Sabertooth Prowl

I’m at a friends wedding; drinking, socializing, and over all having a great time. As my friends and I are dancing in a completely homo-erotic fashion, we noticed  a crowd forming around us. Some of those in the crowd cheering us on are 50+ years old women. Praising our daring and stylish dance moves. It would be flattering if these women were within a twenty year radius of our age, but these women are beyond cougars, they are sabertooth tigers.

I’m a dashing mo-fo. I’ve been blessed with being tall, dark, and handsome. I’m 6’2″, 205lbs, and I have always kept an athletic body. I have broad shoulders, strong arms, flat stomach, and a good sized chest. Not to mention that my thick, black Latino hair defies the laws of physics. I have a small crack in between my front teeth (a feature that runs in my family) that I think gives my smile a cute, unique character. I’m a rock solid eight when it comes to looks. Some girls have given me a seven but that’s because they are idiots. Pretty much, I am the balls.

Since I am such a fine specimen of a man, I find myself the target of these sabertooths when they are on the prowl. They’ll see me walking by and I will spark memories of that Latino bartender they banged in Cabo San Lucas during Spring Break 71′. Maybe of their schoolgirl crush of Ritchie Valens or their mid 30’s love affair with 80’s Latin sensation, Erik Estrada. In their mind, if they can corner me, the young unsuspecting cub, I can help them relive their younger, less boob sagging selves fantasy.

While none of the sabertooths made a move on me at the wedding and stayed content with their dirty fantasies about me, I’ve had my share of incidents with overly aggressive ones. One such incident occurred at a bar called Foxfire in Anaheim Hills, CA. I was sitting alone at my table, drinking my beer, and seeing what was going on on the dance floor. A sabertooth aged about 60 years sits down right next to me. She was blond, drenched in make-up, her breasts were heavily exposed, and she was wearing a white corset looking outfit. She looked like a salty ol’ time stripper who was looking for a place to die.

Stripper Sabertooth: “Hey, big boy, you’re mighty hot young stud aren’t you?”

Raul: “Uh… yeah, thank you.”

She moves in closer and presses her breasts on my shoulder.

Stripper Sabertooth: “I like Latin men. How about you and I have some fun on the dance floor?”

I reexamine her breasts and for as old as she was, they were actually in pretty good shape. Then I take a better look at the cosmetic explosion that is her face and look away to not make eye contact.

Raul: “No, thanks. I’m good. Just enjoying my beer.”

I say with an awkward smile. I’m doing my best not to say anything mean or hurt her in any way. She presses on.

Stripper Sabertooth: “What? Do I make you nervous honey? I’m sure a lady with my sort of experience can make good use out of a young stud like you.”

Raul: “I’m sure you could. But I have a girlfriend.”

I lie.

Stripper Sabertooth: “She’s not here and I’ll never tell. Come on handsome, let me show you a good time.”

She says into my ear and then brings up her breasts about an inch away from my face.

Raul: “I’m sorry. I just can’t…”

A drunk Raul would have been more aggressive with his rejection, but I was barely on my first beer and thus a decent human being with morals and boundaries. She looks at me, squints her eyes, adjusts her breast in an effort to show me the glory I was missing out on, and storms off.

As I watch her walk away, I begin to giggle to myself and shake my head. Just thinking about how this only happens to me with either: extremely older women or fat chicks, hardly ever with decent looking girls. I guess I am not as great looking of a guy as my overinflated ego makes me believe.

~Raul Felix

The Pick-Up Follies: Taqueria Hottie

It was 3 a.m. on a random weeknight and I was starving. There is only one solution to cure my appetite, to go to Taqueria Mexico. Taqueria Mexico is an enchanting, ramshackle authentic taco shop that is open 24/7. It specializes in filling the stomachs of stoners, drunks, losers, winners, and community college students at the bleak hours of the night. Because of its utter deliciousness and bang for the buck, it’s not uncommon to see tatted up, freshly released from the state-pen vatos sitting next to preppy, Penn State bound rich kids of the Huntington Harbor and every social demographic in between.

As I stand in line and examine the social zoo that is Taqueria, I see her. From behind I noticed her hot pink dress, with it ending barely low enough to cover up her firm, well shaped ass. Her blond hair is completely wild in the reminiscent manner of 80’s Glam Rock. Her skin is dark, but not darker than mine. She’s wearing high heels that show off her long, muscular legs. “She must have just came back from a club” I think to myself.

My heart starts beating quickly. I have a personal rule of always hitting on a girl I am attracted to, no matter the circumstances or awkwardness of the situation. I wasn’t expecting to see a hottie at this time, so her attractiveness caught me off guard. I start to devise a plan on how I am going to hit on this hottie. I don’t want to lose my place in line and it doesn’t look like she is going to leave anytime soon. But personal history has taught me a valuable lesson about hesitating on hitting on a hot girl; some other guy always hits on her while one is developing the courage to do so. He may succeed or fail; it doesn’t matter because either way, he monopolizes her attention for the time being and it never turns out well being the second guy in a row hitting on her in a casual environment.

Self-doubt started engulfing me. I was in gym shorts, a dirty faded t-shirt, and flip-flops. I hadn’t shaved my spic-stach in a few days, so my face looked like I was a 15 year old boy going through puberty. My hair always looks glorious, so no worries there. I look around and analyze the competition. If I noticed her, I’m sure the other bastards eating noticed her too. I see other men, checking her out, giggling, quite possibly teasing their friends about not having balls to hit on her. “Fuck them. Fuck it.” I say to myself, I leave the line, and confidently approach the pink dress wearing vixen.

She is standing and facing away from me, so I tap her on the shoulder. She turns around and I begin to say, “Excuse me, I just noticed you from across the room and I had to come talk to you.” As I say these words I start to examine her face, which I hadn’t seen before, while it wasn’t ugly, it wasn’t pretty as I thought it would be. It was very heavily covered in make up and there was something off about it I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I do a quick half-second inspection of her cleavage and notice the perky breasts are definitely fake. She then responds “Awww… that is sweet, I’m Monica” in a gay-lisp. Then it clicks. This hottie is a fucking man. She either is a cross dressing dude or a transvestite. I notice other features I didn’t notice before: the strong jaw, the adams apple, and the man smile. While some of the more conservative readers may say they would have just walked out. I’m not a dick like that. I didn’t want to hurt her/his feelings so, I did the socially decent thing and proceeded hitting on her/him. After a couple of internally awkward minutes she had to leave. I took down her number on my cell and went back in line and ordered my food.

When I got home, I got curious if she was truly a he or if my mind was playing tricks on me. So I sent her a text:

Raul: Hey, It’s Raul, I met you at Taqueria about 20 minutes ago.

Monica: Heyyyyy Handsome.

Raul: I have to ask upfront, are you a guy?

Monica: Ohhh baby, don’t you know what I am? I’m a call boy, I charge by the hour. You interested?

Raul: No. I don’t buy hookers.

I didn’t hear a reply for about 30 minutes and then he sent me a text:

Monica: I’m very horny and you’re very cute. How about you come to my hotel and I let you try me out for free.

Raul: I’m sorry, I’m not gay. Thanks though.

Monica: That’s too bad. 😦

~Raul Felix