ain't for dipping, and move on with your life.  Affection for her is fine.  Leave it at that.

  The Dark Meat
I have a problem. Actually, I have two, the first is that I'm coming to you for advice, but the second is a little more personal. It appears my "love-pole" and "spadge-producers" are a darker hue than the rest of the surrounding tissue. I can't see any reason for this, and it blends to a darker color pretty unassumingly. Is this normal? I'm an aussie male, Caucasian, but on a close-up in a porno you could swear my first name was Jamal.

No amount of washing gets it lighter, and I think it's starting to freak out chicks when we get down to pumping the rump.

What do I do? 

-Jamal

There's nothing you can do.  The skin you're in is the skin you're in.  No amount of washing or scrubbing (ow!) is going to change the color of your wookie.  It's normal for your genitals to be a different color than your other skin, but like the entire rest of the world, the color of your skin is oh so variable.  It's not like you've got a purple dick with yellow polka dots - there's nothing to be ashamed of.  If the person you're jabbing is paying enough attention to the skin on your slimjim then she's not paying enough attention to what she should be doing.  Get used to the shade of your shmeckle, it's the only one you're going to have.  The Two of you may as well shake hands and make friends.

Embarrassment Spotlight
Apparently our poop related embarrassment spotlights have sparked a trend.  This one comes to us from poor old Slam, who just couldn't hold it in any longer. 

A couple of years ago, I was at a birthday event for an in-law at a restaurant in downtown Portland.  There were about a dozen of my wife's relatives at the function, including her cute little Grandma, whose husband had passed away not too much earlier that year.  Now, Grandma is a pretty straight-laced Southern Baptist type, and she tolerates no nonsense whatsoever, and a dirty mouth is definitely construed as nonsense.  One does not say "poop" or "butt" in her presence, much less any of the more vulgar expletives I am wont to use on a more or less regular basis.  She's given me a "look" or two over the years for an overheard doozy here or there, but she nonetheless likes me a great deal.

On to the point.  Once dinner is done and people begin to disperse, a few of us are loitering in front of the restaurant (on the sidewalk in downtown).  I've been not feeling too well that day, in a way that will become clear momentarily.  While chatting up Grandma politely, I feel that I must pass a small amount of gas.  I cautiously do so, only to my utter horror, it is so not gas.  Some nice, stinky gravy is deposited in my khaki shorts, worn that day without underwear for God knows what reason, runs down my left leg, and forms a puddle roughly 6 inches in diameter at my feet.  I look Grandma straight in the face, and in my consternation, inform her, "I just SHIT my FUCKING pants!!"  My brother-in-law, standing very nearby, finds this all completely hilarious.

Although any plans we had been formulating for after dinner fun were pretty much shot (I had to waddle 2 blocks to where the car was parked, with my wife kindly and bravely walking directly behind me) and even given the fact
that I still have to hear or tell the story in mixed company at least annually, there really is a happy ending to this achingly embarrassing story, or I could not bear to tell it.

My mother-in-law tells me that Grandma could be heard laughing softly the remainder of the evening, in the guest bedroom that night, and still the next morning, the first laugh she'd had since Grandpa died.

 


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