Sunday, 6 November 2016


You read that right. Introvert. Not ‘recluse’ as some of my friends would have you believe. Don’t listen to them, they just hate me cos I’m beautiful.

You see, as time has passed, I’ve become more and more of an indoors person, and as such I’m rarely out and about on traditional social gatherings. My friends constantly complain, and have every right to do so, but then fuck them, I don’t wanna go to the wedding. Or the club.

I blame this situation on my sudden and tragic loss of …. the ability to drink. Or should I say permission? Doctor’s orders people, Womilee doesn’t drink anymore. And it seems I find most people a lot less tolerable without alcohol.

I digress.

I am here to prove to them, and inform other introverts that I have found the perfect social gathering suited to my specific needs. A place where everybody shares such a common primary goal, that the only other things there to do are

1.  appreciate the girl in glasses’ ass when she’s squatting, and

2.      2.  tease Manchester United fans.

Good people, I’m talking about the gym.

Before I explain myself, let me clear this up. Yes I’ve been going to the gym. No I don’t have a six pack. I’m still locked in a never-ending battle against manboobs. Damn manboobs.

Now why the gym? Well it’s simple. Everybody comes there to work out. That’s the primary goal. So technically, it’s a social gathering where everyone just minds their own fucking business. It’s perfect.

There’s no time to talk too much, you still have 6 more sets to go. If you’re dancing, it’s to the music on your headphones. Of course, there’s some interaction … shake the lads, say hey to the girls. But you’ve got maximum 2 hours there. So the greetings are a lot shorter, the banter is brief and your introverted ass can get your required human interaction, and get back indoors.

Don’t get me wrong, I go out once in a while. This year alone, I’ve been to 6 different weddings. That may not seem a lot to you, but I think I’m making progress.

Plus this social activity also comes with the added benefit of keeping you healthy. I mean yeah, we all wish medical science would hurry up and develop a pill that gives you instant abs, but until they do we’ll just do it the old fashioned way.

They say everyone needs a bit of social interaction, it’s good for your mental health. But for those who would rather keep their social gatherings tally to a minimum, get your gym gear together. The girl in glasses is about to start squatting, and you guys have got to see this.

I am Womilee. Damn manboobs.

Sunday, 25 October 2015

The Nefarious Dr Yes Please

"You can pull my hair if you want to...". It's always the cute ones. In my long and illustrious career as a professional sexual deviant and all around man-whore, I have come to realise many things. One of the more interesting of these is that when it comes to sex, one must never, ever, judge a book by its cover. I'm not in the habit of writing about my exploits, I view kissing and telling as poor form, but this particular incident was as fascinating as it was pleasurable. This is one of the rare times where it would be a travesty to let what happened in Vegas just stay there.

She and I met
only recently, on a mutual friend's recommendation. Lovely girl, cute as a button, adorably chubby in that 'not always staring at the fucking floor on Instagram' way. All in all, not the perfect physical specimen of my dreams (oh Amber Rose), but then I doubt I myself ticked every box in her head. Not the queen of conversation either, but that was due more to a quiet demeanor, rather than lack of personality/intelligence. Au contraire, the young lady is a final year medical student, and I'm quite sure that requires some smarts to achieve.

During the course of our many conversations, we probed and asked the usual questions, at least learning the bare minimums we all require before deciding if it's worth committing sins of the flesh with a stranger. Fast forward and here we are.

"Let me know when you're home. I'll take a taxi, you pay and after that, it's happy hour". Her take on what we were planning was refreshing. We're here to do a job, let's not beat about the bush on that. The usual pretence made by some girls as to why they came over is more often than not tiresome. So she's here, and as I said before cute as a button. When we spoke, I mentioned my predisposition to sundresses and lacy French knickers, a preference she decided to oblige with her outfit. Have a seat, make yourself comfortable, let me get you a drink..., standard rules of engagement in these situations. She sipped on Irish cream, I puffed on a joint and we chatted. I'm no neanderthal good people, one cannot just begin ripping off clothes and inserting penises willy-nilly.

She got loose, I got even more so and just like that, happy hour had begun. Her particular kinks had been the subject of our many discussions, thus I was more than prepared to rough her up the way she said she liked. Or I thought I was... Without boring you with too many details (Vegas is still Vegas people), as we engaged in the matter at hand, the good doctor-to-be seemed to be enjoying herself, but not in the throes of sexual passion I had hoped. Her responses were similar to the faces of an audience at a show, where the comedian is more amusing as opposed to downright hilarious. My concerns were mounting. In my head, I quickly scanned my personal kama sutra, mentally searching chapters and paragraphs, desperate to find the right 'make this bitch scream' technique. Mid stroke/browse, she turns back to look at me and says the magic words...

"You can pull my hair if you want to...".

I think I may have laughed a little. Not at her request of course, but at my surprise. I should know by now. It's always the cute ones. When the doctor said she liked it rough, she apparently meant rough. The right page in the kama sutra flicked open and I begun. The audience was infinitely more responsive to the show. But wait, there's more...

Just as the good doctor in waiting was kinky, so was she vocal. Very vocal. Which in itself is not a big deal..., lots of women are loud when enjoying themselves. But the good doctor chose these moments (and many others I'm sure) to show just how well mannered she is. I've heard everything from 'YES!' to 'OH GOD!' to 'FUCK ME!' But never has anyone been so polite. 'Yes please! Yes Please! Yes Please!'... It was fascinating. That's the same answer one gives when offered a cup of tea or the menu.

"Good day miss, would like to see today's special?"
"Yes Please".

The novelty of the whole thing spurred me on, and an idea came to my head.

Step 1, flip her on her back
Step 2, keeping hitting that as hard as possible
Step 3, choke her

I wrapped my hands around her neck and applied pressure. I've never actually seen a response quite like that before. Sticking with the Vegas referrences, I'd just hit the jackpot. The 'yes please' became less audible, but the grabbing and shaking became far more pronounced. I had told my sign off joke and the audience responded to my performance with rapturous applause.

Of course afterwards I teased her.

"Why so polite? Your parents raised a well brought-up little freak didn't they?"

Don't judge a book by its cover good people. That sweet little doctor attending to you in your moments of ill health, the one who looks like the love child of a Sunday school teacher and a professional bedtime story teller. Her, that one, she's low-key the original freak of the week.

Of course I hope she reads this. I write it as an ode to the nefarious Dr Yes Please. Her story is one which deserves to be told.

Til next time, I am Womilee. Would you like me to go harder?

Wednesday, 6 May 2015

Talk dirty to me...

Remember when you were younger, and your older uncles/aunts/cousins/whatever would complain bitterly about how your generation doesn't know how to do shit? According to them, your dress sense was complete rubbish, your music didn't even qualify as organized noise and your favorite sportsman wasn't fit to launder the jockstraps of their own heroes.

As life, time and Mother ‘Fucking’ Nature would have it, we are now at that hallowed age, where those younger than us simply don’t know shit. And since I consider myself as someone who knows quite a lot of shit (as random and useless as that shit may be), I would like to highlight another aspect of life where I find younger people severely lacking in experience, ability and all around knowledge. This is the subtle art form that is conversation, more specifically, flirting.

I recently came out of the most intense relationship of my illustrious career. Don’t ask any questions, because you won’t get any answers. Moving on, during this time I managed to lose contact with most of my good old ‘friends’ and whilst a laudable gesture during a relationship, one must always remember that nothing lasts forever, a piece of advice I wish I followed myself.

But I digress. Of course, now a free man, I have reverted to my philandering ways, and tried to peek up every skirt within a 10km radius. Imagine my body as a high functioning compass; I won’t bother telling you what part represents the needle.

As I have complained about on several occasions, it is impossible to walk up to women and state that you’re here to “fuck bitches”. The only exception to that rule involves an exchange of currency and possible STDs. Thus, in order to satisfy my perverse desires, I must engage every girl I meet in stimulating conversation, in the hope that I can talk my way into her panties. As luck would have it, the forces of the universe have decided to compensate my heartbreak by sending very young, very hot women my way. And when I say young, I mean young. I am currently en route to violating a 25 year old, molesting two 23 year olds and if I play my cards right, I just might bag me a 21 year old (fuck you hater, you wish you were in my shoes).

These women are of varying degrees of attractiveness, but all share one common problem. No conversation. No creativity in speech, an almost non-existent ability to flirt. Sometimes, and I actually told one of them this, it’s like trying to speak to a computer. You type in a command, you get a response, nothing more, nothing less.

To be honest, I shouldn't be complaining. After all, the end justifies the means. But I enjoy flirting, I always have. It’s the thrill of the chase, it's a dance that must be done and done right. Proper flirting is like sparring or fencing. You feint, parry, duck and dodge. She tries to blow you off, you counter that with a line that pulls her back in. She tries to friend-zone you, you drag yourself out of that abyss and firmly plant yourself in her sexual subconscious. I fucking love it, it makes the sex worthwhile.

But here I am, surrounded by a potential plethora of pussy (that has a ring to it, am I right?) and I'm being dulled because these young women couldn't carry a conversation in their overpriced knock-off designer handbags. Personally, I blame social media, Instagram in particular. What is the use of being able to provide witty, stimulating conversation when you could instead upload the 70 selfies you took yesterday, hashtag them with a quote stolen from the internet and get 100 likes from ignorant, unintelligent Neanderthals whose idea of an eloquent role model is Kanye West?

Please don’t misunderstand, this won’t stop me from trying to fuck anyone. My basest desires much be satisfied, whether I like it or not. However, I would like to enjoy the chase again. Nothing fuels my ego like when I drop a particularly brilliant line on a girl and I see the smile cross her face like “this dirty bastard just hit the panty-drop button”. Unfortunately, I need ammunition for my attack.

Getting a girl naked is like preparing a meal.  You may be Gordon fucking Ramsey, an accomplished chef, able to whip up culinary delights at the drop of your chef’s hat. But still, you need the right ingredients, without which, you might as well have learned to cook in carpentry school.

So this is an appeal to all women out there. I can’t appeal to men as I have never (and am not planning on ever) flirted with another man. Sweetheart, that fat ass is beautiful. Your skin is amazing and that hairdo is madness itself. Add a sense of humor to it, maybe the ability to drop a line or two of your own, and you’ll go from being a fine woman to a fucking goddess.

Because when we meet in person, and you forget your Instagram filter at home, it’s your conversation and banter that’ll keep me coming and coming like I forgot something.

I am Womilee. What your name is and what that thing do?

Saturday, 17 January 2015

Saturday Morning

6.30a.m. on Saturday morning, a young man lies in bed. Having been awake for the past hour, our hero becomes ever more frustrated with the demon that is insomnia, plaguing him since the arrival of his 30th year on earth. In desperation, he turns to Twitter, seeking solace in the randomness of the online social media community.
Sadly, no celebrity or public figure has wiped their ass in a manner inconsistent with Piers Morgan’s lofty standards, and alas, the attention starved young women of the world are still asleep, leaving the screen of his phone devoid of the banal spectator sport that is a twitter fight. Not content to simply lie there, his mind wanders to other options. Facebook? Never! That would be slipping into the depths of depravity. He considers calling up his beautiful girlfriend to profess his undying affection for her. A romantic notion yes, but he must be practical about things. Waking up a goddess at such an ungodly hour can only lead to dire consequences with well thought out revenge tactics, such as the next meal deliberately cooked with an overly-generous and unhealthy helping of salt, or worse still, ‘unintentional’ loitering in front of the TV when he is about to round the keeper and score a goal which will have the online Fifa 15 community questioning their faith.
Defeated in his quest to find entertainment at the crack of dawn, our hero decides to look within the infinite abyss that is his mind, and as such, begins to ponder on issues affecting both himself and society on a daily basis. Who will succeed, GEJ or GMB? How will the international community respond to the ever growing radicalism of religion? Is the fact that BRT being the brain-child of BRF, simply a happy, aesthetically pleasing coincidence, or were the Illuminati involved? These questions weigh heavy on his mind and thus, he turns to a God he’s not so sure exists anymore for comfort. He starts out his daily prayer in the same manner… “Our Father, who art in heaven, please don’t let her be pregnant…”

Prayers come to an end 30 seconds later, due to a lack of actually having anything to say and our hero feels the pangs of the first bladder evacuation of the day. With a decisive movement, he springs out of bed, only to recoil right back into bed, his body reminding him that he simply cannot move that quickly anymore. Exercising a great deal more care, he slowly gets up and majestically  saunters to the restroom, pausing to hold the door open in a gentlemanly manner for his morning wood to proceed first. As he approaches the porcelain throne, he hears a scuttling behind him and turns around to face one of the many minions the devil sends to do his bidding. The cockroach is just as startled by the appearance of the man, and reacts by taking off in flight, in search of safe shelter. Our hero views this as an act of war, and responds in kind, uttering a shrill war cry (reminiscent of Mariah Carey in her hey-day). Convinced that his impressive imitation of a woman just receiving her Valentine’s Day gift has scared away the fiend, the man returns to his original mission of voiding his bladder.
With the usual herculean effort, our hero reaches into his favourite flannel patterned pyjama-pants and unsheathes the Excalibur. He goes about his business with dignity and grace, whistling that classic little ditty ‘My anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns hun’. Returning the weapon into its holster, he feels a slight tinge of unhappiness, wishing he had the funds to hire an assistant to help with such affairs.

As he gets back into bed, still heavily under the influence of the insomnia demon, he begins to hear the shouts and angry exclamations of his neighbors, people to whom the adage ‘Silence is Golden’ holds no relevant value. But as he continues to eavesdrop (read as ‘listen’) he finds out that the early morning has brought with it valid justification for a verbal tirade of offensive language. To his (and quite frankly anyone else’s surprise) the domestic help in the employ of the said neighbors decided that her time had come to be in the family way. Even more surprising was the manner with which she decided to go about this business, seeking the ‘help’ of several men, ranging from the husband of the house, to the driver to that one security guard who no one was ever quite sure was male or female. Of course, thanks to the valiant efforts of the maid, that particular debate was officially put to rest. From the little information he gathers, in her quest to be of child the maid adopted a strategy which can only be described as Russian Roulette copulation.

Captivated by the ongoing drama, our hero decides that the best and most helpful course of action would be to care even less about the fucking neighbors and occupy himself in ways which would directly stimulate the pleasure regions of his brain. After a bout of deep self reflection, eenie meenie mainy moe favors not watching lesbian pornography so early in the day and our hero settles in to watch his favorite motion picture on his personal computer.

What do I know about diamonds? Aren’t they from Antwerp?” Turkish’s voice comes over the speakers, and our hero seems to find the bliss he has been searching for. He shifts around, looking for the most comfortable position , when suddenly, there’s a knock on the door….