Friday, December 11, 2009
For those of you not yet familiar with our horrifying little corner of the digital world, WWHM extracts some of the most preposterously idiotic male personal ads ever to grace the pages of our beloved internet, re-posts the exact text of those ads onto our blog along with pertinent commentary, and hurls the results into a bloody, churning meat pit I like to call "my seasoned female readership."
Before you proceed, WWHM would like to issue a stern warning: Some of the personal ads you are about to read may cause you to gag, retch, heave, or relieve the contents of your stomach into a bag of Tostitos. Your vagina may twitch, shake, shudder, or perhaps rappel down your leg, grab a protein bar, and move to Idaho to start a new life harvesting potatoes. Regardless, by proceeding past this entry, you agree to not hold WWHM accountable for what may happen to your once unquenchable sex drive.
Please take note, WWHM contains extremely graphic and immature sexual content, so if you can't handle it, we strongly recommend you go here.
I'm your host, The Weasel, and yes, I am a man. Critics oft contend I produce WWHM solely as a vehicle to make myself look better than other men, yet I counter nothing could be further from the truth.
By my own admission, I am nothing but a small, sheepish and feeble excuse of a man, one so meek you might frequently find me crouched in the fetal position underneath my own bathroom sink, slowly nursing a pasty and congealed gruel of Cheez-its and Yuban from a second-hand YMCA parrot feeder. When introduced to an unknown female or even the non-aggressive, low-speed paw strike of a recently declawed kitten, I tend to spontaneously suffer from the unfortunate malady a four year-old Spanish boy might refer to as "los pantalones con poopy."
So whilst I wholly admit upfront I know next to nothing about women, I've learned at least enough throughout my years to identify when a grown man indeed knows absolutely nothing about women. We dedicate the success of WWHM to those men.
So let's cut through the shit already, shall we?
Here we go, folks, with our new featured personal ad in 3, ..... 2, ..... 1, ......
Do you have a pornstar appettite for sex?- 42M
Women get upset at men for watching porn but the truth is this is because men get tired of women that are not good in bed. We have fantasies about women and watch fantasy acts in porn because women won't participate in them in real life because most women aren't kinky or adventuorus. Also women in porn seem to enjoy performing oral sex on men but women in real life do not. Why doesn't a woman want to do something knowing that it pleased him so much?
Some women seem to enjoy sex a little bit but most women dont enjoy sex as much as women in porn do even if their acting. Most women forget about sex and don't like it and some women don't have any interest in sex at all. It's not as important to women and they don't want it so they are not good in bed or act uninterested in sex. Women in porn act like a man would want a woman to act in bed, they make it this way to appeal to men. They wear sexy outfits and men are turned on by this so it makes for a better sexual response in real life.
I am looking for an attractive and sexy woman with a pornstar sex drive and a sense of adventure. Maybe it is you? Me: 42, average looking, not ugly, 7 inchs long, 51/2 around, shaved. You must perform oral sex on me until I cum, it is hard to make me cum from oral sex so you will have your work cut out for you. Be dirty and wear your sexiest outfit!
Please attach a current photo with your response.
We feel your pain, ladies.
Just when you start to feel comfortable diving headfirst into a virtual relationship, a new league of impotent male incompetents manage to dump their intellectual stool samples into the online dating pool. But fear not, ladies, as their Downey-soft erections exhibit no more rigidity than the freshly shampooed mane of a gold-ribbon showpony. Rather, we invite you to take solace at WWHM Headquarters, where we're proud to offer fresh guava juice and Nilla wafers to your right, and a state-of-the-art vagina resuscitation device to your left. We've also acquired a considerable stack of Febreze coupons and a pair of tweezers, so join WWHM as we parse through a few stool samples and identify the nuts.
Nuts like Brandon, for example, who recently released his hands and a flurry of middle-aged moths from his BattleBots briefs to scribe a personal ad based upon the intricate plotline of Meerkat ManWhore IV: Strike of the One-Eyed Snake. Deftly sidestepping trivial matters such as personal interests and accomplishments, Brandon instead garnishes his penis with heavily fortified numbers and serves up a wholly unsatisfying dish of male ineptitude and ignorance regarding the female libido. Brandon, if you'd like to re-create how women feel about your personal ad, here's a little experiment you can try at home: Dump a bucket of ice water on a cat.
Brandon nevertheless ignites the weak flicker of his philosophical heat lamp in a failed effort to melt the rigid clitoricicles of his potential female conquests. As women flee like gazelle from a low-flying helicopter, Brandon chastises the fairer sex for their lack of enthusiasm in bed, suggests women doll themselves up like porn stars, and concludes by unequivocally demanding a blowjob in order to qualify for a date. I'm not necessarily saying Brandon's lecture cools a woman's sex drive, but after my girlfriend read his personal ad, a polar bear stuck his head out of her vagina and ordered a mug of hot chocolate.
Unfortunately, Brandon provides us with just the latest example of an entitled, infantile dolt who sincerely believes a woman should behave just like her porn star counterparts. Sure, Brandon, after a hard day at work, a woman enjoys nothing more than lounging around spread eagle in her high-heel thigh-high latex boots, pouring a gallon of milk over her breasts, then shaving her pubic hair into the shape of a corn chip. Perhaps frustrated after the pizza guy fails to show, she'll furiously masturbate with an item of fresh produce, pour a can of clam chowder on her face, and call it a night.
Brandon ultimately fails in that he can't see the forest for the trees. Or, more specifically, he won't see a forest because of his sapling. You see, Brandon never quite addresses the obvious commonality between all the women he so condescendingly refers to as "boring in bed": Namely, the fact that they were all sleeping with Brandon. Women intrinsically recognize this, yet Brandon can't. And if that alone isn't cause enough to mummify his genitals, the clitoris actually contains a sophisticated sonar device which emits a series of inaudible chirps to warn other women about the presence of sub-par male sexual partners, and in Brandon's case, the overwhelming cacophony of high-pitched tones has even hard-of-hearing dogs burrowing holes to Bhutan.
In the Christmas spirit of providing guidance to the more ill-informed amongst us, WWHM would like to offer Brandon a few departing bedroom tips gathered from a roundtable of qualified men who fully understand that a "G Spot" isn't the brand name of a high-impact carpet stain remover. To wit:
- Brandon, your penis is not a club, and the cervix is not a baby seal.
- If you find your sex partner leafing through an aluminum siding brochure while you're going down on her, chances are your cunnilingus skills resemble a teenage giraffe gnawing parking decals off a car bumper.
- Post-coitus, most women won't hurriedly brush off their inner thighs as if dismounting an unwashed mule. If they do, you fucking sucked.
- If you can't manage to satisfy her in Round 1, make sure you properly finish the job in Round 2. It helps if, when grabbing your penis for Round 2, she doesn't feel like she's pulling taffy at a county fair refreshments booth.
In conclusion, Brandon, WWHM offers you the same advice we disburse to the majority of men we feature on our blog: Owning a penis no more makes you a quality fuck than owning a wrench makes you a quality auto mechanic. More often than not, if you find a woman unresponsive during sex, it's either because she's not interested in fucking what's between your ears, or because you're fucking her with all the muted stylings of a newborn puppy dry humping your grandmother's leg.
Ninety percent of sexually active single women would love an opportunity to make even the most seasoned porn star look like a listless bag of beets, yet only five percent of men can provide her the means and the brains to make her happily gnaw the bedpost into an effigy of the exact penis with which she is currently being fucked.
You know why, Brandon? Look in the mirror, dumbshit.
(As you guys know, I've been toiling away for over a year now without any advertising income from my websites. I've teamed up with Babeland, a very classy, reputable, and female-owned and operated sex boutique with stores in Seattle and New York City, so please feel free to support WWHM and PLFM by expressing your kink through the links on my websites. Believe me, there isn't a classier operation in the business. Thanks guys!)
Thursday, December 10, 2009
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Thursday, August 27, 2009
First, I don't loose an erection. I can last for hours, non stop. I can stroke you clitoris and hammer you g spot at the same time. I am also a guaranteed 9" long measured on a bad day. I also am a master at the art of tantra, so that sex is a metaphysic mystical experience of pure pleasure. 1st rule: no condoms 2nd rule: no pills 3rd rule: 8 hours of free non-stop sex (put that into your agenda). 4th rule (most important): have a vagina.
WWHM assumes men like Eric continue to subscribe to the mythical and baseless stereotype of the sexless single woman sitting alone in her apartment, intravenously injecting endless quarts of frownberry ice cream amidst an undulating sea of gassy housecats. "Why can't I find a potential father possessing both intelligency and impregnantism" she might scream, simultaneously hurling her new unabridged dictionary into the litter box. It's a common misconception Eric, and WWHM hereby warns you that "spreading your seed" will never be this easy. In your case, imagine yourself spreading frozen butter on room-temperature toast.
Regardless, Eric's here and he's ready to put the "abs" back into absentee father. He's got so much intelligency to impregnant you, almost any woman would rate him an A+++ in their book, unless of course that woman happens to be a 2nd grade teacher with a red pen, a partially literate woman with a modicum of discerning taste, or a breathing mammal. For those remaining ladies who choose to qualify men only by their ability to walk and chew gum at the same time, please know Eric regularly walks to the STD clinic while chewing his Valtrex prescription.
But, of course, what originally starts out as an offer to impregnate women rapidly devolves into what we've all come to expect here on WWHM: It's just another ruse designed to justify the posting of an online resume for his penis.
Yes, once again we get a gander at a wholly misinformed individual trying to upsell his dehydrated turkey leg as a healthy slab of kobe beef. What with all the pride men like Eric exhibit in championing their own genitals, one would think these guys had spent the past five years in a hardscrabble tool shed behind their homes, carefully constructing their penis with a mismatched assortment of clothespins, elk antlers, and surgical tubing. "Check this out!" he might say, as if pointing out a houseboat or high school marching band, "is this a nice penis or what?" It's simply the adult equivalent of a 2 year-old boy proudly pointing his mother towards a lukewarm mound of excrement currently earning a rich suntan on the living room carpet. "Poop!" he says excitedly to his mother, hoping she might share in his unbridled enthusiasm for the latest pièce de résistance to emancipate from his underpants.
We may think our penis outshines a sunrise, but to a woman a penis looks more like something they might use to plug a hole in a canoe or scrape off their shoe with a tree branch. Ask any random woman if she'd rather hear about your dick or get two free tickets to a tractor pull, and I guarantee you within five seconds she'd be walking off with her tickets and a wad of Skoal in her mouth the size of a small eagle.
Eric's ad closes with the old "I'm into tantric sex" routine, a tired and dazzlingly inept claim now present in no less than 20% of the personal ads we receive here at WWHM. While most men promise you their magical tantric sex techniques will make you squirt live aardvarks or straighten your pubic hair, Eric simply states that sex with him "is a metaphysic mystical experience of pure pleasure." And by "metaphysic mystical experience," I think he means "maybe a Wal-Mart candle and a few goatherding hymns off my iPod."
It's amazing how many guys now claim to employ these amazing tantric sexual techniques that last for several hours, yet women still complain men act like they just popped a nickel into a parking meter by the bed and don't want to get a ticket. Even if true, eight straight hours of sex might sound great to some people, but not so much to the individual walking around the office like she just dismounted a morbidly obese horse after a trek across Mongolia.
Good luck in your quest Eric, and if any of you ladies just happen to be in the market for a large-cocked, vain baby with a head the size of a ski lodge, I think your prayers have just been answered.
If you're seeking a modest baby with spelling skills, well, not so much.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Ok, after years and years of trying to be nice and courteous to the female race. I've finally had enough and in search of a long term relationship. Here's what I want.
1.) You have to have the following, Car, Job, and of at least graduated high school. If your a dropout, then please do us a favor, kill yourself.
2.) Smoking Hot - Yes I said it, i'm not the best looking guy, but i'm sick and tired of going after less than what I deserve.
3.) Shitty personality - If you look down on others, then piss off and move on. Find a man who does not give a shit about you and uses you for what your worth, that sweet little honey pot between your legs.
4.) Indecisiveness - Any shred of "I don't know what I want" after you state that someone is everything you ever wanted, will result in a team of women known as my psychotic sisters will hunt you down and leave you wherever they find you
5.) Three Input Girls - if you are then my prayers are answered because I need something to slide something fat, long and ready to go inside of where I wanna put it.
6.) No emotional friends - I've put people in jail and in the ground for this one. You have been warned.
7.) Dedication- you will be with me or report to me on your whereabouts when I ask, and sleep in my bed at all times. You don't need to go on vacations by yourself nor do you feel the need for girl nights outs .
8.) Availability- You should go to work no more than half an hour before you shift starts and you must return home in a timely manner after your shift ends. If you would like to go out with your work "friends" you will go out with me and your "work" friends
9.) Self-Control - I really dislike a woman who tries to show her ass offin public, especially one who goes to night clubs and grinds her ass on every dick in the place. This pisses me off greatly.
10.) Lead on's - If you lead me on, instead of attempting to make a commitment toward a relationship will only lead yourself into getting the biggest dosage of karma you ever received.
11.) Ex'es - If you still have a running contact with a ex-boyfriend, ex-husband, ex-lover or ex-fling. Then I will not tolerate that. I have friends in U.S., U.K., CIA, DEA, FBI, NSA, SIS, GSG-9 (I get around).
And if I have the slightest doubt, you know that feeling that your being followed? You are.
Me, workaholic, running a successful business, and highly family oriented that doesn't give a shit, or takes any shit. Must have a preference for big men who are more muscular than fat.
I look forward to talking with all of you women out there and hopefully one of you can be my potential soulmate and make beautiful babies.
I acquired my first girlfriend sometime during the tenth grade, an attractive and kittenish girl named Tracy with a puzzling affinity for both Jesus Christ and mini-skirts. Fond of histrionics and obsessed with her cat, she wasn't exactly the type of girl I was usually interested in. But I was 16 at the time, she was pretty, and my testicles churned out far more sperm than they could handle, much like those comical pastry factories in sitcoms where a conveyor belt of pies ultimately overwhelms its workers, leaving the floor covered in a slick, frothy cream. Only in my case, it was either a gym sock or my bedsheets, which often achieved a level of unpleasant crustiness one might expect from a cut-rate pizza.
Aloof and shy in the beginning, it took me several weeks to figure out she actually had a romantic interest in me. She would call frequently, slinging loaded questions which I initially dismissed as casual conversation. "If I took you out to dinner, what kind of tasty surprise do you think I'd get for dessert?" she'd coo in a sultry voice dripping with sexual innuendo. "Um, probably carrot cake," I'd reply naively, an inexperienced yet fluid sexual matador deftly sidestepping her raging bull of a vagina. You could practically hear her eyes rolling over the telephone.
I hadn't quite taken to her until she approached me at a keg party one evening, her eyes glassy and her breath reeking of boxed wine. "I want to show you something that will blow your mind." Familiar with her tendency to exaggerate, I reluctantly followed her to the bathroom, fully expecting her to "blow my mind" with a Victorian pillow catalog or yet another photo montage of her unfortunate cat dressed up as a coal miner or carefree surfer.
Rather, she shoved me against the sink and began furiously unbuckling my belt. Apparently carrot cake was off the menu, but I didn't protest.
Suddenly, I had a new girlfriend.
Prior to Tracy, I had clung to girls like a nursing koala, my hands tightly clutching at their arms in a desperate attempt to prevent them from straying towards boys with a spine or a car worth more than a postage stamp. But with Tracy, our roles reversed. She hovered over me like a mid-day shadow, a prim and proper fish awkwardly trying to swim in the pond scum of my social circle. With Tracy I never experienced the desperate neediness I had felt with so many other girls. In turn, I realized the dearth of my own hollow desperation exponentially increased her interest in pursuing me.
Tracy was initially attracted to my sense of humor and my wholly fictitious role as a rebellious outcast, but once we started dating she insisted on an increasing level of interactivity with her popular friends, a detestable collection of monied athletic boys with names like Bradford and Parsnips. Sitting in their fancy homes drinking their fancy beers, I longed to sit in a public park with my own friends, siphoning a flat keg of swill into our stomach lining as we exchanged blatant lies about the unconquered vaginas that had repeatedly eluded us like frightened squirrels.
She began to aggressively shoosh my efforts at the off-color humor she once so professed to love, preferring politically correct conversations at dinner with her parents, where we might "enjoy" upscale yet unfulfilling dishes such as twice-baked chicken ears or bristled duck knees in a telephone sauce. "That's not proper," she would say as I initiated another expletive-laden line of questionable humor targeting someone else's unfortunate injury or untimely death. A month prior, she would have found it an absolute scream.
My lack of financial resources annoyed her to no end, not comprehending I was one of those kids forced to toil at a job rather than simply exposing my bare palm to a love-starved parent. She wanted me to take her to the type of restaurants that served meals with multiple forks, despite the fact that I had just lightly sprinkled 17 copper coins into the grimy hand of a gas station attendant in order to pacify my gas tank. If I was to use a second fork for anything, I'd use it to stab holes of financial reality into her delusional dining fantasies. To me, "upscale" meant tartar sauce on my french fries.
If things didn't go her way in our developing card-game of a relationship, she always played the Queen of Tears, a masters move of female manipulation for which, at the time, I had absolutely no defense. The moisture welling up on her cheeks, I would jump off a cliff or rob a bank if I only knew it would make her stop. "Push that elderly woman in front of a bus," she might say as tears trickled down her face. "What route?" I'd reply. She knew my weakness and plucked it as she would the wings off a defenseless fly.
After a few months I began to entertain a previously unfathomable thought; maybe I should consider ending the relationship. It was a shocking revelation I could barely qualify in my own mind. Here I was a meek and shy teenager interminably desperate for the affection of girls, and now I was contemplating biting the hand that fed me. I was a starving Ethiopian, about to throw away my only morsel of food.
Her parents left town one weekend and I reluctantly agreed to shack up with her. We had engaged in a particularly vicious fight the previous evening over the misconduct of my peer group, and the next morning I awoke resenting our relationship. It wasn't her fault; I wasn't a rat she had cornered and beaten with a stick. Rather, I was a rat willingly residing in her cage and tired of performing tricks for cheese.
As I stared at the ceiling, Tracy rolled over in an effort to cuddle with me. Perhaps she was asleep or perhaps she had contorted herself in just the right manner, but nevertheless I heard a abrupt noise emanate from behind her as if someone had just drop-kicked a small goat. The sound was unmistakable; she had farted.
Previously I had lived in a delusional world where women didn't have this issue, and even if they did it sprung from their bodies in the form of festive, shimmering maypole ribbons that might smell like fresh pie. This was not the case as evidenced by the reaction of her cat, who immediately contracted his ears, stood up, and exited the room as if late for a pharmaceutical conference.
Tracy's eyes shot open and met mine, and all I could do was explode into laughter. I had never heard a girl fart before, and haven't heard it since. She was mortified. "It's not funny," she said, "I don't feel good." It was funny and she knew it. She started laughing for a moment, but then began to pretend like she was crying over her laughter in an attempt to toss a little guilt my way.
It was a brilliant show, her puppy sobs countered with her crocodile tears. After about ten minutes and some considerable effort, she was finally able to muster a tear, but I was nonplussed. No one cries because of a fart, and from that point forward I accepted her tears for what they were worth; a tired effort to further manipulate my behavior.
We broke up soon after, and the last I heard she started dating a boy much worse than I. He had a criminal record, a bad attitude and a drug habit. In effect, just three small steps away from Mahatma Gandhi, but nothing a nice bag of chicken ears couldn't cure.
My relationship with Tracy was my first foray into understanding the concept of control in a relationship, my first grand adventure in analyzing the subtle behaviors we use to elicit the desired behaviors out of our mates.
Sure, women may use a little sex or emotion to wrest control in a relationship now and then, but their efforts pale in comparison to the legions of personal ads WWHM receives every week from guys like Hugh, the author of today's featured ad.
Like many men, he takes the concept of control to whole new level.
Let's critique ...
I've never personally attempted to lord over my girlfriends with the grip of an iron fist. I always figured I could find easier subjects to control; the weather, tides, or perhaps the rotation of purely theoretical planets. If I truly want to control something, I'll rent a forklift.
But sometimes we find jack-offs like Hugh, an impotent circus monkey perched upon his tiny apple cart, demanding your attention by aggressively clasping his little monkey cymbals and hurling stale clumps of digital feces in the form of an online personal ad. He wants access to that "sweet honeypot" between your legs, which might help explain why women currently find themselves stuffing their vaginas with bees. You're an asshole, Hugh; if death threats were orgasms, I'd be passing out cigarettes.
Most men can acknowledge the inherent irony of trying to control a woman; the more you try to control her behavior, the more you encourage the exact behavior you're trying to control. It's like trying to control an advancing shark by threatening it with a sack full of plump, delicious kittens; you think you're gaining control of the situation, but in reality you're only making it worse. Hugh, however, is one of those guys who at least acknowledges up front his desire to rule over his sexual partner with an iron fist. Ironic, considering his main sexual partner will be the exact iron fist with which he plans to rule.
Hugh complains he spent the past few years perfecting the "nice and courteous" approach in an attempt to attract a woman. During his unsuccessful campaign for a girlfriend, I'm sure Hugh would assure us he was always on his best behavior; he only boiled their pets in bottled water, he used wholly biodegradable explosives to detonate their cars, and he even showed his softer side by folding their restraining orders into a variety of thoughtful, decorative origami swans.
Yet strangely, Hugh found himself running into the same excuses every time he asked for a second date. "I'm doing my hair," or "I'm having dinner with my parents" or "I'm tied to a brick at the bottom of a remote lake." Hugh might know a lot of guys in the CIA, but looking at his personal ad I'm pretty sure this online assassination of his penis was an inside job. Hopefully he has room to maneuver a one-inch coffin inside his toughypants.
Failing at the nice approach, our resident lardass wants to put his foot down, and it sounds like it's going to end up on your neck. Hugh demands, of all things, a woman who "doesn't look down on others", a woman who has no contact with any men or emotional friends, and most importantly, he wants a hot "three input girl" so he can slide something "fat and long" into any hole he wants. So apparently, Hugh plans to pull his head out of his own ass and shove it into yours.
Let's face the facts about controlling assclowns: No matter what you do, you will never appease them.
You may have been a virgin when you met, but as you soon as you start dating a controlling guy, he'll convince himself you're a common strumpet, fucking every co-worker, bartender, barge-operator and gay hairdresser you come into contact with. The minute he loses sight of you, he thinks your vagina swings open like a Price Is Right prize door, revealing a red carpet and a rotating spotlight to illuminate the clouds, enticing all available men inside with flashy fliers promising free toasters and a 20 oz. fountain drink.
You could install a Lo-Jack on your clit, a Viper alarm in your fallopian tubes, and allow him move into your uterus with nothing but a periscope, a breathing straw and a cellphone, and he'd still spend his entire day suckling your ovaries, sending email death threats to your vibrator, and hiring hitmen to pump bullets into your dildos.
And despite all this, he still wouldn't trust you.
And to think, this guy wants your hand in marriage.
Funny, I've never been to a wedding where the bride wears cement shoes and a wedding ring on her toe with a tag attached for her name, address and date of expiration.
Edit From WWHM:
This post originally contained a third anecdote which I initially thought somewhat related to my post. After getting relentlessly and completely blasted by people in my personal life (and I hear I'm currently getting blasted in the comments as well) for posting it, I realized I stray way too far from the purpose of WWHM sometimes.
If I want to keep a fucking dear diary, I need to visit the Barbie section of my local Target and buy myself a nice little ruffled number with a fucking duck on it.
I guess my original intention was just to show I'm not perfect and we all get what's due us. Unfortunately it wasn't funny and that's what you guys are here for, not my pathetic hypothesizing about shit. From now on, I'll leave the personal shit out of WWHM, and stick to the meat and potatoes of why you're here. Bad personal ads. Comedy. Or at least an attempt at comedy.
Originally I had owned up to cheating and getting cheated on, and invited readers to share their stories of catching their significant others cheating, so that's what you'll read in the comments aside from the apparent bashing of myself.
I'll leave it where I left off ....
In the comments today, we'd like you to follow suit and tell us exactly how you found out about a cheating partner. Feel free to include the nasty details.
Let 'er rip!
Monday, July 6, 2009
Today, longtime WWHM reader LM shares with us a lovely photograph she took during a recent trip home on the New York City subway system.
Seems LM, like most people, was minding her own business playing a game on her cellphone.
When she looked up, however, she found this strapping young assclam staring at her intently with, of course, his dick hanging out of his pants.
Rather than freak out, LM did the right thing.
She snapped a photo and sent it in to WWHM, where we will gladly post it for all to see.
Needless to say, he panicked and ran off the subway at the very next stop.
But no worries, my friend, because we've captured your beautiful moment in time forever!
And boy would it suck if your boss found out! On that note, if you know this guy, where he works or where he lives, email us and we'll gladly post all of his information as a matter of public interest.
Or, in the case of his dick, public disinterest.
LM posted her experience on Craigslist and also sent it to our friends over at Gawker.com, so now her story, and his cock, are going national. If you'd like to see the uncensored photos, you can find his glorious kielbasa posted right here.
***Update: This is turning into a serial flasher case. Many NYC women reporting this guy has flashed them in the past. I smell blood.***
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Hung single stud loves showing off to young ladies in my sexy speedos and women who fantasize about watching me jack off in public!
Im a straight guy that loves to show my stuff. I really want you to do nothing but sit next to me or catch me jacking off. Its that easy, I'm good looking with a nice package and huge cum shooter! Let's meet in XXXXXX Park for a show you'll never forget!
OR I can just come over and strip and jerk off for your viewing pleasure. It's better then watching porn or using your imagination. You can touch me when you are very turned on and overcome with your horniness. I love to perform for groups of women!
Does the thought of a well hung stud playing with himself make you curious? Do you want to catch me playing with myself in public? Are your fingers making their way to your panties thinking about my cock?
Let's talk now to satisfy your stud fantasies! Let's watch my beautiful cock explode!
As men, we often wonder what fantasies play out in a woman's mind while she masturbates. I always imagine a world of vivid colors, winged unicorns, and sparkling, complex characters, all set adrift in a sea of brand-name furniture and towels folded into attractive, presentable squares. I know it's nothing like what goes through my mind when I masturbate. I'm a guy; I can jerk off to a bus schedule.
Yet some guys wholly neglect to consider the actual substance of women's fantasies, instead projecting their own fantasies into the minds of women. Guys like Sean for example, whose personal ad might suggest women actually fantasize about encountering a pantsless man in penny loafers and a mid-century beekeeping helmet, masturbating furiously in a public park as partially chewed crackers spill from the open beaks of completely mortified ducks.
Throw in a car bomb, Sean, and you've got yourself a fantasy.
Sean ultimately fails to arouse women with his completely implausible theory however, as evidenced by my recently divorced sister reading Sean's personal ad and subsequently facing first-degree arson charges for attempting to burn down her own vagina. "I've given up on men," she wrote to me a few weeks later on Energizer letterhead, "If I need an orgasm, I can grease my own hamster."
Yet I admit in moments of kink and weakness, I've often asked my own girlfriend to watch me play with myself, which always sounds like a good idea until I see that horribly pained expression on her face, as if she's watching someone process a stool sample.
I can't blame her. I don't possess the erotic appeal of a muscled Portugese foot soldier carrying a tray of delightfully chilled cantaloupe cubes, nor do I speak that rather fluid dialect of Vaginese paired with a charming Clittorish accent that so many women find endearing. I'm a pretty plain guy and I've seen myself masturbate, and believe me, you wouldn't exactly compare my pathetic onanistic gyrations to the muted grace of a swan taking flight; rather, I look more like I'm shucking an ear of corn while giving birth to an abnormally large pheasant.
Indeed, men have utilized masturbation for centuries, primarily as a means to relieve ourselves of pent-up sexual desires. Our brains produce far more sperm than we can distribute in the intended fashion, no thanks to a brain that constantly comes up with such inspiring barstool zingers as "Excuse me ma'am, but would you like to see to see something swell?"
In fact, research shows prehistoric non-dominant males often masturbated upwards of ten times a day, suggesting dominant males often thought twice before diving into that evening's salad dressing. Unable to copulate with females because they couldn't build a fire or throw a rock for shit, submissive males frequently excused themselves from the cave, saying "I need to go slay a mastodon."
Slay the mastodon, indeed, my friends. We didn't call you guys Homo Erectus for nothing.
"God" didn't come around for another thousand years or so, so researchers still cannot speculate what prehistoric men moaned as they ejaculated.
Now, all of us have masturbated at one point or another, and in today's bonus section, WWHM unfortunately chose to step across a line from which we now cannot return.
Because today, my friends, if you wish to proceed beyond this point, you will suffer through the completely mortifying and embarrassing story about the first time we accidentally "stumbled" across masturbation as a youth. Likely, you will find the story an extreme case of "too much information." But we've all done it, and I'm just laying out a painful re-creation of the events that led up to my "discovery" so you can all have a good laugh at my expense.
Subjecting myself to the inhuman torture of relaying this story to you has tormented me for days. If you ever meet me in public and mention this story, please bring clean rags because I will be forced to shoot myself on the spot, and I don't want to soil your lovely new handbag.
Remember, proceed at your own risk.
I grew up on an isolated farm in a hippie community about 25 miles west of Seattle. We were hippies in every sense of the word; we made our own cheese, protested nuclear submarines, and used the word "burlap" as a verb.
Like most hippie families, my parents openly despised modern accoutrements and preferred to live off the land as nature intended. We grew our own food in a garden, and raised our own meat in a barn. My brothers and I meticulously raised, fed and befriended our barn animals, which my father then brutally slaughtered and served to us atop a steaming potato.
"Survival of the fittest!" he would joyfully pronounce, imploring us to simply wipe away our tears and dig in to the limbs, hearts, and minds of our closest friends.
"What does it taste like?" my father would ask.
"Lies," I replied.
Keeping in tune with nature I suppose, my parents regularly walked about the farmhouse naked. Nary a day passed when I wouldn't cross my father performing some menial farm task as if he had simply forgotten to put on clothes. Carrying a bushel of apples towards the farmhouse, his genitals flopped about wildly, as if performing a tribal dance dedicated to the joys of freedom and the value of choice.
I never felt awkward about my parents' nudity, but I certainly felt awkward about my own. Fully exposed to the elements before a shower, I would instinctively lock my knees and cup my genitals as if sequestering a small, argumentative bird. I don't know where the inclination came from, yet I remember always thinking that nudity was for adults only.
Around my eleventh birthday however, strange things started happening to my brain. Although I steadfastly held to my belief that girls were disgusting, vile creatures that spread disease and smelled bad, I began to look at them just a little bit differently for the first time.
Specifically, I developed an insane desire to lick the arms and legs of the pretty little girls in my class. I didn't know why and I never acted on the inclination, but girls' skin just looked so incredibly delicious, much like a steaming cookie. This, despite the fact if a girl actually touched me, I had to spend at least 15 minutes with my boyhood friends faux-spraying the point of contact with an imaginary can of high-grade disinfectant.
Though I didn't know it at the time, this was my first brush with my sexuality. I couldn't explain my desire to snack on the extremities of my female classmates, and I certainly wasn't mature enough to accurately connect the body buzz I felt with my newfound fascination with licking girls. It was just a strange, enjoyable buzz, and I didn't know how else to replicate it.
But then I discovered a new method.
I was sitting in my room one day tackling some of the important issues I faced as an eleven year-old boy, namely replicating tractor noises and drawing dinosaurs that killed people with lasers. My parents weren't around that particular day, so I was feeling a little mischievous. I remember sitting on my bed staring at the wall, trying to figure out what to do, when suddenly a little voice came into my head.
"Take your clothes off," it said.
It wasn't a suggestion, but more of a command. As usual, I didn't particularly want to take my clothes off, but I promptly did as I was told. I felt pretty dumb sitting in my room naked, but I felt that weird buzz coming on again, the same one I felt when I thought about chewing on a pair of skinny little thighs. I liked it.
"Go walk around the house naked," the voice said.
Six months earlier, you may as well have asked me to go kick my neighbors psychotic, man-eating horse in the shins, but for some reason this day I just said, "OK." I peeked out my door and saw the coast was clear, so I started walking around the house buck naked. My body was totally buzzing with some weird form of anticipation that I couldn't quite decipher, and it just barely overwhelmed my intense fear of my parents coming home and catching me nude, locking me up in an insane asylum, and feeding the keys to my moronic goats that regularly dined on coat hangers and tractor parts anyway.
After a couple minutes of walking around, something weird happened. I looked down at my penis and suddenly realized it was standing upright, reaching out as if trying to retrieve a snack item or summons a passing cat. Mortified, I ran back upstairs and threw my clothes back on, unsure of what had just transpired. Fortunately, putting my clothes back on seemed to tame my "problem." It had happened before in my sleep, sure, but never during the day.
The following week when my parents were away again, the voice came back, and this time I only pretended to not want to take my clothes off. I wanted to feel that buzz again, and nothing would stop me. "If I have to," I sighed to no one in particular, throwing my clothes off as if they were in flames.
But this time, my annoying "problem" surfaced almost immediately. "What the hell?" I thought. As if I didn't feel odd enough parading around the farmhouse naked, now I had to deal with this irretractable bird perch sticking directly out of my thorax. I wanted the buzz, but I didn't want this "problem" to interfere with my enjoyment of it.
I eventually learned I only could tame my "problem" by pre-occupying myself with boring activities while I was walking around naked. I'd stop by the couch and leaf through my father's scientific periodicals, or take my clothes off and then, in a stupid fake voice, say to myself "Well, I better go find that set of keys. I could put my clothes on, but, hey, it will only take a second to find the keys so why bother? I don't need clothes to look for keys!" Then I'd spend hours walking around the property naked looking for keys that I knew damn well were sitting in my pants pocket in my room.
Eventually I even walked around outside the farmhouse stark naked, which probably surprised people driving by on the freeway next to our house. "Oh my God," an old couple might exclaim, turning their heads as they passed, "I think I just saw a wingless fairy with an erection in that horse pasture."
As the months progressed however, the more difficult taming my "problem" became. No matter what I did or thought about, the minute I took my clothes off my annoying "problem" popped up like the door lock on a car. Out of solutions, I decided that my "problem" could do what it damn well pleased and it wouldn't stop me from walking around naked and getting my buzz.
I went into the attic and sat in a chair, wondering what to do about this newfound predicament. Staring angrily at my "problem", I suddenly realized where that peculiar and demanding "voice" had been coming from. The voice that always told me to take off my clothes, the voice that had tricked me into making applesauce in the nude. And it was standing at attention right in front of me. It was, in fact, the voice of my "problem."
Stunned at the realization, my penis and I then engaged in what forever will be known as "The Conversation." My penis and I had reached a showdown, two stubborn gunslingers meeting on opposite sides of the town square. I wanted my "body buzz", and he always had to swell up like a threatened pufferfish every time I took my pants off. There obviously wasn't enough room in this town for the two of us.
And as I sat in my chair, sweating in the August heat, so began the infamous Conversation:
Penis: Hey there, little fella.
Me: Oh, uh, um ... hey.
Penis: Sooooooooooo. (Insert innocent whistling.) Whatcha doin?
Penis: Hmmm, that's interesting. (Long pause.) Boyyyyyyy, do I need a hug.
Penis: A hug. You know. Touch me.
Me: I'm not touching you.
Penis: Why not? I'm cold.
Me: You're not cold. You just want me to touch you.
Penis: I'm freezing.
Me: Shut up.
Penis: Just for a second. You know you want to ... please.
Me: OK. But just for a second. And that's it.
... and on that note, I placed my head in the alligator's mouth. And a second is all it took.
Immediately I was overcome with a powerful shockwave that began pulsing throughout my body. It grew stronger and stronger, and in a matter of seconds I was convulsing in spasms of both ecstasy and confusion. I had no idea what was happening, but I knew it felt good.
And just as quickly as it all started, the shockwaves retreated. I gathered myself, completely aghast at what had just transpired. I still had all my limbs, and apparently I was still alive.
I checked my surroundings and everything seemed to be in order.
Until I looked down, where I made a terrifying discovery.
I had just milked myself.
I was horrifed. What was I, a cow? What was this ... stuff? What do I do now? Clean it up? Prepare some cereal?
I panicked. I didn't know what I had just done, but I was pretty sure I wasn't supposed to be doing it. I put my pants back on, and tried to find something, anything, to clean up the evidence I had just fire-hosed all over the attic. I couldn't find anything, so I did what all guilty eleven year-olds do with incriminating crime evidence.
I wiped it up with my hand and ....
I put it in my pocket.
I slowly crept out of the attic, and luckily no one was home. I went into my room, changed out of my "smoking gun" pants, and gathered a bunch of clean clothes to mix in with Exhibit A of the prosecutor's evidence. I lugged them down to the washing machine, and poured just about an entire box of detergent in the machine and started it.
My mother came home about an hour later, and I was sitting on the couch, pretending to be just another normal eleven year-old boy that hadn't just sprayed down the entire attic with a gallon of penis milk.
"Who's doing laundry?" she asked.
"Oh, I'm just washing some clothes," I replied, pretending to read a magazine that may as well have been upside down or written in ancient Sanskrit.
She looked at me suspiciously. "I just washed your clothes."
"Well," I answered, "uh , yeah, they weren't clean so I just washed them again."
My mother knew something was up, but luckily she didn't push the issue any further. She just shot me that disapproving look a mother spends years perfecting: The "I know you did something, and you're fucking kidding yourself if you don't think I'm going to find out" look.
Luckily, she never did figure it out.
Until I was 14, of course.
When she caught me in the act.
But that's another story, and one you won't read about here on WWHM.
Now that I've thoroughly embarrassed myself, I'm going to retreat to my closet, curl up in the fetal position, and suck on graham crackers for the next three days.
Now, I know you people won't likely want to share your stories after experiencing the humiliation I just went through, and I don't blame you. But if you want, you can let everyone know how old you were when you first discovered "the path to self-enlightenment."
Meanwhile, I'm going to go permanently alter my face with a chainsaw.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
I can't bear to read more than 10 words, but if you have 16 hours to kill, suit yourself. You never know, you could even become a billionaire.
Finding My Goddess
I apologize in advance, but I just couldn't pass this next one up.
Are you a bad person? Change your ways, or you might have to spend your next life as an ottoman in this house. Trust me, watch at least two minutes. If you can stand it.
Someone please test that ottoman for herpes.
Lastly, for the two or three of you that might be interested, Janak from sex-oriented blog casualencounters.com recently interviewed WWHM, and you can find the results here. We'll see you soon! -The Weasel
Thursday, May 28, 2009
very horny 57m sex addict looking for women who want all their holes filled 2 or 3 times a week// I am Married to a friggid wife , I dont have sex with her so I am here to offer sex to any willing young women.
Younger in 19-30 range or up to 35.
I would like meet at the Super 8 motel in XXXXXXX. you cannot sleepover, but I will buy you dinner before or after at the sizzler steakhouse.. Would prefer a married young woman and sex addict . Must enjoy sucking cock / swalowing
Clean, disease free, twats only// also will get you pregnant if desired//
Do not dare ask me for money I am not looking for protsitutes.I will buy youre dinner up to $15 dollars at sizzler
if interested please call
Mike (xxx) xxx xxxx
While Mike's personal ad initially appears to lack any sort of romantic enticements, please understand that Mike promises he will perform an erotic post-coitus interpretive dance titled "Thanks for Letting Me Slap That Beaver" in a revolting puddle of his own flop sweat.
Now, as most WWHM readers know, I hardly qualify myself as an expert on women. WWHM critics oft contend I use WWHM to "get laid" or "make myself appear more attractive to women," a completely laughable hypothesis considering my own sexual expertise with women falls somewhere between that of a 4 year-old Amish boy and a gay seagull.
When it comes down to it, I'm essentially as clueless as the next guy when it comes to satisfying a woman's needs in bed; women demand I treat their vagina like a clown car, and I end up treating it like a gas bill. While a paraplegic drooling chinchilla could manipulate the average penis into orgasm, the pussy presents a whole new host of problems for guys. We have to focus on so many parts- inner, outer, upper, lower, folds, lips, spots, buttons, hoods- it's like assembling a fucking Mr. Potatohead in your pants. Up until last week, I actually thought the "G Spot" was an inner city discotheque.
So where's my sexual confidence? Let me put it this way: I'm the only guy in the world who actually caught a woman faking a fake orgasm, and I'm hung like a hamster clit. Job well done dominant small penis gene!
Perhaps I should aspire for the confidence of Mike, our 57 year-old married "sex addict" featured today, who's looking to wheel out a few dozen of his wheezing sperm into the youthful expanse of a 20 year-old uterus, the sexual equivalent of unloading an Atlantic City casino bus directly into an iPod store. Are young women really this turned on by the thought of getting fucked by an older man? It depends.
Now, I don't have any problem with older men chasing after younger women, but prepare for the inevitable generational problems. You tell him to bring a vibrator, but he brings a gear-driven mule-drawn dildo called the "Ye Olde Britches Tickler." He loses his teeth during oral sex, causing your vagina to resemble a rhododendron with porcelain veneers. Fingers stuck to your clitoris? Thanks PolyGrip! And try not to look shocked when old men refer to their ejaculate as "monkey sparkles."
Yet I have a few major problems with Mike's ad, so let me "fill in the holes" as Mike so eloquently states. First, Mike chose to deliberately detonate a "twat" bomb in his personal ad. The word "twat" originates from the Old Norse term "pveit" which literally means "to form a clearing in the forest," ironic considering the immediate re-forestation caused by the use of the word "twat." WWHM would like to kindly suggest all men refrain from detonating a "twat" bomb in their personal ads, as not only do women find it particularly offensive, but it also makes kittens cry.
Yet Mike's unfortunate twatsplosion pales in comparison to his misappropriation of the term "sexual addiction." Philandering men often like to utilize the "sexual addiction" excuse as a form of insanity defense against their recurring extra-marital affairs, but like any insanity defense, the "insanity" usually applies more to the defense than the actual defendant.
To imply that some sort of "sexual addiction" causes your infidelity is to imply you have no control over your penis, but rather you are simply a victim of it's headstrong whims. It suggests the penis has the ability to make independent decisions, as if a penis might wake up some morning and suddenly apply for archery lessons, read Algonqian poetry, or perhaps sample a variety of odiferous cheeses.
The truth is we, as men, spend our entire lives actively seeking penile recreational opportunities, yet when caught cheating by our significant others, we might blame sexual addiction and respond "Oh .... , it just happened." Believe me, I'm in my 30's, and for me pussy has never just "happened." I have to search it out like Ponce de Leon.
Besides, calling yourself a sex addict because you want sex 2-3 times a week is like calling yourself a food addict because you had a light chicken salad for lunch. You're not a sex addict if you want sex 2-3 times a week; you're a sex addict if you're fucking a light chicken salad.
And believe me, I should know.
I used to live with a recovering sex addict.
A real one.
"You need to move into a home that specializes in the treatment of addictions," Lisa screamed.
My drug counselor was huddled over me, scolding me for rudely deflecting her suggestion that I move into a post-treatment halfway house. "A halfway house is not what you think it is," she said.
I was pretty sure I knew what it was. A collection of 50 year-old recovering street alcoholics perhaps, yelling at the help for the unfair distribution of pudding, oblivious to the fact their hospital gowns had drawn open and exposed their piping hot urine bags.
My friend Sarah agreed to pick me up from rehab only on the condition I take Lisa's advice and check into a rehabilitative center. I was assigned a facility and a roommate, and we began the 200 mile journey to my new home.
Of course it wasn't anything like I had expected. The rehabilitative facility was a normal house on a normal street, stocked with eight completely normal people who only distinguished themselves from the rest of the general public in that at some point or another during their lives, all of them had ambled through the fur of their family pets looking for crack rocks.
We were all better now in theory, though I still saw the telltale signs of addiction recovery in all my new roommates. The recovering heroin addicts spoke in slow, meandering drawls, while the recovering meth addicts frequently forgot what they were doing or itched impatiently at their shoulders. Then you had recovering cokeheads such as myself, whose normal "state of rest" involved cartwheeling about the house like agitated chickens.
The Housemaster greeted me and went over the house rules- I had to get a new job right away, do my chores, pay my rent, follow my curfew, and take drug tests at a moment's notice. "Oh," he added as an afterthought, "and the new house rule is no porn. For that you can thank your new roommate."
I had no idea what that meant.
"Hi, I'm David!"
David extended his perfectly manicured hand towards Sarah and I. I couldn't quite manage a response; I was still awestruck. Before me stood quite possibly the best-looking human being I'd ever laid my eyes on. While I stood in shocked silence, I heard Sarah's clitoris pop up like burnt toast.
David was impossibly tan, and chiseled like a totem pole. He had tousled brown hair with natural highlights, blue eyes, and teeth that put piano keys to shame. He was in med school and played rugby, soccer, and baseball. He was impossibly rich, and very funny. In other words, he was currently on the "Bucket List" of every vagina in the country. I toweled up Sarah's drool and began unpacking my things.
For the unaware, one of the first things recovering addicts always ask each other is "What's your poison?" as in, what was your drug of choice? David seemed flawless, and I couldn't imagine him whoring himself out for a gram of heroin or a 100 mg Oxycodone. "So what are you in for?" I asked, unable to determine his weakness.
"I'm a sex addict," he answered calmly, in the same manner someone might reply had you asked what type of cereal he was eating or which airline he preferred.
We've all had experiences where someone says something so unexpected in the course of conversation that we simply can't formulate a response, and David's answer delivered one of these moments. I'd never considered sex as a legitimate addiction- we all want to fuck and fuck often- it's a trait common amongst all living creatures. We're all sex addicts, aren't we?
David explained he used to have a "normal" sex life. But as personal problems both past and present began to mount, he found himself demanding sex more frequently from his fiance. "It was my only means of escape," he explained. Normal sex didn't cut it anymore, so his sexual demands on his fiance increased. "Ten to a dozen times a day I was fucking her," he admits, and she eventually left him. He needed help, she said, and he knew it. But that didn't stop him.
David turned to a never ending parade of other women that came to him at the drop of a hat. But he exhausted them all and still couldn't get enough, so he turned to prostitutes and computer porn to satisfy his addiction. He admitted spending upwards of 15 hours a day on porn websites, and even began to schedule lunch breaks to ensure that he would eat. And he missed them.
One day David made the mistake of leaving his curtains open on purpose. "I needed another charge sexually- I wanted someone to catch me." And he was caught just as he intended. By the police. Charged with indecent exposure, David finally made the decision to admit himself into a treatment center for sexual addiction.
His story didn't particularly gross me out. Had David been an obese, balding man in farmer's trousers and mismatched socks, well, I might have felt differently. But here was possibly the best-looking man you could imagine, a man who has everything, who lost everything to his obsession with sex.
There are two types of recovering addicts. Addicts like David subscribe to the "program," meaning they attend meetings, read books relevant to their problems, and talk openly with fellow addicts about the issues that led to their addictions.
Then there are recovering addicts such as myself, who only use their Alcoholics Anonymous book as a convenient paperweight or helpful stepstool when changing lightbulbs.
As a result, I became more enmeshed in David's recovery than I did my own. After we became familiar with each other, rarely a morning passed where David wouldn't cheerfully approach my bed as I awakened, proclaiming in a cheery and uplifting voice "Hey, Mike. I'm not going to masturbate today!"
"Good for you!" I'd answer, using a voice usually reserved for commending a first grader on his crayon depiction of a giraffe. Then I'd awkwardly head to the shower and feel extraordinarily guilty while I masturbated. In fact, for the first time in my life, I began to feel guilty about my own sexual practices. Here I was only a bathroom door away from an individual desperately trying to escape from the only pleasure I had available. I felt like the Pope masturbating in the Vatican.
My morbid curiosity about David's previous freewheeling pornstar lifestyle often got the best of me, and I frequently found myself drawing a line between protecting his interests and feeding my own. Who doesn't want to hear about the time a bachelorette party of 5 drunk girls pulled him onto their party bus and used him as guinea pig for sharing blowjob techniques? "Wow," I thought to myself, "that must have been horrible." Followed of course by a feverish round of masturbation as soon as he left.
But David often found himself in a curious yet serious predicament; here he was trying to combat a destructive sexual addiction, whilst women constantly flung themselves at him like moths to flame. Women approached him everywhere he went, from stores to restaurants to street corners, dropping phone numbers, striking up conversations and flat out asking him for dates that very evening. It'd be like me moving into in Pablo Escobar's pool house.
Just before Christmas, I went to a local mall with David in an attempt to accomplish some last minute Christmas shopping. At one point we found ourselves at a standstill while lost in the center of the mall, and a woman approached David and started chatting him up, while I took on my usual role around David of "space filler." While I patiently pretended to admire a myriad of plastic mall plants, I noticed a second woman waiting in the wings for the first woman to go away so she could talk to David.
Once the second woman made her approach, another woman began loitering in the background, her eyes also fixated on David. I wondered, had I been attacked by a pack of ravenous bears, would anyone have even noticed? I envisioned a never-ending line of women waiting for David, their holiday shoes splashing about in pools of my blood, my entrails snared in their heels as they patiently waited their turn.
"Shhhh," they'd admonish me, my curdling screams interrupting small talk with David about the weather and holiday plans, whilst large blood-soaked bears made off towards mall exits with an assortment of my meaty limbs in tow.
To my amazement, in the six months I lived with David, David stood firm in his conviction to abstain from any form of sex. He regularly blew off the advances of a cavalcade of models, exotic dancers and girls fresh from the countryside. He stayed off the computer, and nary took a glance at the poorly hidden porn stashes laying about the house. I personally wondered how the hell he did it without snapping off a batch now and then, until he thanked Jesus during a house meeting for allowing him to experience several much-needed "nocturnal emissions."
Thanking God for a cumshot? Now there's a new one.
Hey God? I owe you a million thanks.
David overcame his sexual addiction, and now seven years later has a girlfriend whom he plans to marry within the year. Though much to her chagrin I'm sure, David has elected to refrain from sex with her until their wedding night.
"How do you possibly fucking do it?" I asked.
"Oh, she blows me all the time. It's fucking awesome."
So while I once mocked the concept of sex addiction, now I only mock those whom use it as an excuse.
Like Mike, our personal ad poster for today.
You're not a "sex addict" Mike, you're a fucking horny old fucking jackass trying to cheat on your wife by posting a impossibly-horrendous-at-every-turn personal ad in a failed attempt to attract a young woman drunk enough to lie underneath you for two minutes so you can slap away at her belly while wheezing like a physically taxed walrus.
And you thank her with a $15 dinner at Sizzler? That's lovely. Maybe you could sweeten the pot by offering a cassette mixtape of your favorite Lynard Skynard tunes.
In a completely unsurprising turn of events, Mike blames his philandering on a "frigid" wife, and in the comments today, we'd like to see how "frigid" women really are. More often than not, it's simply the dickless and uninspired fucking provided by flaccid dolts like Mike that drive women to seal up the fun hatch.
Ideally, how many times a day would you like a proper fucking?
I'll take 2.5 a day. I'm sure you can figure that out.
Post whatever you want, and I'll gladly take my beating for posting an overly long and sleep inducing entry.
(WWHM would like to thank my friend "David" for allowing me to post his story. Congratulations David.)
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
looking to fuck me -19M
youcan call me Steve my freinds call me huricane or huricane Steve. 19 years old I want someone to help me loose my virginity this weekend. Mostly if I could stick it in your pussy for a minute, we dont actually have to have sex. You can get me hard by giving me a blowjob because i had blowjobs before two times/
not intrested in bad smelling pussy or big girls. Also must be shaved yourself down there or dont have much hair at all is ok. dont be in your period either. no unshaved. Mostly I tired of my friends making fun of me, so you could help me. I dont have no experiense with girls so I dont know if you want me to try but you wuold have to tell me what to do. respond by wendsday so we do this when I trun 20 (before20>
if your overwaite women or hairy womendont call, and please be smelling nice. Don not drink or smoke. no drugs.white or asain woman only.
Today WWHM would like to issue an urgent warning regarding Hurricane Steve, a 19 year-old male virgin whose sudden and unfortunate approach may encourage women to nail an assortment of plywood boards to their vaginas. Hurricanes typically disperse copious amounts of moisture, but this particularly impotent storm promises to leave your panties drier than the sun parched asslips of a dehydrated sand snake slithering through a field of Sham-Wows.
Hurricane Steve posted a personal ad in hopes of losing his virginity, utilizing a series of detailed vaginal specifications for the upcoming christening of his penis. Personally, I didn't know I had that option when I was a virgin. To me, pussy was like prison food; you take what's given to you, or you don't fucking eat.
Yet Steve somehow intends to acquire a vagina in the same manner one might order a new Ford Taurus or a late-night pizza. Checking off his list of preferred genital toppings, Steve apparently thinks a man on a moped will deliver an insulated oven bag stuffed with a piping hot vagina in 30 minutes or less. You're a virgin Steve, so don't pretend like you're some type of connoisseur of the fairer sex; you wouldn't know a pussy if it was wearing a clown nose, eating a corn dog, and pockmarking dents in the hood of your car on a pogo stick.
Statistics reveal that our kids now lose their virginity at an average age of less than 15 years. I lost my virginity at 16, a relatively late bloomer amongst my own peers in the late 1980's. Boys now generally lose their virginity at age 14, and girls trail boys just a bit at 15. So I wasn't surprised when I recently asked my friend's 13 year-old daughter what she fed her rabbit, and she responded "2 D batteries," followed quickly by "Oh, I ... mean.....lettuce."
Though I lost my virginity at age 16, my first sexual thoughts smokily emanated upwards from my briefs at age 12. I had developed a crush on a little girl up the street named Amy who always wore short little cotton dresses to class, and I'd sit across from her all day gawking hungrily at her tanned and tiny legs. While you'd think my first sexual fantasy would entail holding her hand or perhaps peeking at her breasts, inexplicably I was obsessed with an insane desire to lick her legs. Specifically her thighs, right above her kneecaps. I couldn't stop thinking about it. It drove me nuts.
I didn't know it was sexual at the time, and I certainly couldn't understand my strange and raging desire to run my tongue over the thigh of a girl who didn't even know I existed. I remember fearing I was turning into one of those "cannibals" I had read about in my pirate magazines, and certainly by the end of the week you would catch me somewhere in a forest snacking on the brains of unfortunate passersby after tricking them into a boiling cauldron of carrots I had prepared.
Eventually I connected my crazy thoughts about Amy with the sudden and raging disco party occurring daily in my pants. My balls dropped like a cruise ship anchor, and my constantly hard penis resembled the tiny arm of a meerkat reaching for a bowl of unripe pears. I discovered I could somewhat relieve the pressure by smashing it against a support pole on my school desk, or imagining my grandmother stirring a bowl of runny eggs. Four years later, I would unfortunately discover that I could also lose my erection while attempting to have sex.
Teenage male virgins face enormous social pressure to have sex. It was easy for most; the dashing young boys with cool shirts, the guys on the football team, and the rocker guys that hung out behind the school were all fucking girls and getting blowjobs during lunch. I, on the other hand, ate granola bars during lunch and still got hard at even the thought of a well-crafted pillow. Having just moved to the big city from a remote farm, I had no style, no athleticism, no body, and I constantly reeked of something that might leak out of a goat.
So I did what every male teen virgin did.
I concocted a ridiculous story that I was having regular and mind-blowing sex with a girl from ..... wait for it .... Canada. The kids at my school actually developed new and specialized ocular muscles just to enable them to roll their eyes further back into their skulls when I excitedly told everyone about Rachel, my imaginary nymphomaniac girlfriend who lived in Vancouver. Could I have been any less original? Not surprisingly, Canada's primary exports to the U.S. at the time included fish and fish products, lumber, and fake female nymphomaniacs that loved blowing complete loser teenage American boys. Though I recently heard that due to the poor economy, fake Canadian nymphomaniacs are now only exporting completely fabricated handjobs.
I held tight to my bullshit story until I was 16 years old, when I was invited to a party at a friends house. Little did I know I would lose my virginity that night, and as expected, it was the most embarrassingly awful experience of my entire life.
Heather had her eye on me for quite some time. If anyone was going to sleep with me it was Heather, a girl that actually bragged about blowing members of the calculus club and sleeping with a mentally retarded neighbor. That made me feel like a real prize. If this girl had carved a notch in her bedpost for every guy she slept with, I could use her bedpost to pick almond skins out of my teeth.
Heather had recently developed a habit of meeting me at my car after school and grabbing my crotch as I sat in the driver's seat. "You wanna play?" she'd ask, fruitlessly searching my empty jeans for something hard to grip, and eventually massaging an assortment of loose mints and coins lining the interior of my pockets. Most boys my age would have pursued the offer, but I was such a nervous wreck about her touching my penis that it instantly recoiled like the electrical cord on a vacuum cleaner.
I drove to the party that night and proceeded to get fucking wasted out of my mind. Heather arrived drunk about two hours later and bee-lined for my crotch. "Let's go fuck in your car," she said. She grabbed my hand and led me out the door towards the parking lot.
This was it. It was finally going to happen.
Once in the back seat of my car, Heather clothes flew off so fast I barely had time to react. She ripped down my jeans and started giving me my first blowjob, and .... it happened. I got hard. My alcohol-fueled confidence won out over my insecurities, and I was ready to go.
She stopped to come up for air and told me to put on a condom. I scrambled around the dark car trying to find my wallet, and in my drunkenness I instantly went soft. She tried playing with me, but now I was thinking about why I wasn't hard, the absolute death knell of every male erection. "You need to go down on me again," I said. She gave me a look of disgust, which only agitated me further. She sighed and went down on me again, and I lay back thinking to myself "OK, now get hard." Of course, now, it just wasn't going to happen.
"What's wrong with you? Don't you like girls?" she asked.
I was so fucking embarrassed at this point that I had to prove to her there was nothing wrong with me. So I began trying to breathe life into my own deflated penis by yanking on it like I was trying to start an old lawnmower I had just pulled out of a river. She sat in the seat next to me watching, a horrified look on her face usually reserved for the aftermath of fatal car accidents or live televised intestinal surgeries.
I couldn't get myself hard. It was freezing cold, absolutely pouring rain, and a bored naked girl was staring at me expectantly with her arms crossed. Then ..... a spark. I was able to almost get fully hard, but only because mysteriously I was ready to cum. I slipped the condom over myself and told her to get on top of me. I got inside of her for only a couple seconds ... and then my penis slipped out without the condom.
And I came.
On her leg.
"Did you just pee on me?" she asked.
"No .. I ... uh ..."
I didn't have to finish the sentence.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" she asked incredulously. She pulled the condom out of her and slapped it on my arm, quickly gathered her clothes, and stormed out of my car, walking with the confidence of a sixteen year-old girl titillated with the anticipation of telling the entire high school that I had either a:) urinated on her, or b:) came faster than a mentally retarded boy.
I sat in my car, staring at the ceiling, soaking in a puddle of my own cold, misfired ejaculate.
I had begun the night a boy in his car, and ended the night a man. Though, in retrospect, I had never imagined becoming a man involved sitting alone in the back of my Volkswagen Rabbit holding my sad, flaccid penis in my hand whilst I hastily mopped up the rapidly crystallizing stalactites of cold, misfired spermitizoa from the roof of my car.
On my first night as a real man, I cried like a little fucking bitch.
So now you know what you have to look forward to, Hurricane Steve.
I'm sure the first time you drove a car, you certainly didn't require a 6 cylinder engine, a 5 speed manual transmission, leather seats and a sunroof. You had no fucking clue what you were doing, so why would it matter?
So wipe your worthless grocery list of vaginal qualifications from the face of the earth, and embrace any make and model of vagina allowing you to pass through her cock wash.
Now that I've thoroughy embarrassed myself with the story I promised, please feel free to leave your truthful and honest initial sexual tragedies in the comments.
Losing your virginity, your first sexual thoughts, whatever you can dig up to make WWHM feel just a bit less like a complete fucking ass.
And you wonder why I choose to remain anonymous.
And of course, read the first comment, which I will post, to make myself feel just a little bit better.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
hey beauties,would like to have someone that likes to be touched in all the right places.if i can make you wet,i love to suck on clits and take in the juice.hygiene and nice sweet smells turn me on.i am an older gentleman,with nothin but time on my hands.if you are able to melt in my hand,u can melt in my mouth.a real muff diver hear.cleanliness is a must.nothin better than a sweet tastin puss.could it be yours.a picture is required if u r gonna sit on my face.if uarent,dont bother. IF YOU ARE BIGGER THAN ME,I WONT BE INTERESTED.SORRY.CONSIDERED A GOOD CATCH,IF YOU ARE THE ONE. CHarlesXXX-XXX-XXXX
WWHM has been a bit like a bad boyfriend as of late, haven't we?
Sure, we show up once in a while to give you that good thorough fucking you so richly deserve.
Then suddenly we disappear, often for days on end, checking in only occasionally from the llanos of Argentina, or perhaps from a prison cell in Oaxaca, where we weakly attempt to illustrate our recent arrest to you with some garbled excuse that may or may not involve six tons of government cheese, a Vietnamese man with an expired hovercraft license, and a teenage dairy mule wearing strapless high heels with a blue sun visor that says "My Other Car is a Peugeot."
But remarkably you come home today to find WWHM sitting on your couch, eating a fresh bag of Easter Peeps, and acting like absolutely nothing is wrong.
"What's for dinner?" WWHM asks, as we hand you a nourishing Peep.
You dispatch your briefcase to the floor, angrily locking your hands to your hips in a manner that suggests WWHM denied leaving a pee stain behind the houseplants. Lips pursed and nostrils quivering, you stomp towards the kitchen and pretend to arrange the dishes in the sink. Unkind words are exchanged, and feelings are hurt. Moist carrot cake is offered, and gently refused. WWHM meekly attempts to kiss your cheek, but your head swivels much like an owl who has spotted a squirrel in a wheelchair with a flat tire.
"I had dinner ready two fucking weeks ago," you scream, pointing out the date of our last post.
WWHM pontificates our wrongdoing, and offers you a shirtless, jeans-clad and unemployed 53 year-old "real muff diver" as a peace offering. We also throw in a side serving of horrified antelope, whose moistened lips gleam brilliantly with a variety of mysteriously placed off-brand prostate creams.
"He seeks 'sweet tastin puss to sit on his face'," WWHM pleads, "and loves to 'suck on the clits' and 'take in the juices'."
Your ears suddenly perk up like a startled deer.
"Will the poorly chosen words in his personal ad mutate the texture of my vaginal walls into a form of matted wheat similar to the dry side of a Frosted Mini-Wheat?" you query.
"The petrified interior of your uterus will resemble a traditional Norwegian wooden clog," I respond, now sensing you giving in to my whims.
Carrot cake is now reconsidered, as WWHM anxiously scrubs urine from the carpet behind the ferns with a toothbrush.
As further punishment, WWHM offers to brutally humiliate ourselves like never before in our next entry, which is currently in progress.
Truthfully guys, I finished up a major project last week and took some time off to travel around Oregon and Washington. I needed a break from the 70-hour work weeks. I appreciate all the readers that stuck with me, especially my long time readers who used to get 6-8 posts a week.
I have one more project coming due in the next few months, and plan to take this summer off to write for both PLFM and WWHM full-time, in addition to writing "Why Women Hate Men- The Book" which I've been sketching out for some time now.
Look for new posts this weekend on both blogs.
Once again, I fucking love you guys. Please know I read every one of your emails, but haven't had time to respond to all of them.
See you soon, and keep sending me all the great material.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Looking to hold, teach, and participate in non-sexual mutual pleasurable caressing sessions to involve all body areas except the "bikini" zone or the breast area. The ideal clothing for you to wear is a 2 piece bikini but shorts and any top that you're comfortable with are ok too.
I will wear a men's "speedo" style swimsuit since that is the ideal attire for a male in this. We might have to pitch in about $5 dollars each for an hourly motel room. The reason I am asking for lesbians is not sexual, but rather, the women participating in this need to be comfortable having other women touch them, and not enough gals want to be touched by gals and gals don't generally trust anyone to touch them, so this is about the most ideal situation I could conceive of.
I would seek and allow guys but then I would have to find women who were willing to be touched non-sexually by guys who wouldn't be lecherous, lewd, crude, and rude about the whole thing.
My high school girlfriend had decided to take me out to a very nice restaurant for my 18th birthday.
At least it seemed like a nice restaurant back then, but looking back now in my mid-thirties, I think the restaurant qualified as "nice" simply because there wasn't a zany red exclamation point plastered on the tail end of each menu item, nor a host of free-spirited cartoon characters upselling cheese fries on the tablecloth.
She handed me a gift-wrapped box over the table after dinner, so I took it from her and proceeded to cause a big scene by ripping the paper open loudly and generally flailing about like a pregnant walrus. It was my 18th birthday, and I wanted all these disinterested casual diners to know it. My sudden lust for attention backfired only five seconds later, when I extracted a small gray underwear box featuring a nearly naked man wearing a fire-engine red thong.
The boxcover showcased a finely chiseled young Adonis, posing in a manner that suggested he had been emotionally reflecting upon the sudden appearance of a low flying seabird when the photographer suddenly snapped a picture without his permission. His pecs were fantastically ripped, his arms hung like tree trunks, and between his horse-like thighs hung the identical red thong I now owned, none too proudly, which appeared to house either an obese housecat or a prize-winning zucchini.
"It's for the bedroom," my girlfriend whispered naughtily, as though I had somehow originally misconstrued my new rose-colored cock sling as a convenient garment I might wear around the house whilst watching football with my buddies, having tea with my mother, or constructing a birdhouse.
Our 19 year-old male waiter dropped the check off, and made a point to acknowledge the absurd siren-colored banana sack I held in my hands underneath the table. "Have a nice evening," he said with a smirk, suggesting the question "Well aren't you just going to be the prettiest little princess at the ball this evening?"
Five seconds later, the backroom of the restaurant erupted in laughter, drowned only by a cacophony of shattering dishware.
My girlfriend took me home and immediately ordered me into the bathroom to asphyxiate my testicles in the steamy and unforgiving vault of flexible fabric. After dropping my barnacle sized penis into the wide-open confines of the "retention bag", I certainly wasn't very impressed with the results. Rather than a prize-winning zucchini, my genitals resembled a small caterpillar wearing clown shoes trying to hail a cab.
I tried a profile view in the mirror, but the results generally weren't any better. If you've ever seen a quail hatchling attempt to peck through a surgical glove, then you know exactly what I saw. Despite a few more futile attempts at gonad puffery, I resigned to the fact that my testicles hung with all the youthful exuberance of a windsock in a bank vault.
I emerged from the bathroom in my droopy man-panties ashamed, like a once-proud dog rudely forced to adorn a comical turtleneck sweater in a public dog park.
"Hmmmm," my girfriend said, her uterus constricting into a ball the size of a snow pea. "It looks sort of cute." Yet her facial expression conflicted with her words, and her true reaction couldn't have been any more obvious had her vagina suddenly repelled down her leg, grabbed an oatmeal cookie, and marched defiantly out the door to pursue a career as a craps dealer in Atlantic City.
Mind you this was my own girlfriend at the time, a straight woman with an extremely healthy sexual appetite, yet whom had become visibly repulsed by the sight of her own boyfriend with his penis ensconced in a makeshift sandwich bag and smashed flat against his thorax like somebody had just launched it from some sort of penis cannon directly into the wall of a middle-school gymnasium.
Yet the question still begs, if a straight woman who loved me deeply had such a horrific reaction to my ego-deflating serpent bag, why on earth would a 45 year-old man like Bill even harvest the thought that a group of unknown lesbians might want to willingly expose themselves to his Speedo-wrapped penis while he hungrily groped them in a rundown pay-by-the-hour motel room? That, by the way, they would have to fucking pay for.
It's not exactly a closely-held secret that even straight women despise the male thong. While women's lingerie teasingly hides the parts of a woman men so desperately want to see, the male thong simply hides what women don't want to have to look at. It's the genital version of sweeping hairballs under the carpet.
But ask a lesbian if she'd rather cuddle with a Speedo-wrapped penis or an angry caged bear, I'd give her all of 5 seconds to compose a will, drown herself in honey, and put on a suit made of bloody salmon heads and fresh gooseberries.
I've often imagined a lesbian's worst nightmare. Perhaps she finds herself locked in an ATM vestibule with an overweight, short, bald and hairy man with nothing on but a thong and a pair of dirty, striped knee-high socks, one pulled higher than the other. "Well," he might say whilst snickering nasally into a Penthouse magazine, "what do you suppose we do to pass the time in here, sweet tits?"
Or perhaps, just perhaps, her nightmare might involve spending an evening in a cheap hotel room with a creepy 45 year-old man wearing a Speedo, and gently running his crusty hands over her thighs as his haunting onion breath seeped into the hairs on the back of her neck like the haunting dark of night seeps into a forest.
No vadgepass for you.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
I will make you smile! - 52m
I am the only man that can truely make you cum and cum over and over again. sit on my face and fuck my mouth with your hole. Lay back as i will have you blowing your hole in no time. Next i continue toick you clean never giving you a rest as i banging on your clit like a punching bag (you might try to take a break and push away but I wont let you) and start inserting finger after finger into your soaked cuntwanting to suck on something else you suck me off to my first ejaculation exploding in your mouth. You tell me i taste good and i shoot on your face and chest as you rub my man juice into your skin like lotion. Later I turn my concentration back to you and plow your snatch til you cum again. Then ytou call me from work and tell me how Im the best and how wet i make your pussy and I will want to come lick your juicy snatch again.
Walter XXXXXX (XXX-XXX-XXXX )
As a young teen, I was lucky enough to serve my sexual internship with a woman far more sexually experienced than I was.
I'm not saying she was a slut, but to most guys her vagina was like Las Vegas. Going there sounded like a great idea at first, but you always felt bad about yourself when you left.
But I was 15 years old at the time, so I latched onto her vagina like a koala. She lay on her back patiently for a couple weeks, watching me blindly stab away at her uterus as if she had inadvertantly swallowed a small bird and I was trying to scare it out of her mouth. I hadn't a clue how to get her off however, though I tried valiantly with my vast arsenal of 15 year-old sex tricks, including my patented method of insecurely running my hand over her vagina as if attempting to locate a contact lens, followed by a round of oral sex that would have been more skillfully administered by a large-billed pond goose with cottonmouth.
Fortunately, while I was once again chipping away at her pelvis one day, she stopped me mid-coitus, pulled my face down close to hers, and whispered softly in my ear "Talk to me... ...I want you to talk to me."
Bewildered, I asked "About what?"
"Just talk to me," she said.
"Well, yesterday my mom made me change the oil in her car, and. .... ..."
"No," she said, "talk dirty to me. Tell me how much you love to fuck my hot pussy."
I wouldn't have been more shocked had she suddenly ground up my genitals and fed them to a caged bird.
I complied, but felt incredibly stupid because my poorly chosen "hot words" kept coming out of my mouth in the same tone an old farmer might use to explain the market price of cheese. "Oh," I said, as if explaining weather patterns, "you feel so good inside."
Much to my surprise, she had an almost immediate orgasm. Now, I'm not saying I was any good, because I wasn't. While I couldn't fuck my way out of a bowl of shrimp broth, it ends up she was simply one of those girls that could easily have an orgasm at the sight of a well-made chair, or proper bus change.
I spent the remainder of my high school years playing Wheel of Fortune during sex, trying to figure out which words girls liked, and which words caused them to literally have a seizure.
And I think Walter, whose horribly unfortunate personal ad we've posted today, needs to learn a few things about dirty talk. The point of dirty talk, of course, is to arouse a woman sexually. Walter only succeeds in arousing the remnants of a mildly pleasant mid-day lunch.
For example, I know if you're going to tell a woman you want to "plow her snatch," God help you if you're not standing in a Vietnamese rice paddy with a bag of seed and a trained mule. The only appropriate time to say "snatch" to a woman occurs when someone wearing a raincoat just drove off with her child in a brown van with a bubble window.
I know if you're going to say "cunt", you have about 2 seconds to either say "~inued", or pull out your British passport.
And I know if you're going to say "blowing your hole", you better be holding a pan flute and a driver's license identifying you as The Amazing Zamfir. In theory, you're planning on attracting a woman, not a migrating humpback whale.
If the brain is the largest sex organ, Walter is hung like a circumcised fruit fly. WWHM chooses to critique men's personal ads in order to showcase why women are so hostile sexually towards men sometimes, and if "banging your clit like a punching bag" doesn't sum it up, I don't know what would. While Walter's ultra-progressive logging-barge rhetoric might go over well with the boys after six lonely months at sea, Walter's reproductive grocery sack might soon suffer the brunt of such a descriptive beating, and I will happily sell season tickets and commemorative keychains to such an inspiring event.
Stick that in your hole, Walter.
Please post the worst thing a guy has ever said to you in bed in the comments.