Ask Lovestar

Behind-the-tree, hinterland-borne advice to keep the alpenglow firing.

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Dear Captain Lovestar,
I’m a 28-year-old electrician and ice climber. I’m 5’4″, and I’m into really tall babes. I’ll tell ya, there’s nothing like walking upright, face first, into a set of love pillows and motor boating standing up. And I just can’t get enough of long, leggy expeditions from the ankle all the way to the—you know. Seriously, if my raison d’être were a divining rod, tall women would be its water. But here’s the problem: I’m kind of embarrassed by it, so my relationships never last. I went out to dinner with a perfect woman last week; she was even wearing heels. When she stood, it was like being at the bottom of K2, I wanted to climb that mountain then and there! But with everyone watching, I also felt like a leprechaun courting an Amazon, and a bit ashamed of my . . . would you call it a “fetish”? So I didn’t call her back after we hooked up. What do I do?
—Confused in Canmore

Hello Can-You-Be-More-Confused,
I could go on, but basically, get over your-self—even if “yourself” doesn’t add up to much when it comes to elevation. No one cares about height difference. In fact, the more extreme the polarity, the better. K2 is somewhere in Asia, right? Well, let’s take some wisdom from the ancients. I’d say your fetish is better described as a perfect example of yin and yang: your giant smallness and her luxurious prowess are actually complementary, interconnected and interdependent. Nature says so. No need for a cave if there’s nothing to go in it. Right? Night can’t exist without day. Sounds like the divining rod points towards the dwarfness of your physical insecurity, which you need to leap over like a proud l’il leprechaun.
—Lovestar

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Dear Captain Lovestar,
First-time writer, long-time reader. There’s a question that I absolutely NEED answered. One of the male editors of this very magazine and I ended up in a confusing situation a couple years ago. What started out as a harmless evening of authentic Greek cuisine eventually transitioned into what the Urban Dictionary refers to as a “Devil’s Threesome” (two guys, one girl). I think we were all seduced by the romantic opportunities offered by a pullout couch in a dimly lit basement. Either way, my question is this: if the petting was only light and the finer details are lost in a black hole of booziness, do I need to consider by sexual constitution? I just got a job offer in North Carolina, so I should probably figure this out.
—Blaine Wolokowski

Hello First Time, Long Time,
Ah, the Greeks. Those heady philosophers and their affliction for phallic food types: olives and cucumbers and clumps of discombobulated cheese. I’m not surprised, and of course it’s harmless! Sure, you might be bisexual, and that’s okay. Most of us are; we either don’t know it, or we’re afraid of it. The stigma wafts in modern society’s stale spanakopitas. But please, don’t diminish this because of the ouzo and the low light. Love comes in many shapes, sizes and sexes. Sometimes it pets, sometimes it wears a toga, and it will always take a pullout couch. Perhaps it’s time to read some Plato? He was a genius, and he questioned traditional sexuality—just sayin’.
—Lovestar

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Dear Captain Lovestar,
I’m a 38-year-old male resident of a mountain town that wishes to remain anonymous. Honestly, I’m pretty handsome, or at least I was 10 years ago. My concern is I’ve sexed my way through every single available female of breeding age in the entire municipality: the landscaper girl (strong!), the liquor-store hottie (obviously, lol!), even the quiet head of electronic records at the public library (soooper dirty, bro). I’ve even turned over the cougar stones (my buddy Gord’s mom at the boutique? Kinda scary, actually). What’s an eligible mountain bachelor to do? Thanks, man.
—Sexless in Green Gables

Dearest Horndog,
You’ve been busy, son, and really, I don’t have much for you. You’ve humped your way through the entire town? Impressive. But you’d think there would have been one opportunity for monogamous union along the way. You see living in the bush has its boundaries. As in, there are only so many deer in the meadow. Once you’ve had your way with the lot, the only real option is to head into new territory: switch valleys, climb mountains, relocate, forge into the unknown. Through your insatiable want to “do them all,” you’ve now become the ever-roaming buck. Move along, big fella, that’s your only option. That, or begin looking at alternative species…

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Dear Captain Lovestar,
What is the policy with used condoms in a tent, exactly? I mean, it’s freezing, pitch black, and there’s this, you know, frozen skeleton in the proverbial closet that nobody knows what to do with. Help!!!
—Miss Packitout

Dear Miss Stalagmite,
Oh, the much-maligned condom, so righteous in its ability to inhibit our unplannedfors and unwanteds. It comes with a cost, though. Not only is its application perennially awkward, but so is its always off-putting ousting. I don’t know about you, but for me camping is all about containers. You’ve got the Tupperware for the camp dishes, the cooler for the food, stuff sacks for sleeping bags, sleeping bags for horny humans. Since it’s all about planning ahead and not forgetting anything, be smart and bring a nice little plastic container for the leftovers of love. A little screw off, screw on, and you’re set.
—Lovestar

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Dear Captain Lovestar,
My girlfriend and I met five years ago on SaltySexy.com, the now defunct site for outdoorsy singles. Since day one, she’s had this crazy fetish with my facial hair. At first I thought it was just the ol’ lumbersexual crush rearing its head yet again, but it’s recently gotten out of hand. Last week, I caught her collecting my beard trimmings from the bathroom sink with her tongue. When we make out, she tries to talk dirty by lustily running her mouth through my chin thicket and guessing what I ate for lunch: total turnoff. In a secret panic, I tried to shave my beard, but she found the bag of razors, went berserk, and the only way to calm her was to do what we call “the hedgehog,” which is me running my face bristles down her back. I want to be open to her hot-for-the-hirsute desires, but I’m worried there’s some kinky father complex unfolding, since her dad has alopecia.
—Baird Manly

Dear Hairball,
I feel your follicles. Big time. This is no easy situation, and as you mention, going full beardless could prove catastrophic. She might straight up confine your Sasquatch ass so that hair doth grow uninterrupted. Or worse! I see transplants. I see animal furs. I see exotic care products. This might be your only way out: throw it back on her. Begin your own hair fetish. Ask if you might “grow together,” arm pit to arm pit, nether region to nether region. You know, a conjoined tapestry of tresses, so to speak. Chances are if she’s a kinky girl in 2016, she’s probably not so into her own body hair. And chances are you aren’t either, but, hey, you can’t have it both ways, right? It’s tit for tat, or in this case, beard for bush. If she wants old growth on you, she needs to start some ground foliage. Hopefully that’s enough to get her head out of your hedge.
—Lovestar

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