The Pick-Up Follies: The Gimp

It was the summer of my third year in the military and I got a phone call from my Army buddy, “Schooner”:

Schooner: “Hey bro, what the fuck are you doing?”

Raul: “Nothing, what’s up?”

Schooner: “Come down to Olympia. I’m with two chicks and they’re down to fuck. I told them about you and they want to meet you.”

Raul: “Sweet, I’ll be over there”

I say without missing a beat.

I jump into my truck and drive down to Olympia, WA to the address he text me. I get to a small suburban neighborhood and locate the house. I knock on the door and a blonde, mediocre looking girl, barely clearing the age of 18 opens it. Then from behind her, comes out Schooner. He leads me to the living room of their house. I find out that the Blonde is a friend with the girl who rents the place. Then from the kitchen, walking awkwardly, comes the “The Gimp.”

As I sit there and listen to them talk, I found out more about The Gimp. She is decent looking woman, aged 28, is about 4’11” and weighs no more than 100 pounds. She had small breasts and no ass. Pretty much a walking, limping stick with a decent looking face. I wonder why she is walking like that, so I whisper to Schooner:

Raul: “Why the fuck is she walking like that?”

Schooner: “Her spine is fucked up. She got in a car accident a few years ago.”

Raul: “Oh, that fucking sucks.”

Schooner: “Yeah, but she is slutty as hell.”

Raul: “Cool.”

At this time in my life I wasn’t the ladies man that I am today. It was sporadic when I hooked up with random chicks. So I wasn’t really in a position to be too picky about a potential dick wetting experience. She brought me a beer and asked:

The Gimp: “Do you know Snuffy and Snaplink?”

Raul: “Yeah, Snuffy lives on the same floor as me and Snaplink is always at his room drinking and playing video games.”

The Gimp: “Yeah, they’re hot, I fucked both of them at same time the other night.”

I sit there not knowing how to respond. Back then I was relatively innocent of the knowledge of how big of utter whores women can be and had not fully developed my jaded and dark attitude towards them.

Raul: “That’s cool.”

I sit there silently thinking to myself that all I want to do is get the fuck out of there. My sexual moral compass was that of a nice kid who wanted to only fuck a girl he cared about and maybe have random hook ups with slightly slutty girls who “usually don’t do that sorta thing.” Not full blown whores whose pussy walls have catered to hundreds of cocks. At least lie to me, bitch.

Schooner and the Blonde start making out. The Gimp grabs my hand and leads me to her bedroom. I’ve barely talked to this girl and she is already leading me to her bedroom. I don’t resist. I start feeling a bulge developing in my pants at the thought that I’m going to fuck her. “Whatever, she’s not that bad looking,” I justify to myself. “I have condom, so I’ll be good.” As we cross the threshold of her room, I smack her almost nonexistent ass, she turns around, and we start kissing. Then I throw her down on her bed and jump on top of her.

The Gimp: “Shhhh… we’re going to have to be quiet. My baby is sleeping.”

Raul: “What?”

The Gimp: “My baby, she’s sleeping.”

She points to the crib I didn’t notice and in there was a baby, no older than three months, sleeping. I didn’t want to know anything about her baby’s daddy, so I refrained from asking. I’m sure if they were still together, I wouldn’t be the last guy she’d cheat on him with. We continue to kiss and I undress her down to her bra and panties. As I work my hands down to her panties, I notice what could only be described as a perfect irony, her panties had a huge cherry right on the crotch. I take a half-second to smile to myself, which I’m sure she misinterpreted as excitement.

As I pull them off, it hits me like a bag of rocks. A very foul stench. What the fuck? Confused, I pause to think of the source of this, and then I realize its coming from her pussy. Holy fuck. This bitch’s pussy smells worse than a fish market on a hot day. I compose myself and quickly think of an escape plan. No way am I fucking or touching that reeking clam of death.

Raul: “Oh shit!”

The Gimp: “What?”

Raul: “I have to go. I forgot that I have to be somewhere very important right now.”

The Gimp: “What? Where?”

Raul: “Don’t worry about it, I just have to go. Sorry.”

I jump out of bed, pick up my clothes, and run to her sink to wash off my face, hands, and use my finger to brush my teeth in a desperate attempt to get the taste and smell of whore off myself.

I step out of her house, get into my truck, and drive off. Her nasty, whorish taste still in my mouth, and reeking of her pussy funk. God damn it. Why can’t it ever be good girls who are down to fuck?

EPILOGUE: I later learned The Gimp was notorious for fucking guys from my unit. I’ve heard of many guys fucking her, maybe she actually washed herself beforehand. But knowing the sexual standards of some of the men I served with, it didn’t matter. She is and will forever be known compassionately as The Gimp. It wouldn’t surprise me if she is being double penetrated right now.

To recap, it wasn’t her whorish behavior that drove me away, or that she probably still had juices from another man inside her, or the fact that her freshly minted baby was right next to us. It was her wretched, stinky pussy. So ladies, take heed, if you’re going to act like a whore, at least don’t smell like one.

~Raul Felix

Inch by Inch

Sitting alone in his home, draped in darkness, save for the gentle blue glow of his computer monitor, he sips his drink. He neither asked for company nor would accept any, for he is working on his craft. Tonight is for imbibing in his favorite drink and going deep into the labyrinth of his mind and put to words the events, people, and philosophies that occupy it. He is unable to fully think of such things in a sober state, so he turns to his glorious alcoholic vice.

His drink of choice varies, whether it be the sweet and rough kisses of Lady Liquor or the obvious teases and delayed gratifications of the tramp Beer. Tonight, he decides, he’ll tango with the tramp. He hopes her little flirtations will ignite something deep within him and just maybe, he will write something destined for greatness.

He’s typing away, struggling to manifest his thoughts. A clever sentence here, a snarky remark there, a too worthy sentence that is executed the moment it’s completed. It’s a messy little dance. He grows excited when the words pour out and frustrated when they stagnate. As he takes another swig and walks around his home in anxiousness, he wonders if anymore words will come to him. Or is he finished? Is he through? Is he just a fucking drunk pretending to be a writer?

The thought of being a nobody infuriates him. His mind is bursting with idea’s. He has stories, jokes, and social commentary to disperse. Yet, it feels like every word typed is an inch by inch uphill battle. Then a revelation, recalling Al Pacino’s half-time speech from Any Given Sunday:

You find out life’s this game of inches, so is football. Because in either game – life or football – the margin for error is so small. I mean, one half a step too late or too early and you don’t quite make it. One half second too slow, too fast and you don’t quite catch it. The inches we need are everywhere around us. They’re in every break of the game, every minute, every second. On this team we fight for that inch. On this team we tear ourselves and everyone else around us to pieces for that inch. We claw with our fingernails for that inch. Because we know when add up all those inches, that’s gonna make the fucking difference between winning and losing!

Writing, he thinks, is the same way. It’s fighting for that inch, for that word, for that sentence. Digging deep, fighting self-doubt, word by word. Tearing cynicism to pieces, sentence by sentence. A word placed wrong, you don’t quite communicate it. A sentence structured incorrectly, you don’t quite express it. A writer must be willing to pour all he has, tooth and nail, for those words and sentences. Because he knows that when he adds up all those hard fought for words and sentences it’s the fucking difference between greatness and obscurity.

He smiles as he realizes that the struggle is part of the craft. It’s not supposed to be easy and it’s not supposed to be fast. Its about perseverance, worth ethic, inches, and exhausting yourself for your dream. “Now quit your bitching,” he says out loud, “Get back to work and fight for that inch.”

~Raul Felix


I wrote the following in May 2007 while in my barracks room, lonely and drunk. It inspired the first part of Inch by Inch. Though I’m kind of embarrassed of it right now, it shows my evolution as a writer. I’m leaving it unedited, but I think it’s not too bad for a drunk, dumbass 20 year old.

On Drinking Alone

Very few things show that a man has arrived to maturity than the act of drinking alone. The act of facing whatever hidden demons the lack of alcohol has hidden from him. A man who drinks alone, is a brave man. He does something that many would consider to do only in comfortable presence of loved ones and acquaintance. Since so many people fear to lurk into those dark places of their minds without some companionship.

The Lone Drinker is often considered to be disturbed, an alcoholic, and as the name implies… a loner. No, the Lone Drinker is the enlightened man who knows how to enjoy the sweet and rough kisses of lady Liquor and the obvious teases and delayed gratifications of the tramp Beer. The Lone Drinker doesn’t need the reassurance of others to enjoy what is truly fine in life. He doesn’t drink because he wants to impress others, he drinks for the pure love of alcohol. He finishes off more drinks than drinks have finished off him.

He is very misunderstood. He not as well respected as he should be. Some might pity him. But, those who do, don’t have the balls to be like him. Because inside of them, there is a fear that they are not strong enough. Or the thought that they are better than that. Maybe they think that are too good to drink alone. So, they must seek that party that allows them the chance to drink. So let me ask… who is more powerful… the uncertain people who only drink when it’s appropriate or the lone drinker? The man who controls when he drinks, how much he drinks, and whether or not he has other make the choice for him.

~Raul Felix

Strip Club Blues

(c) Dandy Danny

Oh, the wonders of the strip club. The raping that is the entrance fee, the overpriced drinks, and the black lights exposing every little bit of white lint on your black t-shirt. Lets not forget the stickiness of the floors, the aura of pity surrounding the geezers and obese men, and the distinctive smell of a strippers skin, covered in coconut milk lotion, perfume, and glitter in an effort to mask their dead souls. A true wonderland of silicone breasts, C-Section scars, big badonkadonks, and athletic to fat figures.

Recalling the old elementary school rhyme, “There’s a place in France where the naked women dance.” One used to wonder what was so special about France that made naked women dance? Then we learn that there are such places in America, first introduced to many of us by the legendary Al Bundy as The Nudie Bar. As an ignorant and horny youth, it’s one of the places that most young men look forward to visiting. Moms beauty magazines, stolen Hustlers, and online porn do sustain us while we wait; but what can compare to seeing a real life woman dancing and letting you see, and quite possibly touch, her boobies! It’s a young mans right to throw dollar bills at women dancing to support their cocaine habit and/or two kids by two different men.

Of course, in youthful innocence one doesn’t know the bitter reality that actually occurs at these ballrooms of nudity. Images of Al Bundy and the members of No Ma’am getting wild, dancing on the stage with a babe with Rocky Mountain breasts are soon exposed as lies! Upon entering, one is immediately surrounded with an overwhelming amount of testosterone. Businessmen, young GIs, thugs, college kids, and loners occupy some of the best seats. Which wouldn’t be so bad, if it wasn’t for the dead silence of the place other than the music. It isn’t the dungeon of nude wackiness that Married With Children lead us to believe.

As one sits drinking their watered down drink, strippers come around offering to give you and your buddies the dance of a lifetime for $15 for two songs. You do the math in your head and quickly think about how much money you have in your pocket. You pass on this one, she’s not the type of girl you’re looking for. A few more strippers offer and you promptly deny. You have some money to blow, but not that much. You said to yourself you’re not going to spend more than $70 tonight. You already spent $20 on the entry fee and $15 on the two mandatory drinks. You are only going to get one lap dance, maybe two. So you’re going to make it worth it. You’re waiting for the right one to come along that fits your taste.

As your two buddies are each getting a lap dance from a beautiful blond with an athletic build and a petite Asian girl, your eyes are focused on the stage. You’re gawking at her: A curvy, caramel colored mixed Latina/White dancer twirling around the pole upside-down, her brown hair flailing chaotically. She is wearing an American Flag patterned bikini that can barely contain her large breasts. Since you don’t have any singles, you ask your buddy to give you $2. As she finishes her set and picks up the money that is scattered throughout the stage, you walk up to her, pull her g-string back, stuff the $2 in, snap it back and say with a devilish grin,“Come to my table.” She smiles at you and nods.

As she is grinding your crotch and placing her immaculate breasts on your face to motorboat, your finger tips are rubbing her ass ever so gently as to not catch the eye of the bouncers. Your two song are up. She asks if you want another dance. You don’t want her to leave. You haven’t had enough of her. Yes, you do. Another set, another $15. Once it’s complete, she sits next you and runs her hands through your hair. “You’re pretty cute, you know,” she tells you in her soft, accented voice. You start talking to her about yourself and your silly hopes and dreams. She tells you about how she became a stripper and about how she is not like the other girls in the strip club. In fact, she can’t stand them and thinks they’re all a bunch of self-absorbed cunts. Her stage name is Candy, but since you two have formed such a true connection she tells you her real name is Jessica.

After ten minutes of discussing your lives and philosophies, Jessica asks you if you want another dance. You do, you really do. You walk over to the ATM that charges a $10 transaction fee and take out $200. “Okay, I’ll only spend $100 of this and save the rest for later.” Thirty minutes later, your $100 is gone. You continue to talk to Jessica and you realize she doesn’t fit the cocaine addict, single mother, soulless stripper stereotype. She is just a sweet, down to earth girl trying to make some good money until she makes it as an actress. You’re struggling to make something out of yourself, so you understand the pain and suffering of having to do a job you don’t really like until you make it. You two are kindred spirits. You use your second $100. You want more of Jessica and head to the ATM and pull out another $200.

After spending a good hour and a half with this enlightened soul trapped in the stripping profession, you know you have no more money in your bank account that you can blow. But you built such a deep connection with this woman in the process and you’re sure she is completely into you. “All right, I think I’ll let you go for tonight, but before you leave how about I get your number?” You ask. Jessica smiles back at you and gives you a big ol’ hug and says, “I would because you’re sweet, cute, and funny, but I have a boyfriend. I’m so sorry, but you’re going to come back and visit me sometime right?” Your heart sinks, but you lay out a big smile and say, “Of course.”

After you leave the strip club on an emotional high, it hits you. You just spent $490 in 2 hours. That’s a painful amount of money to lose for your broke ass and pay day is not for another 10 days. You got played by a world class saleswoman. You’re pissed at yourself and you’re determined to stick to your $70 budget next time, unlike the previous five times.

~Raul Felix