ERICH SEGAL
Love means never having to say, “That’s just a cold sore, right?”
BIANCA DEL RIO
Finally, a man I can trust. He’s so transparent.
© Jovanni Jimenez-Pedraza
I received A LOT of letters asking me for advice on love and romance. As I sat there, watching my assistant Jamie’s fingers bleed from opening all of the envelopes, I had two immediate thoughts: 1. People have no greater understanding of the art of romance today than they did a thousand years ago, and 2. People are really stupid. They’re asking ME for advice on romance and love. I’m ALONE! Three cocktails and a shirtless Zac Efron selfie and I dump a load on my Barcalounger throw pillow and pass out. What the fuck do I know about love? That said, I answered the questions with as much integrity as I could. Which, as any queen with an IQ over seventeen knows, ain’t much.
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Dear Bianca,
My husband says my vagina is too loose for him. What should I do?
Name withheld
Melania,
How ARE you, my love? Bet this isn’t what you expected when you signed that prenup?
What should you do? Call a good lawyer in Slovenia, that’s what. Might I suggest Gloria Allredczic? Until then cut a lemon wedge and put it in your pussy; sucks it right up!
* * *
Bianca,
I’m a 26-year-old pansexual girl from Australia who seems to only find gay men attractive, help me!
♥♥
Sam
Sam,
What is PANsexual? You only get moist touching a skillet? You rub Farberware all over your snatch? Even I, the Whore of Menlo Park, have no idea what you’re talking about.
As for advice, not sure I can help. I, too, am attracted to gay men. Of course, as a gay man, I actually have a shot at it, while you, my Aussie jackaroo, will be left alone to tickle your fun button to old Peter Allen concert tapes. No man or gay joey will want to get into your pouch; sorry ’bout it. #FuckedUpFagHag
* * *
Dear Bianca:
I just had a baby (10 lbs., 3 oz.) and now my husband and I are dealing with post-pregnancy vagina. Your thoughts?
Robin
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
Dear Robin,
I’m not sure I’m the right person to ask, since (a) I don’t have a husband; (b) I don’t have a child; and (c) I don’t have a vagina, but what the hell, since when has not knowing anything stopped me from opening my big mouth?
And I say “big mouth,” even though my mouth is probably way smaller than your post-pregnancy vagina. I’m serious. While it’s true that I can unhinge my jaw like a snake to swallow a big, meaty cock, there’s no way I could push a ten-pound baby out of there.
Question one is, exactly how beat up is your mommy-pussy? Since the baby weighed over ten pounds (the size of a basketball or small sofa bed) I’m guessing the damage is fairly extensive and that your vaginal walls broke like the levees during Hurricane Katrina. Are your lips so distended that on a windy day they flap in the breeze, and you become airborne like Sally Field in The Flying Nun? Is your vag now so deep and wide that tourists on mules are taking tours to get to the bottom of it? If so, my advice is to call a plastic surgeon. Or FEMA. Or a green and healthy option would be to feed your vagina an organic lemon.
Question two is, WTF do you mean your husband is struggling with your post-pregnancy pussy? Struggling how? When he goes down on you does he fall in, the way Baby Jessica fell into that well? Is there an echo that’s giving him tinnitus? Or is it that the walls are now so far apart his dick can’t hit the sides? If that’s the case, I say string a tightrope across your cooz and teach him to walk it. It’ll be fun for both of you. He’ll get a sense of adventure that will compensate for the lack of friction, and you’ll feel like you’re fucking a French acrobat instead of a produce manager from Wisconsin.
* * *
Dear Ms. Bianca,
My wife won’t stop ignoring me for her tablet. All she does when she gets home is play games on it and watch YouTube videos. I try everything to make myself interesting and get her attention but to NO AVAIL! She only sees her tablet. Sometimes I feel l like I only ever see the screen in front of her face and not her. I fear I might even be forgetting what she looks like. Ms. Del Rio, I am in desperate need of your help!
Annalisa S
Dear Annalisa,
You are experiencing what is known as Lesbian Bed Death (LBD), which is when women in a committed relationship have less and less sex as the relationship goes on and on. Eventually they stop screwing altogether, gain seventy pounds apiece, bring their cats into bed, and go to sleep watching reruns of This Old House.
I’m sorry to say, Annalisa, but there is no cure for LBD, but it can be treated with vibrators, dildos, produce, or sitting on washing machines, and anything plugged into a wall (but you girls know about that already).
FYI, the term Lesbian Bed Death was coined in 1983 by University of Washington sociologist Pepper Schwartz. And if anybody should know about LBD, it should be someone named Pepper Schwartz. That name screams, “Not tonight; I’m too tired to lick your puss, Miriam.” Or maybe it was Pepper’s girlfriend, Miriam, who created the Lesbian Bed Death situation. Maybe Miriam was even more Jewish than Pepper SCHWARTZ and due to kosher dietary laws she wasn’t allowed to nibble her nips while licking her lips. You know, you can’t have milk with meat, and all that. How do you expect your love life to simmer when you constantly have to change pots and dishes? It’s like being colored in the sixties—you don’t know which water fountain to use. It’s very confusing.
So, go to the store, buy a couple of good cucumbers with bumps, some baby oil, and put on Melissa Etheridge’s greatest HIT. When you get home, give your girlfriend a hearty slap on the back, hope your friendship ring doesn’t get caught in her hair, compliment her permed “mullet,” and go into the bathroom for some special “me” time. FYI, there’s always an outlet in a bathroom. Even a gay man knows that.
Have fun!
BDR
* * *
Dear Bianca,
I’m a brown girl. My mum wants me to find a brown guy. Where do I find them? Advice needed.
Mim
Glasgow, Scotland
Mim,
Wait and be patient. Between Syrian refugees, Islamic terrorists, and the Kardashians’ upcoming European vacation, there’ll be plenty of brown people in Scotland soon enough. Have you thought about scat? It works in a pinch.
Uncle Lou and I are VERY close.
© Jovanni Jimenez-Pedraza
* * *
Dear Bianca,
I just passed my driving test and my fiancé won’t buy me a car! I’ve tried the usual “if you loved me you would . . .” and “OMG you don’t love me!” Have I lost my spoilt bitch ways or is he just being a cunt?
Much love xx
Dear Whoever,
Yes, and yes. Yes, you’ve lost your bitch ways, and yes, he’s being a cunt. That said, it’s not too late to regain your power, girl! Have you ever read the story of Lysistrata? Oh, wait, what I am thinking? You misspelled “spoiled”; what are the odds you’ve read ancient Greek mythology?
Anyway, the CliffsNotes version: The women of Greece wanted the men to stop waging wars. Lysistrata, who was the most famous Real Housewife of Sparta, convinced all the townswomen to stop having sex with their husbands until they stopped fighting. In twenty minutes the gals had peace on earth and the men had a piece of puss. I suggest you do the same. Close your holes and bag your hands. Tell your fiancé, “No car, no cooz.” You’ll be giving him head in the backseat of a BMW faster than you can say, “Don’t cum on the seats; it’s a new car!”
* * *
Bianca,
How do I tell my girlfriend of four years that I’m gay?
Leo H
Dear Leo,
This is simple. Next time she’s giving you a blow job, stop her and say, “No, no, no! You’re not doing it right. When
I suck a cock I put my left hand here and . . .” She’ll be out the door before you get around to telling her what you do with your fingers.
Happy sucking!
* * *
Dear Bianca,
I can’t make guys stay. We go on a couple dates and they’re great, but they never stick around longer than that. Can you recommend a higher quality rope they can’t chew through?
Love,
Johnny
Johnny,
You don’t need a higher-quality rope; you need a higher-quality dick. If you had a better handle on how to handle your handle, maybe they’d stick around a little longer.
I once had an Asian boyfriend who was great in bed. (Okay, he wasn’t really a boyfriend; he was the delivery guy from Szechuan Kitchen, but instead of me giving him a tip, he’d give me his tip. He put the soup on the table and his balls on my chin, and we’d let the [chow] fun begin!) Needless to say, he had a small egg roll, but he really knew how to use it. Beyond creative. His favorite game was Pearl Harbor. His dick was a kamikaze plane and my mouth was the USS Arizona. The sex was explosive! To this day, I can’t watch the History Channel without popping a chubby.
* * *
Miss Bianca,
My transgender husband passed away this July. We had been together for many years before he transitioned. I was gay before he transitioned, and I am still gay now. How do I present myself as gay when I tell people my husband passed away? The assumption is that I am straight. I want to present as a gay person without having to share a seven-minute monologue about transgender and sexuality. Help!
Thanks,
Betsy
Dear Betsy,
Maybe introduce yourself as Betsy and not the Widow Betsy. Or say something like, “My husband passed away 427 days after he had his vag turned into a schlong,” or “Yes, I had a husband but now I’m a purveyor of puss.” Or just wear a pink pussy hat and an Ellen T-shirt.
* * *
Dear Bianca,
I just found out that my boyfriend of 2 years cheated on me with one of my friends. I brought it up to them and they both said (separately) that it was a one-time, drunken mistake. I believe them, but don’t know what to do. Any suggestions?
Amy
Jacksonville, Florida
Dear Amy,
Find new friends. Find a new boyfriend. Or FUCK your boyfriend’s brother AND your friend’s boyfriend and call it even.
Muah xoxo
* * *
Bianca,
How do I comically come out to my Muslim parents?
Humza Ali M.
To Humza It May Concern:
Do you want to make them laugh until their stomachs hurt, or until they behead you? This is a really serious question; thank God Allah, you’ve come to right place. For who knows more about an ancient religion steeped in sexist, homophobic dogma and tradition than a tired old drag queen from bayou country?
First of all, I have no idea if you’re a boy or a girl. Is Humza male, female, or a sturdy new all-terrain vehicle from General Motors? I find Muslim names very confusing. For example, here in America, we had boxing great Muhammad Ali. But we also have the comedienne Ali Wentworth. Ali was Muslim but Ali is not. See my point. (FYI, Ali Wentworth is married to ABC newsman George Stephanopoulos. And Stephanopoulos is Greek for “Ali.”)
If you’re a boy, don’t say anything. They’ll cut off your head if they find out you give head. You know those white sheets you wear out there in the desert? Start getting them in floral prints with a higher thread count. Your parents will quietly figure it out on their own.
If you’re a girl, you won’t have to say anything. You’ll be forced to cover head to toe in heavy black burkas in the desert; you’ll be sweating like a pack animal. When Mom and Dad wonder why you aren’t married you won’t have to open the lezzie closet. Just say, “Why don’t I have a guy? Because it’s eight hundred fucking degrees out here, and under this burka, I smell like a dead camel! Not even a blind cleric would want to hump.”
My advice? Sit them down and say, “Mom, Dad . . . I have something to tell you. I don’t want you to be mad. Don’t worry, I’m not Jewish . . .” After that, anything should be okay.
* * *
Dearest Bianca,
I’m sixteen years old. My older sister Donna (she’s seventeen) is really pretty and I’m jealous of her. I’m decent looking, but she’s way prettier. I’m tired of being called the “smart one.” The “smart ones” never go out with the quarterback. They do his homework while he goes out with the pretty ones. I want to be as pretty as my sister. What can I do?
Beth
Buffalo, New York
Dear Beth,
My heart goes out to you; being the ugly sibling is never easy, just ask my sister. But I think I can help.
For starters, how ’bout a little perspective? You live in Buffalo, New York. It’s a great city but not exactly a hotbed for supermodels or Playboy Bunnies. In fact, the prettiest girl in Buffalo is a divorced fifty-eight-year-old father of six, named Stosh Wasznewski. Which means either your vision of beauty has been blinded by one too many blizzards, or you’re REALLY not a looker.
So, short of moving to Cleveland, where you’d be considered a ten, here are a couple of things you can do:
Have plastic surgery to look just like your sister.
Tell all the guys in your school that Donna has vaginal warts, and her cooz looks like a holiday gourd.
Pay your lesbian letter carrier fifty bucks to hit her in the face a coupla times with a garden shovel.
If all that fails, and she’s STILL the pretty one, then change your name to Eleanor Roosevelt, marry a rich cripple, and become a lesbian yourself.
* * *
Dear Bianca,
Being gay, overweight, bald and physically disabled means I’ve been single my whole life and haven’t had sex for over 9 years. Here’s my question: How many cats can a bitter 36-year-old queen adopt before I turn into a crazy cat lady?
Miguel M.
Los Angeles, California
Dear Miguel,
You say you’re a bald, overweight, physically disabled, bitter old queen. That’s not completely true. You’re only thirty-six.
So don’t give up hope. They say “there’s someone for everyone.” And I believe that. I’m sure that somewhere in this great country of ours there’s a special man waiting just for you! It’s up to you to find him. So shine your scalp, wax your belly, polish your wheels, and get going! There are fifty states to search, but I suggest you start your manhunt at the local braille institute!
Good luck, Miguel. Keep me posted. Is it okay if I give your number to Lady Bunny?
Xoxo
BDR
* * *
Dear Bianca:
My wife and I have been married for 35 years. We have two grown children who are out of the house. Since my wife went through menopause she has no interest in sex whatsoever. According to the doctors we’ve been to, this is not going to change. Last month I started seeing female “massage therapists,” who gave me massages with “happy endings.” But now I feel guilty, not happy. I don’t want to hurt my wife, but I also don’t want to spend the rest of my life in a loveless marriage. I don’t know what to do.
Heartsick & Horny in Hartford
Dear H&H,
This is a VERY common problem among hetero, married men. Not so much gay men—but my elderly “sisters” could get a stiffie for the coroner doing their autopsies. They could get their dicks harder than their arteries.
Have you told your wife about your meetings with Happy Fingers and her fondling friends? I’m betting not. One of the things you could do is tell her. Just because her vag is bone dry doesn’t mean your bone doesn’t need wetting. While her legs may not be open, perhaps her mind is, and she might be okay with allowing a massage “therapist” to work the muscles in your dick. But I doubt it.
I don’t believe in staying in a loveless marriage. Hell, I don’t believe in staying i
n a loving marriage. Who wants to hit the same old hole, night after night, month after month, year after year? BORING! The first time you visit Howe Caverns it’s very exciting. The second time, not so much. But the eight-thousandth time? Even El Chapo would get tired of the same old tunnel.
If your wife can’t prime her pooch to prime your pump, maybe it’s time to part ways. (And if you send me some hot dick pics, maybe I can be of service.)
Good luck!
B
P.S. Your massage “therapist” is about as much a “therapist” as I am an actual queen. She’s just a hooker who’ll rub your back before your balls. An actual queen rules over a country; I just run a drag show for old homos who have nowhere to go on Tuesday afternoons during happy hour. Don’t judge.
* * *
Bianca,
This past year I took part in the Women’s March on Washington, and posted my pictures on Facebook and Instagram. My mother-in-law saw them and called me, demanding to know what was wrong with my marriage and “how dare I” embarrass her son. My marriage is fine, and my husband supported my marching. What should I do? I don’t want to create a problem.
Nancy
Boston, Massachusetts
Dear Nancy,
Unfortunately, Princess, you already HAVE a problem; it’s the old hag your hubby calls “Mommy,” and it’s a problem on a couple of levels.
Your mother-in-law, let’s call her “Fuckface,” assumes that because you marched with a bunch of lezzies wearing pussy hats you’re having marital problems. I’d never be caught dead in a pussy hat (I’d vote FOR domestic violence or breast cancer before I’d wear one of those things), but wearing one says you have shitty taste in hats, not husbands.
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