I'm finally old enough to look back at my 20s and 30s and reflect on the WAM experiences I had, on the opportunities I missed, and on the opportunities I jumped at with both feet and a pair of spring-loaded shoes. And I can look back on the lessons learned from the women I dated & how it all went. Or sometimes didnt.

So without further prelude, prologue, commotion, or a-do. . .

First of all, lemme 'splain. I had no problem getting dates. I dated a lot in my 20s and 30s. This doesn't mean that every women I chased up and down the curtains appreciated it or reciprocated (plenty didn't), but enough did. Enough for me to learn a whole bunch of lessons, gain wisdom, and pass it on to you for your entertainment, edification, or disbelief. Or all three. I'm no male-model. I'm a short guy with a sharp wit and a penchant for being a world-class smart-ass. Some girls like that type, I guess.

So there was the girl in college who had never ever thought of a pie in the face as being anything erotic. Cool whip during foreplay, though, was old hat. And of course it got everywhere, that was the point! Yeah, um, hello. So when I opined that our usual game of strip-trivial-pursuit would be more interesting if we dumped a few tubs of cool whip into some pie crusts and made the clothes-free loser take the pie, her eyes widened. She laughed. And she suggested that we skip the game, and just get to the whole stripped-and-pied bit. She went from playtime-in-the-bedroom to full pie-fanatic in about a week. During the time we dated, we tried as many different kinds of pies as we could find or invent, clogged more drains than we could count, and had a hell of a time. After we broke up (as you do when you're 21), it was years before I found someone as WAM-compatible.

The secret wasn't that she was a closet-wammer, waiting for someone to open the door. It was that we were already compatible in the bedroom, we both liked to be silly, sensual, and somewhat nuts, and once the door was closed and locked, totally uninhibited. Our conversations about sex started with comparing interests and notes. Role play? Check. Tied up? Check. Whipped cream? Who hasn't? Pie fight? Wait, what?! Awesome, when do we try it?


I'm suddenly reminded of the woman I met on a dating site. Great email, phone calls, and a comfortable, easy first date. And a classic, hourglass figure, with a pair of big take-no-prisoner perfect boobs and an ass carved by Rodin. She was a former stripper in Vegas, now working a straight job, and still had the body (and after-market accessories, ahem) for it. The first time she marched out wearing her lingerie, I was like the wolf in the cartoons. A-woo-gah is an understatement. And she was into... stuff. She liked what she liked. And she liked to get what she liked. What she didn't like, however, what anything that I liked. Every bedroom romp was all about her. Submissive, kinky, spank-me-all-day-and-all-night, but forget about anything WAM. I was delighted to indulger her! It's a hell of a lot of fun. But it got one-sided and stayed there. So go figure. The hot, hot chick with the massive bent for kink was boring as hell, at least to me.

She was in contrast to a subsequent dating-site connection - a short, lean A-cup smart-ass with a cute bubble-bum. We hit it off right away, trading snarky comments and wisecracks. It wasn't long before the conversation turned to sex. She liked to be on her knees, she liked vibrators and was an "outside screamer" (she didn't mean she needed to be in the park, if you really needed an explanation. . .), and was into watching porn together. The big clue for me that I could probably bust out a WAM move eventually was her additional self-described requirements of having to share showers daily, baths in huge tubs whenever possible, and had invested in various kinds of body-soaps, sponges, and edible oils. I didn't have to wait long. During one conversation in which she oh-so-casually asked what I would do to her if, for some reason, I'd have her tied-up and helpless, I replied that I'd make sure she was stripped naked (if she wasn't already) and taunt her with a huge cream pie. Ever had a pie in the face, I asked? She replied that she had not, but had always wanted to. And she asked if she was going to be pied anywhere else. I of course told her 'everywhere else'. I was delighted (and so eventually was she) when she arrived at my place a few nights later with a stack of picnic plates and 6 cans of shaving cream. It turned out that she was a lather-freak and, while real pies sounded fun, getting blasted with shaving cream was a major-league, nuclear-level turn-on for her. While we dated we probably went through several cases of Barbasol. We smelled like a very clean barber shop for weeks.