Darling Bull Dyke Sterling,
In the immortal words of Lacan: You don't want a dick, what you really want is a master.
I'll be the first to admit, that sometimes a dick is just a dick, but when it's your boss' khaki sheathed member--especially M., who's from the same part of Newark as your father and even shares the same initials, as you told me the other week at Beige--then I'm tempted to think that there's something more to it.
But thanks much for the horned-out details. I nearly choked on my Triscuits! Darling, you aren't having sexuality issues. None of us are, sad to say. Our problems are much deeper than any of that! For instance, your desire to get on your knees and say "yes, Sir may I have another" and my desire to sink into a lifetime of hor d'eourves and malaise in an upstate suburb along the Hudson.
Let's do brunch--the three of us. TRUE's having a holiday from the bars this weekend (speaking of problems!). She'll be at my place, at least as far as I know.
And now...for something we all REALLY need. Bjork Russian dolls! I've already entered the three of us! And I'm playing to win!
Cheers, My Lovely Queer Dears!

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