#SorryFeminists The Wingman is Back on Twitter!

Angry, desert-crotched, feminist cunts attempted to get me banned from Twitter, but I’m back, and ready to be filthier than ever. Why you ask? Because I care about my fans!

First off I’d like to thank all of my filthy fans who tweeted at me, as well as reaching out to me via Facebook comments, messages and emails since my twitter was suspended on Thursday afternoon. It meant so much to me to know that I’m not just a one night stand you throw out after I provide Earth-shattering multiple orgasms, but we’re in a serious and downright dirty relationship.

I’ve certainly never been committed to one woman the way I am to entertaining my fans all over the world.

I’m sorry I wasn’t around the past few days to keep you entertained, provide advice, and sexually harass my female fans—I know you love that—but although I’d been a bit ill I was taking the time to work simultaneously on two books… One, the much-anticipated sequel to “The Wingman Chronicles,” and the other a novel k that is something different but, nevertheless sick and hilarious. You will hear more about that other uncouth project soon.

Judging by the many messages and comments I’ve received, many of you wanted to know why I was suspended, or put in what some refer to as “Twitter Jail.” The answer is: The Feminists.

Often times I use a trending topic, a hashtag (#) phrase and tweet a succession of jokes, many of them raunchy and offensive, which seem to go over well with my legion of amazing, filthy, followers. Last Tuesday, October 9th, I tweeted a multitude of jokes using the trending #sorryfeminists hashtag, which prompted many feminists to tweet their outrage toward me. My fans, however, quickly jumped to the defense of me, my jokes, and my book and tweeted right back at the angry, desert-crotched, feminist cunts.

Well the feminist haters, who weren’t even followers of mine but were somehow stalking my @wingmanbiz twitter account (probably hoping I would bring irrigation to their desert crotches) took things a step further and contacted twitter requesting I be suspended for my offensive tweets. Twitter immediately suspended my account and took a look at the case the feminists plead only to come to the conclusion that I’d done nothing against twitter rules, and they must reinstate my @wingmanbiz account.

So I’m back, and ready for creepin’. If you really wanna get back at the feminist cunts who kept you from my tweets for five days, let’s make my book “The Wingman Chronicles” a bestseller, and get it picked up as a TV series!

Let’s keep me blowing up so I could tour to every one of your cities for X-rated standup shows, book signings, breast signings, and ass signings, too. No cocks please.

Thanks for the support! I certainly have the greatest, most supportive, and filthiest fans in the world!

Always your Wingman,

James Holeva

My filthy novel The Wingman Chronicles available in E-book & paperback on Amazon

In the UK get The Wingman Chronicles right here!

The Wingman’s Guide to Sorostitution

The fall creepin’ semester is upon us and many clumsy virgins are walking around college campuses with perennial hard-ons in hopes that they’ll pop their first cherry or touch their first tit.

Think of the cash your parents are laying down for your “education” as an unlimited account to the Bunny Ranch. If you have trouble charming chicks, that means it’s time for a little sorostitution. You won’t have to worry about cockblocking yourself with meaningless chit-chat in the presence of sorority girls. They’re usually too wasted to require any sort of legitimate connection.

Let’s face it, it’s not unlikely for a sloppy sorostitute to drool over the guy who does the longest keg stand, or is a champion at beer pong. While in the real world of creepin’ those amazing feats won’t get you quite as far.

I find the easiest way to maneuver a sorority house hookup is to play the “Big” and the “Little” against each other. In a sorority a veteran member will take a new pledge on as her “Little Sister”… Like real life sisters, they’re immensely jealous of each other. Pick which sister you’re less attracted to, get her flirting with you, and the other sister will work to outdo her and it’ll go back and forth and if you’re lucky you’ll hook up with the Big and the Little, maybe even at the same time. Everybody wins.

Let’s break down some of the different types of sorostitutes.

THE PLEDGE: Girls in the rush process are often encouraged to hook up with the most pathetic guy as part of their hazing. Find out how much of an evil, twisted tyrant the pledge master is. The crazier they are, the more action you’ll see from an impressionable young rush.

THE WILD PARTY GIRL: It’s like spin the bottle, she could land anywhere.

THE UGLY SISTER: All sororities invite a few less attractive girls to pledge in order to make the hotties feel better about themselves. The Ugly Sister will be available and vulnerable. Aim for a sorority that’s so hot that the Ugly Sister is still pulling a six or seven rating.

THE SHY GIRL THAT GETS CRAZY: Quiet ones always have a dark side, get to know it.

THE GIRL TRYING TO KEEP UP WITH HER SISTERS: She’s so desperate and attention starved, you could get her to do anything. For you virgins, a first lay should be a lock. For more experienced players, use them to experience the off-the wall shit the girls you bring home to mother won’t give you.

THE MADAM, I mean the PRESIDENT: Sorority house royalty… Could be tough your first time out, but some of the bosses of the sorostitutes play games involving hooking up with desperate freshmen and virgins.

NOTE: BRING YOUR A-GAME

Word of a sub par performance spreads throughout a sorority house faster than crabs. To keep your reputation intact, you might wanna start with one of the nastier houses on campus. For insurance purposes make sure the foreplay is lengthy and fruitful. Eat em’ for twenty then you could fuck em’ for two… That’s how you get the stud status. And don’t forget to choke her.

 

My humorous, erotic, autobiographical novel “The Wingman Chronicles” is now available on Amazon. Check out description, customer reviews and a free sample right here.

My filthy novel The Wingman Chronicles

BALLS: THE KEY TO PUSSY

Innocent guys stand around the bar arms crossed and fidgety as they look on in utter awe at the tight asses and pert breasts of bootie shaking, whored-up, wannabe socialites.

The creeping impaired look on as vultures swarm these vixens, showering them in a sea of attention that they eat up like a bulimic stripper at a Chinese buffet with a puke bucket.

Knowing there’s no way they’ll ever exchange words with the club-light enhanced enchantresses, the wallflowers instead clamor to a glimmer of hope that they might graze a breast or an ass cheek when one swaggers by.

As the night comes to an end, the awkward and unconfident observers go home alone to pleasure themselves with thoughts of the unattainable sensually grinding to Flo Rida. Sometimes they’re so apprehensive that their sexual fantasies turn into porn films where they themselves aren’t even starring, but instead they conjure the image of the Affliction-clad toolboxes they saw cling to the ladies at the club.

This all could have been averted if they just made a fucking move. Girls love a guy with balls. That’s kind of hard to find these days so if you could at the very least fake like you have some, a girl who’s drunk and impressionable could buy it and you might be lucky enough to get her on her knees. The girls have done it before, why wouldn’t they do it again?

Introduce yourself, but then play it cool. Don’t cling to her like she’s your favorite jerkoff pillow. Make her wonder about you. Don’t fix your eyes on her tits, ass, or belly ring… Look her in the eye. The reason being that it’ll make her nervous, and therefore set you apart from the rest of the lecherous scavengers that have been questing after her.

Suddenly she’ll be wondering:

         “Why isn’t he looking at my boobs, why isn’t he looking at my ass, I’m dressed like a whore can’t he see that? Oh god, I look like shit. Excuse me while I go throw up.”

If you make a move and a broad thinks you’re an asshole and finds you annoying, she’ll still have more respect for you – the guy who takes a shot – than the pussy who stands in the corner all night with the dudes like he’s at a junior high dance. Remember, just because you are a pussy, doesn’t mean you’re getting pussy. It doesn’t matter that the broads have bisexual tendencies.

Groups of guys constantly spend their boy’s night out cockblocking themselves with worry.

      What do I say to her?

      What if she doesn’t like me?

      How do I ask her out?

      When do I kiss her?

      How do I make a move to go further?

      When do I stick my dick in her?

      Is it okay to come on her face?

      When’s the right time to stick it in her ass?

      How do I know if it’s okay to ask for a threesome?

      When is the right time to pee on her?

      Would she think it was weird if I asked her to fuck me in the ass with a strap-on?

 

There’s an endless stream of questions guys are constantly contemplating which simply get in the way of buying a girl a drink, ripping her clothes off, and fucking the shit out of her. It’s simply that easy. Just try to be safe, girls could be dirty.

 

      My humorous, erotic, autobiographical novel “The Wingman Chronicles” is now available on Amazon. Check out description, customer reviews and a free sample right here.

My filthy novel The Wingman Chronicles

Trick or Treat… Where’s the fucking trick, kid?

What happened to the days when a kid would have to earn their keep?

 

A group of kids just came to my door, and said “Trick or Treat.”

Well let me ask you, “Where’s the fucking trick?”

They stood around dumbfounded, holding their bags and pumpkins out as if I was going to give them something. But what did they do to earn it? I don’t care if it’s Halloween. What am I getting out of this deal?

“Don’t say ‘Trick or Treat’ to me without providing some sort of routine,” I said. “That’s just false advertising.”

They didn’t sing, they didn’t dance, there was no prepared monologue. The majority of them didn’t even say “Trick or Treat,” just stood their asking for a handout like a hobo outside a liquor store. A few of the kids were even dressed like hobos. Way to set your goals high.

Well I wouldn’t enable them. I made them watch as I devoured the delectable fun size candy bars, then sent them on their way.

“Next time, have something prepared,” I said. “Tell your parents I said that. Except you Timmy. Your mom’s hot and has a questionable reputation. Take whatever candy you want and tell her where you got it and she should feel free to come over and thank me anytime.”

Walking up to a house, ringing the doorbell, and saying “Trick or Treat,” further plays into the false praise that is given to kids every days.

Everybody gets a trophy,  nobody keeps score, everybody wins – “Trick or Treat” is simply a holiday version of a prize you didn’t earn. Why do you think so many people in this world want to be rewarded for doing nothing, and therefore sit on their ass and abuse the system?

It begins with the children. When I was a kid my grandfather told me before I’d go trick or treating that I’d be required to do something to earn my candy. Tell a joke, sing a song, do a dance – something to earn it.

So instead of being just another beggar with nothing to offer, I’d be the mime getting quarters thrown at him for either displaying his talent, or simply to go away.

One year I went house to house breaking into a stunning rendition of Guns N’ Roses “Welcome to the Jungle,” another I quoted “I’m Larry, this is my brother Daryl, and this is my other brother Daryl,” from “Newhart.” Finally I tired of riding off the coattails of famous performers and prepared my own material. Some of the parents got a little offended by my more risqué comic routines, but that prepared me for the crowds I would later face as a nightclub comic often facing rowdy drunken hecklers in small town dive bars.

If your children are going to come to my house, tell them they better have some sort of routine prepared that sets them apart from the rest. Teach them something that will serve as their “trick,” and only then will they be given their “treat.”

And if your offspring are unprepared or lacking in talent, they’ll go home without candy. Winning and losing is a lesson that needs to be learned in life. Let them learn it now, otherwise they’ll turn into a whiny, cry baby, useless adult that nobody could stand.

 

My filthy novel The Wingman Chronicles available in EBook & paperback on Amazon.

The Wingman Chronicles on Amazon UK!

Chronology of Creepin’

A minute-by-minute account of an evening with The Wingman.

 

   Whether it’s a classy lounge, bumpin’ dance club, an upscale restaurant or a frightening dive – the girls are out to get fucked. The best dressed and sexiest are the ones most fantasizing about being mauled like a dirty zoo animal.

   Here’s a chronological account of a night of creepin’.

   7:30 p.m. As I primp my 7 o’clock shadow, I think of the typical broads I’ll see out – one wannabe socialite who never showed interest, and a crazy bitch I never called again and plan to avoid stick out.

   7:40 p.m. – Optimistic, I reflect upon the countless chicks I could close as I conduct a routine shower jerk. You don’t want to venture out with a loaded weapon or you’ll be spitting incoherent garblings all night.

   7:55 p.m. I’m in the zone as I adorn myself in black on black, right down to my boxer briefs. You know, in case there’s skid marks. I’m not saying I don’t wipe properly, but you could never be too careful.

   8:00 p.m. My Bed Head manipulator heightens my spiked hair to perfection. I look clean, and think dirty.

   8:30 p.m. Time for some sushi or Italian and libations in an establishment worthy of an old-school gentleman, while running game on patrons and the help. A lot of these dames get off work in time to go out, so I always attempt to woo some service industry sluts into joining a post-work party.

   11 p.m. – At the Colosseum I dance with a girl I’ve wanted since meeting her a few months back. She threw signals, but ever since, nothing. She’s not the hottest – her face is slightly busted – but there’s something about the challenge of a girl that doesn’t respond, and the slutty way she grinds her voluptuous ass and monster rack.

   Midnight I make contact with a vixen I notice eye fucking me. I get her a Malibu Bay Breeze and we sit in the VIP room talking and, within minutes, making out.

   1 a.m. As we gasp for air I notice she makes eye contact with a girl on the next couch. “You think she’s cute,” I ask.

  “Yeah,” the brunette answers.

   “Get on that,” I say.

   She hesitates, but after another nod, she moves toward the couch where the blonde in the white dress sips a Cosmo. Within minutes, they’re enjoying an extended makeout. Finally, I’m called from the bench to acquaint myself with her new girlfriend. I introduce myself, and she’s kissing me.

   1:30 a.m. – I’m easily locked up to go home with the original mark and our new BFF is ready to leave with us. “Wait,” the girl in white says. “I can’t find my phone.” She looks, we look, the place closes and we’re still scouring for her I-Phone. Only now we’re joined by three obnoxiously loud cockblockers that insist they’re her ride home. Okay. The threesome will have to wait. Fuck.

   2:15 a.m. – We leave the Scranton hot spot. I know I’m still gonna get laid, but I had my heart set on an orgy. Life is tough. 

   2:55 a.m. — Uncouth exploits ensue for two.

   5:15 a.m. – We’re sexed out and pass out.

   7:20 a.m. – An alarm BLARES. “You gotta get up! You gotta get up!” she screams.

   “I’m not ready to go again yet,” I yawn. “After breakfast I’ll bang you. I just hope you have Gatorade.”

   “No,” she retorts. “My husband works nights. He’ll be home soon.”

   “What? So I gotta get up?” I ask. “And what about breakfast? You told me how good you were with breakfast meats. I feel betrayed.”

   “Next time, okay?” she says.

   “But that means I have to call you again,” I say. “I thought this was a one-night kinda thing. I don’t wanna violate protocol… Fine! I’ll come back again for bacon!”

   7: 45 a.m. – Speaking of, time for a bacon, egg and cheese bagel from Mickey Ds, and a long day of sleepin’ off the creepin’.

Dumpster Diving Teaser

 

I sat in my friend’s living room with him and the evening’s bargain-basement prey, sipping Lion’s Head and talking nonsense as I counted the minutes till I could take her to the bedroom.

She was good looking in that slightly beat up, small town, simple minded, non-reading, a few teeth out of place kinda way. Eh, she was definitely adequate in my drunken state; as well as the chain-smoking, jack-swilling, staggering prom queen of the dive bar we were at.

I was surprised the grimy establishment didn’t have heroin needles strewn across the floor.

My friend would not stop with the incessant yammering, attempting to bond with my lady of the night. I was staying there because his house was in walking distance from the shithole he dragged me to.

“What do you do?” he asked her. “Have another drink. Would you like a Xanax to go with your beer?”

Shut the fuck up already! I wanna get laid. And for god sakes no Xanys… she’ll go right to sleep.

If she’s passed out before I could get laid that would be catastrophic. I might have spent three to four bucks on her at the bar. I was ready to get what I paid for.

I’m sorry he couldn’t wrangle a girl to bring back. I initiated opportunities, but I guess his ace pickup line — “I’m the greatest football player to ever come out of Lackawanna County” — wasn’t working on the dirt bar socialites.

Finally, I whispered to my girl to go to the bedroom, and as I was walking away my buddy grabbed me.

 

Look for “The Wingman Chronicles” hitting book stores in next year to read the rest of the story!