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The World According to Rusty… Week 5

This mildly comedic column has been written by a drag queen agony aunt. It is not for the faint hearted and contains sensitive topics which may cause distress to some readers. Be prepared for themes of dirty douche water, laxative abuse, possessed pendants, and my mother.

Hate men? Losing the will to live? Waiting for the inevitable shortage of SSRIs due to global supply chain issues so that you can finally kill yourself in peace? Good old Aunt Rusty is here to help! (She cooks up prescription drugs on the side).

Rusty Kate is Oxford’s premier cum-filled crossdresser, known for turning looks, tricks, and straight men seven nights a week. She’s decided to take a short break out of her busy schedule as vice-scat consultant at the Oxford Counselling Service to act as Cherwell’s Dragony Aunt, and help sort out your pathetic little lives one horrendously uncensored column at a time.

Remember to submit your questions through linktr.ee/rustykatedrag – you’re guaranteed complete anonymity. Unless you cheered for Miss Take during the last Drag & Disorderly show. I know where you live. Right, onto the issues that the SU are currently writing some very important petitions to the university about…

My boyfriend refuses to shave his hole and douche regularly. I know I’m not the best in bed, but I keep fairly trim and proper. Can you help out? Should I break up with him?

If you turn him inside out, the hair won’t be an issue. Hiding laxatives in his food will solve the douching problem, but we’ll have to get more creative for the hair.

Light a few candles, then get down to business – cover your hand in Nair like it’s talcum powder and wear him like a surgical glove. There’s no need to break up with him; he’ll be as hairless as Matt Lucas’s shaft. Or as hairless as Jada Pinkett Smith. Don’t worry, I don’t mind a slap in bed.

My flatmate keeps borrowing my jewellery without asking, and it’s starting to really peeve me off. I’ve spoken to her about it politely, but she always laughs it off like I’m joking. How should I address this?

We’re gonna need a bit of creative sleight of hand. The first thing you’ll need is a flight to rural Botswana. There you will speak to His Highness, the Most Sacred of Truth Sayers, Lord Balthazar (or as I like to call him, mother). He’s an old friend and sensual lover of mine, and shall deliver an amulet to you – trust me, it’ll match any outfit.

Fly back, leave it laying around the flat, then just wait until she tries it on and delivers her soul to the depths of hell, trapped for all of eternity in an ancient blood curse. There she shall experience the pain of a thousand orphans crawling through a woodchipper. She’ll wake up with the brain of your vegetative grandfather after spending 15 minutes sticking his head in the large hadron collider.

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