A Severe Case of Not-So-Straight Love

A faithful reader needed our help, and we were only too happy to comply. Send us your questions, we have many nuggets of wisdom to give.

Dear Ruthless Ranters,

I am having an issue with straight love. I’ve just moved to Arlington, VA; business casual attire capital of the world, ground zero for the Happy Hour, and homeland of the kraut preferred, mother approved, binary gender expression. This is the straight capital of Virginia and maybe the entire eastern seaboard (well, excluding Golds Gym’s Sauna around 10 on Wednesdays). Amid the sea of light blue J. Crew oxford shirts and khaki shorts I am finding myself increasingly attracted to the guy who stands out, Mr. Duke Lacrosse.

I see him in Georgetown. I see him at Whitlows and at the Clarendon Ballroom. I see him everywhere I go in his mesh jersey with the cut off sleeves. I hear him pontificate on how the captain of his team only acted with the best of intentions when inviting that stripper over for some fun with his teammates. Now I know without a doubt that he was falsely accused. So, in light of these developments I ask you, oh experienced one who’s stripped down, strapped on, and conquered more sweet laxers than she can count, how do I take this one down – is my straight love for him getting in the way of getting his legs in the air?

Please Help!
- Blue Shirt and Khaki Shorts

Dear Blue Shirt,

Your situation does indeed appear daunting: you are living amongst the filthiest of kraut, who, despite their prestigious liberal arts college degrees, probably still believe at the core of their soulless shells that sex and gender are the same thing. The “heteroflexible” craze that has recently swept across certain parts of the northeast has clearly penetrated no further into the Arlington scene than the occasional str8 gurl humming Katy Perry. Your love interest, our dear friend Mr. Duke Lacrosse, appears to be the height of hetero, and some might say to forget it. But I, my dear friend, know what it’s like to lust after such a man: how he smells (Polo by Ralph Loren), what he wears (same), and above all that beaming, rosy face (there’s something so sexy in the way his cheeks closely resemble a baby’s ass). My dear khaki-clad friend, you will be overjoyed to hear that I don’t have to make the acquaintance of this fine gentleman to know that he wants you too.

How do I know this? First of all, I think everyone is missing the point of the whole stripper mess: it’s clearly a cover. Better that these sweet laxers be a part of that time-honored tradition – the sex scandal – than let everyone know the only too obvious truth: they love the cock. Watch closely as the object of your lust takes a moment to greet his bros (a lot of ass-grabbing is involved). But this bro-love will never be consummated, because despite his strength, swagger, and that weird thing he does with his shoulders, this laxer has a secret desire: he just wants to be dominated. Coming from a fine tradition of rich white men, he has been taught his whole life to act as if he has personally just conquered the new world, but trust me, in his heart he wants nothing more than to be thrown up against a wall, tied to the bed, and ravaged by you. So invest in a whip or some handcuffs, and make some particularly intense homo eye contact the next time you see him at Starbucks. It won’t be long before you’re using his lacrosse stick to play a game on your Astroturf.

Go Duke!
- A fellow lax-lover