Ode To La Doña: The Linchpin Of The Mexican Family


The Mexican man takes pride in the fact that he is the man of the house. In his mind, he possesses the huevos, so he naturally runs shit. If he wants to stay up late on a Friday night listening to musica norteña from the $1,500 after-market sound system of his ’95 GMC Yukon while drinking Bud Light, eating carne asada, and bitching about life with his carnales, he’ll do it, damn it!

Then his phone rings. “Es mi vieja,” he says as he looks down at the screen of ay-phone. He quickly picks up and answers. “Si, mi amor?” His friends hear the muffled sound of his wife yelling at him that it’s time to come home. “Mandala al la chingada,” say his carnales who are single. But they are well aware that he is in a powerless position and when his wife says it’s time to come home, he better move his fucking ass or run the risk of having his favorite Chivas soccer jersey cut up again. His wife may be young, but she is stubborn, brave, and resourceful. She has the makings a future “La Doña.”

In the Mexican family, much like the British monarchy, the man is the figurehead in name only. La Doña is the one who is the true shot-caller. La Doña is the alpha female. She could be the grandmother, oldest sister, or the most assertive, fiscally responsible, and reliable female out of the many characters that comprise the family. She has a commanding presence and rules with love, fear, and respect.

There is no love like the love of La Doña. Upon seeing you she’ll give you a hug, kiss, comment on how fat you gotten, and ask if you’re hungry. Then she’ll immediately get in the kitchen and throw together whatever she can from the contents of her fridge. Even with minimal ingredients, La Doña is able to magically assemble a delicious meal that you eat to the last bite.

La Doña will be the first person you call when life has kicked you in the balls. If you’re broke and struggling to pay your bills, La Doña is hardworking and frugal enough that she can lend you money. If life gets to the point where you lost your place to live, she’ll be the first person to let you stay in her spare bedroom until you reestablish yourself. When you’re downtrodden and everyone is looking down on you, La Doña will ferociously defend you and make it clear that your bad luck is only temporary.

She’ll be at your birthdays, graduations, and major life events. La Doña will be your biggest fan and supporter in all your dreams and endeavors, however farfetched they may be. She will speak proudly of you to others and highlight all of your accomplishments whenever the opportunity presents itself.

But La Doña will also fill you with fear. She will be the first person to confront you when you are fucking up. Get a bad grade in school? Be ready for her to yell your ear off about how if you don’t get good grades, you’ll be washing dishes at Denny’s with the other dumb Mexicans. You want to be cool and hang out with the little gangster kids across the street? La Doña isn’t going to let you become a good-for-nothing cholo that gives the rest of us Mexicans a bad name. She’ll go to their house, find you, and berate you in front of everybody with a combination of your name, swear words, your last name, and more swear words. Then she’ll grab you by the ear and drag your ass back home. Did you decide to get drunk and get your ass bounced out of the bar again? Don’t worry, La Doña will pick you up. The price: her beating the crap out of you for being tan estúpido. It doesn’t matter if you’re 27.

La Doña rules mostly with respect. Maybe she isn’t highly educated or well traveled, but her knowledge of how the real world works in invaluable. She has worked long, hard hours for low pay. She has seen life come into this world and has seen it leave. She has had her share of love and heartbreak, excitement and disappointment, happiness and sadness. She has selflessly put her family’s needs ahead of her own. She has made the right connections and has become a key figure in helping the family establish themselves in a new country.

La Doña knows how to get shit done and has connections who speak Spanish. Your ’92 Camry is having transmission trouble, but you don’t trust any of the gringo mechanics because they’re always looking to rip off Mexicans? Don’t worry; La Doña knows a guy who speaks Spanish and is trustworthy. You need a job? La Doña has a friend who owns a little taco shop and will hook you up. You’re traveling back to Mexico to visit? Just let La Doña make a couple of phone calls and you’ll have yourself a place to stay.

La Doña has more balls than most men. While many men willingly abandon their offspring, La Doña has more character in her right pinkie and will never let any child in her bloodline feel unloved. La Doña leads by example, never expecting anyone to do anything she isn’t willing to do herself. She’s the most levelheaded of the men and women in the family, often putting herself in the middle of their petty feuding to help find a solution so the family stays whole.

La Doña seems superhuman in the way she skillfully governs the chaos that is the Mexican family. Her fuel is her love for every member. Their trials are her trials. Their burdens are her burdens. Their success is her success. Their happiness is her happiness. She will have her favorite picture of you hanging up on some wall in her home. Even as you grow older and start building your own life, she will always worry about you because to her, you’re still esé niño who barely knows how to wipe his butt.

~Raul Felix
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It’s So Hard To Say “No” To An Easy Lay

Holy shit, you’ve managed to pull it off again. You’re not sure how or why, but this bitch is all about your nuts. You’re making out sloppily and have your hands inside her jeans playing with her thong. Your friends watch you from afar, cheering you via thumbs-ups and tilted beer bottles. From the brief but magical thirty minutes of conversation you’ve had with this fair maiden, it’s apparent that her morals dissolve with every gin and tonic she drinks.

As you press her on the corner of the bar devouring her face, you realize this really isn’t about you. You did nothing to earn this. You only happened to be at the right place at the right time. She is not into you, but in her state of mind, sleeping with you (or any guy) will make up for the fact that her stepfather didn’t love her enough, or whatever other slut-justification mental gymnastics she’s going through in her head. She’s just needs dick—any dick.

Oh, well…fuck it.

You don’t care. She has a warm, wet hole that wraps itself around your dick. She isn’t girlfriend or even fuck-buddy material; she’s one of those chicks whose sole purpose is to keep you from slapping your dick tonight.

You gave a subpar performance. She wasn’t worthy of the intense fuck sessions you give to the girls that actually matter. She wasn’t even worthy of a hate-fuck. It was she’s-a-random-slut-and-I-don’t-give-two-shits-about-her-having-an-orgasm-god-I-hope-I-don’t-catch-herpes sex, and you nutted in a minute. You don’t even ask her how it was. She’s left unsatisfied and you don’t give a shit.

A couple of hours ago, her push-up bra exaggerated her boobs’ size and perkiness. Now, an uninspiring sight of flab and droop remains. What should have been a luscious booty was nothing more than a ruse set up by her ability to dress well. While she was utterly mediocre-looking amid the bar’s darkness, your excitement to fuck made you overlook many more of her flaws. Now you’re stuck with this creature for the night.

You lie in bed next to her, and she tries to cuddle up. You don’t want her close to you, but you know the courteous thing to do is to allow her to rest her head on your chest. You’re a gentleman and a scholar, after all.

She asks you questions about yourself. You give one-word answers. She says you’re very handsome. You don’t compliment her back. She begins to tell you about her life and problems; you pretend to listen while thinking about the millions of other places you’d rather be. You toss in the occasional “uh-huh,” or “oh, really?” or “cool” merely to keep up the masquerade.

You kind of hate her.

She gives subtle hints that she would like her pussy eaten. You love eating pussy, but you’re not eating hers.

She talks about how she needs a good man in her life. You’re a good man, but you’re not wasting your goodness on her.

She talks about how she doesn’t normally fuck guys that quickly and you’re a very special exception; you pretend to believe her.

She caresses your chest, arms, and stomach; you wish she would just shut the fuck up and go to sleep.

You feel your dick getting hard again; damn motherfucker has a life of its own. You excuse yourself to the bathroom. You decide to take a piss, and your erect dick makes it a challenge to get all your piss into the toilet. You’re buying time so you can lose your erection.

“You disgust me,” you say to your naked reflection. “You never learn your lesson,” you shake your head. You can’t say no to easy pussy, even from such a trashy girl.

Weak man.

A weak man who lets his dick lead him to fuck women below his own standards.

A weak man who lets his dick’s need to find a warm and wet spot for the night override all his logical thought.

A weak man who lets his dick dictate all aspects of his life.

You walk out of the bathroom with your dick at half-mast. She looks at it, comes over, gets on her knees, and starts sucking.

Oh, well…fuck it.

~Raul Felix

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Becoming A Beast May Help You Win The Beauty


Amy Clarke

She nestles her head on the little nook between your chest and your bicep. She’s beautiful when she’s comfortable. You run your fingers up and down her lower spine to the crease in between her ass cheeks. Both your bodies are still warm from the love session that just ended. Your heart rate is starting to slow down. You kiss the top of her head and take a whiff of her luscious, curly hair. You don’t know the brand of shampoo she uses, but you know the scent. It’s one of those rare moments in life when you’re completely content.

“I love how big and strong you are,” she says.

“Yeah? You think I’m strong?” you ask with tiny bit of coyness and a lot of cockiness.

“Yes. You have a big chest and arms. I love how broad your shoulders are and how secure I feel with your big body protecting my little one,” she responds.

You smile and showboat your Popeye-sized muscles by flipping on top of her and kissing her passionately. You look deeply into her eyes and then analyze her body. She’s such a fine example of femininity—her ample breasts, bountiful booty, the slight pudge on her belly that she’s insecure about (but that you love), and a freshly shaved pussy. You flex your biceps and order her to feel your weapons of mass destruction. She places both hands around one of your biceps, but it still eclipses her reach. She smiles warmly as she appreciates the years of hard work you’ve put into building yourself from a scrawny kid into a beast.

Many moons before, you were an average, slothful kid with no muscle. You were slim and weak. You had a sinkhole for a chest and biceps you could wrap your fingers around. You couldn’t run half a mile without gasping for air. You couldn’t pull up your own body weight or bench-press the 45-pound bar.

Then one day you were introduced to the weight room, the Temple to the god Brodin, he who bequeaths swoleness to those who pay tribute. It was a sanctuary that would eventually save your soul and body from the masses, whose weak minds and weak willpower keep them either gluttonous or scraggly.

The first few months are the worst. Your body is constantly sore, and you instantly pass out after you get home. You struggle to get up in the morning. Your body screams at you, ordering you to not get up, insisting that it’s unable to muster the strength to do another day in Beast Mode. Still, you get up. As shitty as it feels, there is a strange addiction to the pain. You feel your muscles being torn apart, but you also feel them rebuilding and getting stronger.

One day you pass by yourself in the mirror and in the reflection notice muscles that weren’t there before. You pause, flex, and analyze every inch of your body: a little vein there, a small rip there, a quarter-inch lost in the gut, an extra thickness in your legs, and even the hint of pecs developing.

As months and years pass, your body gets bigger and bigger. You’re growing into a man, and with that come a new source of strength and maturity not possible in your early years. One day it happens: Someone describes you as a big dude. “Am I that big?” you wonder.

No fucking way. Your childhood heroes are big: Schwarzenegger, The Rock, Batman, Stallone, Hulk Hogan, The Undertaker, Bret “The Hitman” Hart, Balrog, Wolverine, Punisher, and Duke Nukem. They’re big men; you’re just slightly above average, right?

Little did you know that throughout the months and years working out, you surpassed your peers. Their glory days are behind them, their guts formed by shitty eating and drinking habits gone unchecked while you’ve been paying tribute to Brodin.

One day she appears. She’s a petite little thing. You’re working as a bouncer while you figure out your shit. She smiles at you as she watches you work. She gazes at your biceps, blessed upon you by Preacher Curl and the Chin-Up Chorus. Your bulging chest and triceps are a gift christened to you by Saint Benchen. She slyly gazes at your firm buttocks and traps, a gift you have yet to fully earn from the Sister Angels, Squaterious and Deadliftfium.

She flirts with you. She sizes you up, and it turns her on that you’re twice as big as she is. She’s been with small, weak men before and has been disappointed. She wonders what it would be like to be with you, a big dude. In spite of your weak-ass game, you easily acquire her number.

Her clothes are on the floor. You wonder for a moment if this is really your life. Such a gorgeous being wants to sleep with you—the type of your fantasies and dreams.

She’s the type you sought to impress when you were first learning how to properly lift weights back when you were a slim, pimply teenager playing high-school football.

She’s the type you deeply thought about when you were running three miles to the gym, lifting weights, and running three miles back home while training to join the military.

The type that caused you such heartache while you were deployed. You disappeared into the gym for hours and hours, lifting heavy things and putting them down, eating 4,000 calories of food a day so when you got back, she could see what a fine specimen she allowed to escape.

The type you sorely missed on those long dry spells when you were at the gym at 1AM because you had no one who felt romantic toward you or even a solid prospect whom you could playfully text.

The type you wished would be in the little nook between your chest and arms, appreciating your hard work as you fell asleep at night.

You’re on top of her; she feels your weight pressing down on her. She loves it. You can easily pick her up and throw her around like a rag doll. She pretends to resist, but she has no chance. It makes her horny to feel so powerless. You kiss her, bite her, lick her, and smack her ass. When the moment is right, you thrust into her and show her your true power.

~Raul Felix

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