Wednesday, April 29, 2009

WWHM Gets Back to Business!

let my fingers do all the walkin - 53

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.

-The Weasel

Thursday, April 16, 2009


Seeking lesbian couples, lesbian or bi women for caressing 45M

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.

Sorry Bill.

No vadgepass for you.