Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Dirty Talk


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.


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.

I need a good laugh.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

The Challenge

Ladies Read This... You Want A Challenge?

Ok here is the challenge. I will bet you that no matter how Hott you are or think you are. No matter what you say or do sexually or what sexy outfit you wear. That YOU! Cannot get me to sleep with you with in the first three days! Just remember the hotter you are and the flirtier you are and the more sexual in your windows you are the better your chances are to get me to sleep with you with in those first three dates! Now if you win you get the gift certificate to the day spa. Now if I win you buy me a real steak dinner with the works and take me to some cool guy movie. -Adam XXX-XXX-XXXX

When I was a junior in high school, I wasn't considered much of a catch by the ladies. Girlish in stature and primarily governed by fears, even the mere thought of encountering a small flightless bird or indifferent moth turned my discount cotton briefs into a catch bin for what a 3 year-old girl might aptly describe as "tinkle."

My sexually experienced girlfriend at the time was anxious to house something inside her vagina not advertised as super-absorbent, and rightfully acknowledged I wasn't going to be the guy to do it. Clingy as a laundered sock yet paralyzed by chronic vagiphobia, I acted as though her pants contained a car bomb or hammerhead shark. Her vagina had become the trunkless elephant in the tiny room of our relationship, and she was looking for an experienced snout.

"I need a guy that's a challenge," she said, patting my piping-hot and urine-soaked leg.

Whilst I was lucky to learn at 15 that women prefer a challenge, some guys never get it. Rather than entice a woman with his intelligence, charm her with his humor or inspire her with his drive to succeed, some guys just hoist up their belly fat, snap a photo of their uncleansed balls, and serve them up to your computer screen like two cheese squares extracted from the hair bin at a Siamese cat groomer. Then they wonder "Where's the bitches at?" News flash: For women, the three most plentiful resources on this earth are air, water, and hard loser cock.

Adam heard the rumor that women love a challenge and took it literally, constructing a dating challenge for his personal ad daring you - I'll say that again, daring you - to make him want to sleep with you. Please ignore the fact Adam would sleep with you even if you arrived wearing horseshoes, a cast iron welding helmet, and spent the first hour eating dead houseflies off his kitchen floor.

Further ignore the fact that 99% of the single guys I know can easily go three days without sex. Clear the bench by snapping off a quick batch of Keebler elves and we'll be perfectly content watching a show about logging. Personally, I've gone three months, which might explain why I spent last night on a park bench in the red light district generously sprinkling crack rocks on the ground for prostitutes.

Finally, ignore the definition of challenge, which technically requires a winner. In Adam's challenge, even Helen Keller could see she loses either way. A facial from the spa first requires a facial from Adam, and even if you "lose", you owe a dumbass two hours of your time, a chunk of cow and a film about robots.

You missed the point Adam. To women, a challenge is a guy that does not want to sleep with them at all. They want to earn it. If a woman just wants cock, she can hurl a baboon turd out her window and hit any random guy walking along the street and he would happily tax her pussy like the IRS.

And really, any woman with intact synapses knows that's all you're after anyway. That's not a challenge. You're just another clueless online asstard trying to get his dick wet under the guise of a challenge no more difficult than beating a fire hydrant at Scrabble.

I have seen the future, and for you it has no vadgepass.


Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Judgement Day

Date Needed for Corporate Function

I am looking for an intelligent, educated, outgoing, elegant, and attractive, but most importantly, fun Caucasian or Asian girl to act as my date to my company’s outing at a 5-star restaurant.

To the Trash & Riff-Raff:
No, I am not paying you, I am not looking for an escort or a hooker…friggin’ skanks. If you are a single mom, live with your parents, don’t have a college degree, “working through beauty school”, or “getting over my ex who is in prison”--please contact me, so I can belittle your life choices.

If you can’t see your toes due to your gut, smoke or dip (ew), can’t hold your booze or depend on it to live, or have ever been involved with the words “ganja” or “blow”--don’t contact me, I’ll vomit on my keyboard.

If “personal expression” or “individuality through art” concepts are important to you, then by God, don’t get tattoos where idiots have them: neck, behind the ear, wrists, or any other places that state: “I will never have a professional career”.

To the Snobby Crowds:
No, I am not needy nor am I socially disabled, I hate bars and situations where I have to compete for your attention with meatheads, thugs, guidos, and guys old enough to be your dad: You aren’t better than me, and yes, while you are doing me a huge favor, take it as an interim interview period for yourself. Think of it as spring training before a grueling baseball season.

Please disregard me if the following applies to you: If you got your job because “daddy knows some people”, “My self-esteem is reflected in my implants”, “I always get my way--just like the Disney princesses I grew up watching” or “I LOVED Sex & the City”. I naturally hate you.

Now to Those That Still Are Applicable:
Thank you. I apologize for seeming to be an asshole, I hope it didn’t take having a kid, an abortion, or a shitty ex to make you realize how important having a good guy is. I hope you take my cynicism and sarcasm as my way of curbing my naturally aggressive tendencies of dealing with idiots of all genders and races.


I'm not saying Seth is judgemental or hates women, but last time I went over to his house for an anti-abortion party, he served a bowl of Democrat-flavored Hymen Chex.

We had a great time until his girlfriend Qing Tze accidentally voiced her opinion on the room temperature, at which point he wrapped her in a Confederate flag, forced her to tear up a copy of the Equal Rights Amendment, then deported her to Guangzhou, China. Where, ironically, she now sews American flags for 13 cents an hour.

Having exhausted the local supply of really fun and drug-free deaf, mute, and blind white women with natural breasts, dead fathers and no opinions, Seth now turns to the internet to find a date for a corporate function at a 5-star restaurant. After belittling your life choices, threatening to vomit on his keyboard, and proclaiming his natural hatred for 95% of the women in society, Seth ends his lengthy diatribe by self-righteously touting himself as "one of the good guys" and begging you to excuse his "cynicism and satire." Interesting, because the only way anyone would consider this ad "satire" is if Seth began the ad with a question like "Wouldn't it be funny if some angry fucking impotent cocksucker wrote an ad as horrible as the one I'm about to write?"

If pussies were eyelids, Seth's personality is tear gas. Casting stones from his lonely glass house, Seth passes judgement like an obese owl passes mouse bones. Tattooed women, hairdressers and single mothers all incur the vicious wrath of his tragically microscopic genitalia; sure, perhaps I'd be angry too if my penis resembled a cold and frightened seahorse nibbling at two salad capers, but I wouldn't take it out on the single mothers for which I was the cause. Single mothers become single mothers because of dicks like Seth. I'd try to leave him too, at least before an archaeologist from Chevron started chipping away at my fossilized vagina with a screwdriver.

If you think your dick is dry now Seth, your ad hasn't helped you. If I may quote you, think of it as spring training before a grueling baseball season. In two months your penis will crumble into a fine cock powder, accessing the throat of a female only if chopped with a razor and insufflated through a Burger King milkshake straw.

If you need someone to "act as your date" Seth, you're going to need Meryl Streep, who will likely win an Oscar for her performance as a woman who excuses herself to the bathroom and never returns. Otherwise, find a proctologist or someone else who can easily spend two hours with a painful asshole.

So huff and puff all you want Seth.

You're only going to end up blowing yourself.

Friday, March 13, 2009

Teacher's Pet

Can you teach me how to eat pussy?

Hi. My name is Chris. I am 19 and looking to learn how to eat pussy really well. I am ok, but my girlfriend says I need a lot of practice. Can you please. Please help me? Thank you so much. Nothing more has to happen if you don't want to.

Yes, because every woman dreams of someday subcontracting out her vagina as a practice facility for young boys whose oral skills resemble a field mule gnawing corn kernels out of a fencepost.

Admittedly, Chris is facing a problem experienced by millions of young male teens every year; namely, he's facing a vagina, and realizing he has no more idea what to do with it than he would had you handed him a piece of string and a roll of scotch tape and told him to build an international space station.

Yet men are taught to face what frightens them, and in this case most young men aptly respond by sticking their face directly inside of what frightens them, usually generating a cacophony of slurping sounds normally reserved for a Shanghai won ton soup convention. He visualizes you writhing in ecstasy; you visualize a horse licking peanut butter from a window. Had the same oral enthusiasm been applied to the surface of his toilet, you could use it to serve pancakes to the Queen of England.

Hoping to acquire some inspiring tunes to play on his girlfriend's reproductive organs, Chris recently took his educational quest to the wondertubes where he posted a personal ad seeking a maestro in the oral arts. A noble effort indeed, yet we don't exactly expect Chris to receive the rousing response he desires; women generally don't respond favorably to requests made online that a man wouldn't have the balls to make in person. "Can I borrow a pen?" Sure! "Can I use your vagina as a feedbag?" Not likely. The difference? Asking such questions online removes the always irritable high-velocity impact of fashionable yet simplistic footwear with the underside of one's fatally exposed scrotum. Advantage: Internet.

In a perfect world, an enterprising woman will use Chris in the same fashion he intends to use them. In fact, I know a few technologically proficient elderly ladies down at the Sunshine Center who still have a pilot light burning in their ankle-length panties; what better way to wrap up a day of lawn bowling than downing a carafe of Maalox Plus while instructing a young and eager scamp to re-create prom night in your new triple-absorbent britches? It'll be just like that night with the blacksmith in the horse carriage 62 years ago. You want experience? You got experience.

Chris, if your girlfriend continues to come to bed with a genital bib hanging from her thighs, you still have work to do. In the meantime we suggest you practice on a ripe peach; they're always juicy, and they don't do their taxes while you eat them.

Sunday, March 8, 2009


Someone treat me like I deserves to be treated

Lets face the facts I am unemployed and I don't want to get a job making only 10 dollar an hour. I am a above average looking male with beutiful cock looking for suger mama to spoil me rotten use my cock and pay my way for a little while! Why waste a beutiful cock? It now ready for you to use all the time!

Take me shopping, and a couple dollars gas money, and some going out money, and you get to play with my cock anytime you want nostrings atached! Kinky and I will always satisfy you. I lwill look good on your arm and im a great in bed, and Im willing to do chores around the house. Derek xxx-xxx-xxxx cell

Because nothing excites a woman more than going down on a man whose cock tastes like an unemployment office.

Garnish with job applications and lightly season with lawn care bags, and his genitals may become a bit more palatable if only for a few weeks; otherwise, he'll need a pair of clit-sized jumper cables and a Princess cruise ship battery to keep your arid vagina from sprouting a vibrant medley of sub-Saharan cactus plants.

The economy is bad folks, and Derek joins the growing legions of men trolling the internet for a sugarmama. Technically defined, a sugarmama works hard all day and earns a living whilst the man sits at home in a nest of Cheeto bags and Yoo-Hoo cartons with his beak open and tongue extended, incessantly chirping for scraps of your paycheck. In turn, you get all the hard cock you want, which, in this case, is probably none. Unless you need a hat holder.

Regurgitating hard-earned greenbacks to a grown infant with the motivational drive of a glacier taxes the sexual psyche of even the most fervent female nymphomaniac; after a week of listening to him recap Judge Judy highlights, her sex drive will park itself in a museum somewhere between Eli Whitney's original cotton gin and a mule-powered wheat combine.

Derek assumes a woman would want to fuck an unemployed freeloader just because "he has a beautiful cock," which is like assuming she's dumb enough to buy a piece of shit car just because it has a shiny muffler. Both are equally embarrassing, and God forbid she had to take either to a high school reunion; at least she can park the car down the street. Derek hovers like a shadow that's constantly low on cash.

"So what do you do for a living Derek?" her high school friends would inevitably ask.

"Nothing," Derek would say with a smirk, "I don't work because I don't feel like it."

It's at this point you'd affix an anti-scratch dog cone to your head and ooze backwards out of the room like a salted slug on a Phoenix sidewalk. You're officially dating a loser, the same guy who's now trying to write down another woman's phone number on the back of a $1 food stamp.

WWHM's solution?

Get a new tattoo above your pussy.

"Now Hiring."

Sunday, March 1, 2009

I Hate Women, But ...

Show me you’re not all the same. - 26

Through my dealings with the fairer sex throughout my life, I have become completely disillusioned with females and have now resorted to the internet in an effort to find one that I can at least tolerate for extended periods of time.

You want to know about me? I’ll tell you what I’m not.

1) I am not your father. I will not tolerate childish bullshit when you don’t get your way and I will not throw money at you to shut you up.
2) I am not your hobby. That’s why you have friends.
3) I am not someone who puts the toilet seat down after I urinate. You’re a big girl now and if you can’t be bothered to so much as look at where you’re about to park your ass, you deserve the cold embrace of toilet water.

As a staunch rationalist, I realize you’re probably every bit as bitter with men as I am with your cunt compatriots. My theory is you have not yet lost all hope so we can end our days in perpetual bliss or whatever storybook bullshit those cookie cutter girls get off on.

My ideal woman takes care of herself to some degree. We can’t help certain aspects of our appearance, but if you don’t bathe regularly and have eaten yourself fat it demonstrates a fatal lack of respect for yourself that one would expect to bleed into other aspects of your behavior.

Send me an email that makes me think, laugh, or hope. For the love of a God in which I don’t even believe, just someone show me you’re not all the same.


Meet Peter, the number one reason mermaids break into applause when they discover they don't have a vagina.

But if you do have a vagina, congratulations. Peter would like to introduce himself to you, followed by kicking your dog in the nuts.

Peter recently sat down to write a personal ad but ended up writing an obituary for his own balls. If "I am not someone who puts the toilet seat down after I urinate" is your siren song for the ladies Peter, then I suggest you entertain your sperm with a Travel Scrabble and some comfortable folding chairs. Here's a familiar word they can start with: Sweatsock.

Yet WWHM cannot help but suckle sweetly from the engorged teat of irony; Peter hates women, but yearns deeply for what he claims to so despise. Hence, his personal ad takes on the morbid tone of a six year-old boy forced by his mother to beg for an urn of boiled turnips.

Tortured by his animosity towards the female sex, yet fueled by his desire for pussy, Peter labors through 5 painful and pouty paragraphs by huffing and puffing, stomping his feet, and spilling applesauce all over his bib. Don't fight it Peter; pussy is like a bend in space. That shit sucks everything in. If you want to get angry about it, go ahead and write a complaint to Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs.

If you've ever dated a gay Viking, that pretty much sums Peter as a date. He'll probably pee on you at some point in the evening, he certainly won't compliment you on your dress, and he won't want to touch you at all. But when it's time to get what he wants, he'll just club you with an oar and take it. It's your choice ladies; a polar bear may find comfort in the loneliness and frigid conditions that waft so freely in the confines of Peter's moth-ridden Target briefs, but you don't have to.

And on a personal note Peter, if you plan on dropping the C-bomb in a personal ad, prepare yourself for an inevitable explosion of masturbation.

"Send me an email that makes me think, laugh, or hope. "

Good advice Peter.

Use it.