A Gathering of Fools

You have your best friends in the world gathered around you at your favorite local bar. These grimy son of a bitches you knew since high school and the military. You love and care for them; yet, you will never say it. The simple fact that you’re still in touch enough to know each others occupation and have a semi-decent idea of what chick(s) they’re banging, whether it be a random sluts and/or trophy wives, is enough. You’re here to enjoy a long night of heavy drinking and poor decisions. Ever since you’ve all become pseudo-adults, it seems to have been impossible to get all of you together. Even tonight you’re missing your fat Jap best friend whose off in Japan doing whatever the fuck Japanese people do in Japan; math and jerking off to hentai.

No matter. You buy the first round of beers with shots. You make a witty toast to days long past and drink your whiskey. One of two things happens with that shot; it goes down smooth and you realize you’ve become a world class alcoholic, or it goes down harsh and you realize you’ve become a world class pussy. Either way, you show no emotion cause you’re still the fucking legend you used to be, in your heart at least.

The exchange of stories begins. The first tells you about a Thai hooker who turned out to be a lady boy and ended up stealing his wallet. Another tells you about the time he was double penetrating this girl with his friend and at one of the thrusts, he pulled out too far and ended up shoving his dick in the other guys nuts. One sits there in silence, realizing how boring his life has become ever since he married a JAP (Jewish American Princess.) The fourth tells you about how he got so drunk in Mexico that he got into fight with five Mexicans, managed to get away, had the police arrest him and had his mom bribe the cops with $50 from his own wallet.

Struggling to breath from laughter as you listen to these grand tales of misadventure and defiance of social norms, it’s your turn again to order round number six. Crossing the threshold from buzzed to inebriated. You slur out a tale about when you were going through Airborne School. Desperate and lacking any form of female companionship, you went on a phone dating line called Lava Life. There you talked to this black chick who claimed to be “slightly chubby and curvy, not fat.” You sent her a message and got something set up. You go to meet her in a motel. You don’t see a Georgia Peach, but rather, a Georgia Pumpkin. Her breasts are bigger than your head, not the glorious defying gravity sort, rather, nipples touching her knees type. Her definition of slightly chubby meant 300+ pounds and curvy meant looking like Jabba The Hut. You stare at her in disbelief. You were expecting to really lower your standards, but not to rock bottom. You say your hellos and start making mindless small talk. Maybe I can get a blowjob you think to yourself. You kiss her, hoping that bitter taste in her mouth is a salty sandwich and not another mans semen. You work your way down, taking her bra off and exposing nipples with the circumference of your hand. You notice her gut is over her pussy. You lift the gut up, and reveal a penile abyss. You stare blankly, the utter horror of this dawns on you. You can’t do this. Without a word, you drop her belly, put your jeans on, and run out the motel.

Your friends hung on to every word of your epic. Making sounds in disgust and laughter at the key points. They laugh at you and you laugh at yourself. The thought of that woman still disgusts you. You drink. The night wears on, more stories are exchanged, and the scouting and approaching of chicks commences. You make several attempts to hit on chicks and promptly get rejected. Oh well. It can’t get you down, you’re with your boys and you’re happy. You don’t get to have these nights with these guys like you used to. You love every moment of this; the shit talk, the laughter, the drinking, the memories, and for tonight forgetting your real-person life.

A couple of your friends are hitting it off with some chicks and wave you over. Irish Car Bombs are ordered. Maybe this will turn out to be one of those nights you talk about a few years down the line. You drop your Baileys into your Guinness and begin to chug.

~Raul Felix

Shy Girl

It was quite a glorious scene if I say so myself: I’m sitting there in my work out shorts, topless, and a dozen Coke cans scattered throughout my floor and computer table. My iTunes blaring some Iron Maiden at the perfect volume where its loud enough to rock, but low enough so my mom doesn’t yell at me. I sent out text to my boys expressing my lack of nightly ambitions. They were either working or spending quality time with their “girlfriends.” Cocksuckers. As I worked my way through my phonebook hierarchy, at last reaching rock bottom with that guy who I drank a beer with once at my friends cousins friends house; it grew evident that this was to be one of those nights destined for obscurity.

In order to salvage the night, I did what most people who are in that tender age where they’re legally allowed to join the military, but not yet responsible enough buy their own alcohol do; I went online. I logged onto my myspace, pathetically hoping someone had sent me a message or left comment. To my bitter disappoint, there was one comment; left by a monstrosity of a woman I had embarrassingly befriended: “To the world you may be just be a person, to a someone, you may be the world.” People who post this sort of shit are the reason God invented anal sex.

After moments of despair, self-loathing, and finally, reinvigoration; I set out on the audacious quest to find some hot myspace pussy. The lackluster results that occurred afterwards were disheartening. I saw women with broken dreams, fat bellies, nasty dreadlocks, and kids. These offspring producing women were the worst of all. Pictures of those little dream crushers engulfed their profiles like they were the only humans in history to ever give fucking birth. Most of them were single, with that little bastard lingering, as a permanent reminder of another mans dick being in her.

Just a cunt-hair close to the onset of irreversible misogyny, I found my precious little Shy Girl. She had a black and white default profile picture. It showed a side profile of her tight, little body with well proportioned breasts and butt. I looked through more of her pictures and was pleasantly surprised to find a light skinned, emerald eyed, blonde haired, heavily bosomed woman. I analyzed every single major and minor physical feature of hers. I noticed how her nose was tiny and slightly perked up and how her eyebrows were always perfectly plucked. I even examined the insignificant mole on her right cheek and how full her lips were.

There are a lot of pretty women, I thought to myself, lets see if anything makes this one special. I read her “about me”. She only identified herself as Shy Girl because she didn’t want any creepers to know her real name. Negative point me. She is a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, majoring in psychology, and yet, doesn’t know what she want to do with her life. She loves taking care of her nieces, nephews, and dog. Thinks hip hop is stupid and loves muscle cars. This woman was tailored made for myself and my attraction, and blood flow to my cock, significantly increase.

I decide I must formulate the perfect message to her. I mustn’t appear too desperate, nor cocky, nor vague, nor specific, nor seem to care too much at all. Basically, I over think the whole concept of writing her message and sit there staring at a blank screen. I type, type, type, FUCK, delete, delete, delete. Each word, sentence, and paragraph is dissected as I attempt to assemble a perfectly casual prose. I repeat this retarded little dance for about an hour until I finally forge something worthy of being sent to my little Shy Girl. I finish correcting my grammar and spelling mistakes, give it a quick check for the quadruple time and hit Send and request her as friend; my heart sinks.

Thoughts of my little Shy Girl wrestle me in my sleep. I randomly get up and check my computer to see if she has read what I’ve wrote. She hadn’t. I start thinking about the beautiful babies, shenanigans, and inside jokes we have together. I wonder if she is the one for me and how our first interaction is going to be like. I wonder about our future first date. I wonder what her real name is. I doze off to a restless sleep full of rainbows and Shy Girl.

The whole entire next day I randomly check my computer and see if she had read what I’ve written; she hasn’t. Finally, one day, three hours, and thirty-three minutes later, she read it. At last! I would get a response! I wait. An hour, then two, then four, and then a day passes and another. No response, friend request declined.

I stare at her page and I think of what could’ve been.

What a bitch.

~Raul Felix