Dear Dr. Date,
I recently encountered a situation of a unique nature. The problem is that I have dark bed sheets that I am often too lazy to wash. Hence, when I masturbate in bed it tends to leave the characteristic crusty, white residue that can only be associated with dried semen.
The other day I had a date, which went very well, and unexpectedly I ended up inviting her back to my place afterwards. However, as we were getting under my covers she happened to examine some of these stains of self-indulgence, and from the look of disgust on her face, I’m almost positive she thought they were a result of a promiscuous lifestyle. She was too polite to comment, but I could sense her discomfort the rest of the evening up until I dropped her home which was right after the movie we were watching ended.
I really like this girl, and would like to ask her out again sometime. We have been exchanging e-mails, however, before I call her up for a second date, is there any way I can bring up this issue diplomatically and explain to her that my soiled sheets were due to a self-passionate lifestyle than anything else?
–L

You know, before you ring her up and spill all you have to say about your ritualistic nighttime hobby, you might want to reexamine her reaction. Semen might not have been the obvious deduction. Or even if she knew right away that it was semen, she may have merely been disgusted by the fact that the sheets were dirty. Who cares what stained them? They were filthy and she had to get in them! People are usually cool about stinking away in their own filth. The problems sprout when a person is asked to be a part of a stranger’s filth. Would you like to wear my dirty underwear?
These are simple suggestions, really. Use lighter bed linen. Change your sheets before a date. Don’t invite a date to your house when you know it’s dirty. This is cause enough for a certain amount of disgust.
Look, I am not, by any measurable means, a clean person. There have been times when my bedroom was an utter sty. I’m not talking about a couple of strewn sheets of paper either. I’m talking about a floor that you can’t see because it’s covered wall to wall with five to ten inches of unwashed clothes, dishes, books, mixed media art projects, hubcaps, prairie bleached cow skulls, and any other societal detritus that I picked up on the way home, dropped in the room, and forgot about. Still, when even the remotest possibility arose that a date might enter, I cleaned this room until it was wonderful.