WWHM Presents: Sex Addict!

SEX ADDICT 57M

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."

Asshole.

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.)