Touchdown

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.

Bill XXX-XXX-XXXX

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.