The Types Of Women You Date In Your 30’s

W1

(c) Jeremy Entwistle

The 30’s are a man’s glory years. The tides of the sexual market place are beginning to shift in his favor. The hard lessons earned through his 20’s are paying dividends. With his new found maturity, he is presented with opportunities that used to be merely erotic fantasies and wet dreams. If he has been able to keep himself from getting sucked into the clutches of marriage and kids, and developed his skills with women, by his 30’s he would have dated an impressive selection of ladies.

The Boss Bitch

A Type-A female working her mighty fine ass off to make it to the top of her chosen field. She’s hardworking, competitive, and well versed in using her bitch face in order to be taken seriously. For all her success, it’s tough for her to find a suitable match. Men are either intimidated that she makes more money than them, or try to take advantage of that fact. Too many men are effeminate these days and she doesn’t care for wimpy men.

Luckily for her, you’re a fellow A-type that can toss her around like a rag doll while you ravage her. You find her success and dedication to her vocation sexy. She’s very picky of the type of men she’s with and if she’s with you, you must be on top of your shit. If you show the slightest bit of weakness in the initial stages of courtship, she’ll eat you alive. 50% of women think they’re a Boss Bitch, only 5% are.

The Slacker

She hasn’t really done much other than be a manager at a retail store or a waitress. A job that pays the bills, but leaves her feeling meh. She will occasionally talk about going back to school for nursing or some shit, but will procrastinate on signing up for classes until its too late. Maybe next semester when life is less hectic.

She’s a pretty chill chick though. You genuinely enjoy the time spent together binge watching Netflix while smoking weed and whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears. It’s a pretty low key set up without much drama, though your combined monetary funds tend to be limited. You’ll probably get her pregnant. Luckily, she’s pro-choice.

The Single Mom and Proud Of It

“My kids are my life and I won’t put up with any man who thinks my kids are baggage, not a bonus!” This type of bold, but delusional, woman declares on her dating profile. Her baby daddy is usually an asshole, but she blames her lack of insight into the matter on being young, in love, and naive when they were together. Now she has two adolescent children, is back in the dating game, and thinks her sexual market value is equal to that of a woman whose body has not had some serious wear and tear.

She will at times exclaim a bitter attitude towards guys who won’t date her, because she has children, as douchebags who are unwilling to man the fuck up. “Keep hitting the bong loser because I represent reality,” she’ll affirm to herself as she rolls her eyes. She just wants to find a handsome, smart, tall, athletic, financially independent man with no kids who will put her and her two children above himself. In her heart of hearts, she believes this is a reasonable request.

The Single Mom and On The Down Low About It

Yeah, she’s a single mom, but so what? She had her kids when she was young and now they’re old enough to take care of themselves. She’s done her time in the housekeeping and after school activities trenches. She’s fucking sick of talking about her honor roll student and now wants to focus on herself. She doesn’t need a daddy for her kids, she needs a man to make her feel like a woman.

Having endured a drought of adult conversation and situations for the better part of a decade, she’s appreciative of the little things you do that you’ve done with dozens of other chicks in the past, because it makes her feel unique and special. Usually a serial monogamist, you’re the first lover she had in a few months other than that one night stand she felt really dirty about. She grows attached to you quicker than she should, but fuck it, you enjoy being with a chick who isn’t too lazy to cook and you ride it out to see where it goes.

The Young Chick

W5

(c) John Rohan

Age: 18 – 23.

She’s stupid, unappreciative, selfish, mean, a liar, flakey, and lacking the ability to NOT take a selfie every ten minutes; but makes up for these severe short comings because she’s pretty fucking hot and has a newly minted (legal) pussy ripe for the smashing.

Your conversations with her will be no deeper than the faith you still hold in humanity. She’ll throw a tantrum because you didn’t like her latest Instagram picture. Her text messages will be splattered with emojis and lols despite the fact that nothing funny has been said.

When she sucks your cock, you derive as much pleasure from the fact that she’s NOT talking as from her lips around your manhood. On occasion, she’ll have a stroke of brilliance and say something of value. Since she’s so young, she’s also malleable. If you possess the skill, you can sculpt her to your will. If you’re able to tie one of these down in her zenith, your prospects of living a happy life exponentially increase.

The Ticking Biological Clock

Age: 29 – 39

“Okay Becky,” she’ll affirm to herself as she looks into her bathroom mirror that has BAMF written on it with red lipstick, “You are done slutting around. You’ve got the hang of this adulting thing. Now its time to find Mr. Right.” As she finishes getting dressed for her date, she holds a staunch determination to not waste her time with fuck boys anymore. Her clock is ticking and she needs to find a man to breed and start a happy family with. If you ain’t about that, you best get the fuck out her face. *finger snap*

The Ticking Biological Clock can be a great bargain if you already have your life in order and are ready to begin the process of building a family. You may be able to snatch up a top-tier chick who would normally be out of your league, just because she’s highly aware that her child bearing years are numbered and her beauty is waning. If you ain’t there yet, be ready to be dumped promptly because she’s done waiting on men who are still doing their lost boy crap. Maybe if your game is on par, you can persuade her to slut it up with you few more times before finding “Mr. Right.”

The Cougar

W4

(c) Khrisna Susanto

Age: 40 – 59

Aged like a fine wine, these prowling she-beasts are sick of the boring men of their generation who are set in their ways. She’s a youthful soul who doesn’t recognize the person who is staring back at her in the mirror. Rocking a hard body supplemented by a high quality boob job, she’s genuinely hotter than 80% of young chicks. She is a bit bitter about men in general, but has also lost most of her inhibitions in the sack.

Her personality has been forged in the fires of life. Her awareness of the pretty lies and ugly truth of society make her an enlightening conversationalist. She has to remind you to not check your phone every fifteen minutes. Young bitches give her hate-filled stares when they see her with a stud like you. Your age difference will become more and more apparent as you date her, but fuck it; it’s nice to be appreciated, pampered, and feel like you’re the prize.

The Ethical Slut

Catering to the age ol’ tradition of polygamy with the modern twist of the relationship being open to both sexes. The Ethical Slut has read deeply into human sexual evolutionary theory and has come to the conclusion that humans are not made to be monogamous creatures. In fact, she argues, it’s more healthy to have a few lovers to fulfill all your needs instead of limiting yourself to one.

This works out for you because you are totally chill having someone to fuck around with to keep you from appearing too thirsty while playing the game. Plus, their insights into sex are rather intriguing. It’s a common misconception that Ethical Sluts are indiscriminate of who they fuck. In fact, they can be more tedious and demanding to get into the sack than your conventional slut.

The Conventional Slut

W3

While the Ethical Slut has a well thought out philosophy behind her promiscuous behavior, the Conventional Slut just loves cock and has very little self control. She’s a pretty fun chick to be around and the life of the party. She’s a favorite of womanizers and players because the minimal amount of fiscal and temporal investment required.

On your date, you hold open some doors, let her enjoy a drink as you tell some whimsical stories about your life, add a dash of humblebragging about your accomplishments, make a bold move at the bar, and she’ll be spread eagled on your mattress in no time.

One day, post-fucking, she’ll ask you why you don’t want to make her your girlfriend. Instead of being a man of honor and giving her the harsh truth, “I don’t take sluts seriously because I don’t want a chick who has had dozens upon dozens of other dudes dicks inside of her as a girlfriend.” You lie and say, “I’m not ready for a relationship.” She’ll feign contentment and you’ll continue to fuck her as she slowly fades away from your life.

The Prude

She doesn’t drink. She doesn’t smoke. She doesn’t curse. She doesn’t stay out late on weeknights. She works as a secretary for an insurance company and has a collection of stuffed animals littered all over her bed. She dresses like Diane from Cheers and insists on knowing all about your past relationships and if you still talk to any of your ex’s. She counts one night stands as relationships.

If you drink more than one beer on a date she’ll immediately be concerned about your ability to drive home and ask if you’re an alcoholic. She’ll insist you can have fun without drinking. She’s never tried weed and thinks those who do are low-life losers. She has a rigid idea of how dating, relationships, and her ideal man are supposed to be. You have failed to live up to her expectations. You tolerate her self-righteous criticism because you have the gut feeling that she’s into some kinky shit.

The Feminazi

“Feminist. Socialist. Vegan. Fuck Trump. Woke.” She proudly declares on her dating profile.

Sophomorically, you failed to pick up on these subtle cues that this chick is the antithesis of a good time. You’re too much of a horn dog to let political ideologies get in the way of seeing whether her carpet matches her blue drapes.

As you listen to her spew idiotic rhetoric after idiotic rhetoric, you feel yourself shaking in order to contain your anger. Only to finally explode when she says, “The world would be a better place if we were all communists.”

To which you retort, “Every single fucking communist regime in human history has murdered hundreds of thousands, if not millions of its own people.”

“Just like we murdered the Native Americans, elected Trump, and oppress women. I’m so embarrassed to be American,” she’ll smugly say.

You chug your beer, pay the tab, say, “Good night” and never talk to her again. Stupid is fuckable, treasonous beliefs are not.

The Bipolar Chick

W2

(c) Dr. Case

Practically useless in every way except for the fact that she’s pretty cute, intelligent, and understands you better than anybody ever has when she isn’t lost in a deep state of depression, which leaves her bedridden for days on end while ignoring your texts, yet being able to update her Instagram with posts about being a strong woman and appreciating the man in your life.

Her long journeys into the nether regions of the human psyche gives her the uncanny ability to manipulate you. When she’s manic, her aloofness disappears and she showers you with the attention and affection you deeply desire. Only to have her mood go haywire when you make a remark that triggers her. Over the course of this so called relationship, she’ll suck and feast on your emotional marrow until you are left a hollow shell of your former self. She was a pretty good fuck though.

The Dream Girl

W6

(c) Tomasz Pro

After all the bull shit you’ve been through, rifling through different types of chicks, you may have actually found the elusive dream girl. You have a 96% match on OK Cupid and your message exchange flowed effortlessly.

Upon meeting her for a drink, you’re pleased to discover that she looks way better in real life than in her pictures. Your browbeaten heart flutters like it hasn’t in a long time as witty banter ensues over drinks. She’s smart, sexy, sincere, ambitious, and has your same wicked sense of humor.

She may be it. The chick who finally gets you to give up the game. Who makes you want to be a good man. You can totally imagine yourself building a life with this prime example of womanhood. After a sweet good night kiss, you walk away smitten. You text her the next day in order to set something up, but don’t get a response. You try again a few days later. No response. Fucking bitch.

~Raul Felix

Read: It’s So Hard To Say “No” To An Easy Lay
Read: 4 Things Women Can Do To Be More Attractive (From A Non-Beta Bitch Male Perspective)
Read: Why Young Men Should Become Cougar Slayers

Read more of my work at Thought Catalog
Follow me on Instagram.
Follow me on Twitter.

Why Young Men Should Become Cougar Slayers

(c) Sergey Furtaev

(c) Sergey Furtaev

For all their youthful vigor, beauty, and perfectly angled selfies that show off their best assets, most young chicks are a real pain in the ass to deal with. Most of them think that the average young guy is incapable of fulfilling them and haven’t been humbled by reality enough to know what characteristics to truly look for in a man. Also, they’ll elevate a minor problem into full-blown drama and then yap about how they’ve been through a lot (of dick). Regardless, many boys and men will compete for their attention because nothing screams Alpha Male like having a hot 21-year-old with an hourglass figure hanging off your arm. Instead of directly going toe-to-toe with other dudes who have airtight game or higher social value than you in such a fiercely competitive atmosphere, why not change the field you operate in and become a cougar-slayer?

For those of you slow on the uptake, cougars are older, mature women usually 40+ who still look pretty damn good because they’ve taken care of themselves throughout the years. They are not to be confused with spinsters and fat-acceptance twats whose bitterness and sloth has left them with a body that only devouring hundreds of gallons of ice cream while watching romantic comedies compounded over many years can produce.

I learned about the unique prowess of these wonderful creatures by pure luck. When I was in the Army, my unit was constructing a bunch of new barracks and ran out of the room to house all the single soldiers. So they decided to give a bunch of us single dudes who had been there for a while an extra allowance for housing so we could get our own places off-post. The apartment I got for myself was near a bar that catered to a more mature clientele because they often hosted cover bands that played classic rock.

As I began to frequent that bar, something occurred that rarely happened to me: Good-looking women with amazing fake breasts and wild 80s-style glam-rock hair began to flirt with me. At the time, my MO was to hit up the bars, hit on chicks who were in my age range, and get promptly rejected. This would lead to me drinking alcohol in frustration and making another sloppy attempt at convincing a chick to let met touch her lady parts, which led to more severe rejections. Frustration drinking would morph into rage drinking, which would have me falling toward a downward spiral of angst and loneliness that ended with me jerking off to nude pictures of my ex-girlfriend.

A new world opened for me. Instead of constantly having my ego destroyed by 6s or 7s who wanted nothing to do with my goofy Mexican self, I was exchanging witty banter, dancing, making out, and more with cougars who were 8s and 9s in their prime and still looked like total foxes. They loved that I was an eager, muscular, clean-cut Latin 22-year-old with an outgoing personality and quirky smile. I loved their feminine physique, no-bullshit attitude, and ability to hold real conversations. It was the beginning of an infatuation that has maintained my interest until this day.

Why should young men experiment with dating cougars? Because they have an insane amount of knowledge to bequeath upon you to expedite the process of growing into a real man. A lot of these women have been hardened by the real world. They have been married, divorced, have full-fledged careers, and may have a few kids to boot. They don’t have time for the petty games that late-teen and early-twenty-something chicks love to play on the male psyche. When they decide to spend time with you, they mean business. They’re able to stimulate you physically and mentally.

Through your interactions with them, you’ll learn about the mistakes both men and women tend to make as they grow older—from having children before they were truly ready to allowing the romance in the relationship to wane. You’ll be exposed to their lifestyle and see how life can look like for you if you make the right or wrong moves. You’ll learn to interact more intelligently and have deeper conversations with the opposite sex. You’ll have a ton of hands-on experience on pleasing your woman in the sack because most cougars are more than willing to coach you into being a good lover.

You shouldn’t exclusively date cougars, but add them to your repertoire of women you consider dating material. Depending on how successful she is, you’ll be able to catch a taste of the high-class life. You know all those pretty young chicks going to all sorts of fancy, exclusive parties and places on social media? Most of them didn’t pay the bill for that. They got there by dating older men who have already established themselves. It’s tough to compete with that as a young man who is barely starting off in the world.

Don’t think just because you’re with an older woman that you can be a lazy sack of shit. If you’re a broke, sloppy mouth-breather with poor personal hygiene and the inability to hold a conversation, these bitches will shut you down quickly. You’re the young stud—play the part. Have enough money to take her out for drinks, be in good shape, dress nice, and have something of value to say. They are still women, after all. You must spark their interest and gain their trust. If you’re able to do those things, you’ll have more than you fill of cougar love, as opposed to trying to scrounge for a bit of attention from a mediocre chick with an overinflated self-worth because she has 2,000 Instagram followers who bombard her with likes every time she posts a cleavage shot.

~Raul Felix

Read: She Had The Body Of A Greek Goddess
Read: Army Rangers Talk About The Times Their Words Have Shocked Civilians
Read: 4 Things Women Can Do To Be More Attractive (From A Non-Beta Bitch Male Perspective)

Read more of my work at Thought Catalog
Follow me on Instagram.
Follow me on Twitter.

I Was Hot For Teacher But Late For Class

I loved staring at her small, maroon-colored lips as she read aloud to the class from The Catcher in the Rye. Her brown eyes would shift from line to line in the those squared glasses. Light freckles were sprinkled on her cheeks. Her long black hair would drop past her shoulders all the way to the small of her back. At times, she would wear it in a bun or pigtails.

She would step out from behind the podium exposing her outfit for the day. Her style was neither trendy nor outdated. It was professional and nerdy while maintaining her artistic flair. I’d occasionally catch a glimpse of her neck tattoo. No matter how conservative, no outfit could conceal the shape of those huge breasts. I would imagine squeezing them, sucking them, and using them as pillows. She’d give me a boner at the most inopportune time—right before the bell rang so I would have to put my hand in my pocket to hold it down and hide it as I walked out of class. Later on at night, my mind would fill with thoughts of Ms. Salazar as I masturbated.

On Valentine’s Day, her desk was piled up with roses and flowers that other male students brought for her. The single rose I bought, pathetic in comparison, was lost among them.

My friends and I would speculate about her.

“You think she has those nice little nipples or those ugly pancake types?”

“No fucking way, man; she for sure has little, half-dollar-sized pink ones.”

“I’m sure she has a little landing strip on her pussy. I like that.”

“You’re a fucking virgin; you don’t know what you like.”

“So are you. I’ve seen plenty of porn, and I know what gives me a boner.”

“How are you going to fuck her?”

“Doggy style and then cum all over her mouth.”

“Ha-ha, no you’re not. You don’t even know how to talk to girls. You’re only going to fuck her after I fuck her. You can enjoy my sloppy seconds.”

“Fuck you! She’s mine!”

She was only there for a semester. She was a student teacher working on her credentials. On her last day she gave a sweet goodbye speech and thanked us. After class, I went up, said I’d miss her, and gave her a hug. I wouldn’t see her again for ten years.

“Hey, man,” I said to my best friend Sleazy-E, “remember I told you about the teacher named Ms. Salazar I wanted to fuck in high school?”

“Yeah?”

“She’s in my summer chemistry class.”

“What’s she doing there?”

“I guess she wants to be a nurse or some shit now.”

“Does she remember you?”

“Yeah, I reminded her she was my junior-year English teacher, and she said she thought I looked familiar.”

“Are you developing a scheme to fuck her?”

“Of course.”

The plan of action was to play the long game. It would be a multi-stage operation. I’d acquire her as a lab partner and then a study partner. When time permitted, I’d work in bite-size pieces of humblebrag—but not so much that I’d stir any suspicion into my ulterior motives. With these little kernels of Felix propaganda, she would be impressed by my unique set of life experiences since we last met, how well traveled I was, and that I have lived in foreign lands. She was an English teacher who loved to read books, so she would also see I have the deep creative soul of a writer. I got this covered. Just need to play it cool and not fuck it up.

I am one hour late to meeting her at Starbucks for our study session. She was already there with another fellow student. We are two weeks into the class, and I was already fucked. I just failed our first exam. I was going over some of the rudimentary stuff we had learned during Week One trying to catch up. We take a little study break.

“So you have a boyfriend now or what?” I ask.

“Yeah, we’ve been together for four years,” she says.

“Oh, shit—long haul, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“What does he do?”

“Well, not much of anything. He’s kind of in a weird spot in his life. He’s really smart. But he is slacking on completing his master’s degree. He only needs a few units, yet he keeps making excuses.”

“He doesn’t have a job?”

“No. He’s also never lived on his own.”

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-five.”

She continues to give me more details about him. I make the educated conclusion that I’m not going find out whether she has half-dollar-sized or pancake-sized nipples or whether or not she has a landing strip in the foreseeable future.

A text message awakes me at 10:37AM.

“Why aren’t you in class?” asks Ms. Salazar.

“I’m too far behind. I dropped it.”

“:(”

One Friday night a few months later, I’m working as a bouncer at one of the bars on Main Street in Huntington Beach. I’m performing my job with the utmost professionalism while scrutinizing every female specimen that enters the establishment to borderline-creepy degree. Amid the crowd in the dim lights of the bar appears that petite little body that I spent many an English class ravaging in elaborate daydreams instead of paying attention to the class discussion. I walk up to her.

“Heather!”

“Raul!” she says as she gives me a hug. “You work here now? You still in school?”

“Yeah, just a few classes, but I’m focusing more on my writing now. I even had one article go viral.”

“Ah, good for you! I remember you told me about that. I never got around to reading it.”

Then a guber appears from the shadows, hosting a drink for Ms. Salazar.

She introduces him: “Raul, this is my boyfriend.”

“How you doing, bro?” I shake his hand.

“Good,” he says.

I talk to her a bit more and walk back to my post. I never expected her boyfriend to look like such a dirtbag. His demeanor reeks of fecklessness. His dirty blond hair spills sloppily from the brim of his sweat-stained baseball cap that he wears backwards. His slight belly protrudes over an ill-fitting shirt. An unearned sense of self-worth is plastered on his shit-eating smirk. I continue comparing and contrasting us visually; I am superior to him in every way.

“I need a man, not a boy,” she had said to me during the study session. “Someone who has his act together.”

I recall all the things I’ve done to be a self-sufficient man since I was 18. I’m superior to him in that regard also.

I had admired Ms. Salazar as a woman of high intelligence, good taste, and sound decision-making skills. But this healthy dose of reality smashed those delusions. She was as flawed as any other chick I’ve encountered. She was just another woman: driven by emotions and love, even if it involves a man who’s a piece of shit. I may have been superior to her man in all aspects, yet he had me beat at the most important one: He got to her and won her heart first. Sometimes, that’s the only quality a man needs to have.

~Raul Felix

You can read more of my work at Thought Catalog.

The Woman Who Taught Me I Was Good For Everything But Loving

She kissed the back of my neck as we rode the Ortega Highway on my motorcycle. She had asked me to take my jacket off. The reason why was unclear to me, but as we rode, it made perfect sense. She wanted to caress my chest, arms, and stomach. She wanted to rub my shoulder blades and feel the bulge of my biceps as I shifted gears. Her breasts would press against my back, and when I didn’t need to have my left hand on the clutch, I would reach behind, place my hand on her calf, and slide it up to give her ass a firm squeeze. Happiness is very simple for me: I just need a beautiful woman, my motorcycle, and an open highway.

I would always catch her looking out the window of the bar next to the one where I was a bouncer. Our eyes would briefly meet, then I would smirk and continue walking to work since I never had a moment to spare; I have the bad habit of getting to work two or three minutes late. I would do my beginning of shift duties: stand at the door, check IDs, and stare off into the beach. Occasionally, I would walk over next door to see if I could catch another glimpse of her. She seemed to have a sixth sense, because she would always turn in my direction as I did this. We would lock eyes and exchange smiles, but nothing more.

One night I went to have an after-work drink at that bar because I knew she would be there. I spotted her sitting at a booth with her friends. I couldn’t be as aggressive as I normally would have been, since I work around there and a lot of these people were regulars who knew my face if not my name. I needed to be coy and suave. After her friends left, she spotted me and called me over.

“You have a thing for me, don’t you?” she asked. I looked into her green eyes, her pink lips, and took a quick glance at her fake breasts.

“No,” I lied as I shook my head. She was what society would label a cougar, MILF, or mature woman. But I didn’t give a fuck; I wanted her.

“Yes, you do. I always catch you looking at me through the window.”

“I do.” I’m pretty bad at playing coy and suave.

“Well, I don’t really go for young men…”

“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me,” I said and headed toward the door. Once outside, I looked through the window, locked eyes with her, gave a smirk, and headed home. Maybe I’m not that bad at playing coy and suave.

Monday night, save for a couple of regulars, the bar was dead. She appeared through the door and walked up the steps.

“Can I see your ID, please?” I asked her.

“Really? Oh come on.” she tapped my thigh as she passed me, then headed toward the bar. She sat right in front of me. I bit my lip as I looked at the top part of her ass crack that rose above her jeans as she sat on the barstool. She stole glances at me but acted coquettish.

“I’m going outside for a smoke,” she said to the bartender as she walked down the small flight of stairs. I walked down also and stood in front of the entrance.

“There is something about you,” she told me. “You seem way more confident in yourself than a lot of men I run into.”

“Don’t let the fact that I’m a bouncer fool you. This is just a job. I have more life experience than a lot of guys who are ten years older than me.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

We talked. Flirted. Stole a touch here and there. Had short pauses where we stared at each other, resisting our primal desire to rip each other’s clothes off. She would go upstairs, drink a bit more, talk to other patrons to seem inconspicuous, and then come down to smoke another cigarette. She’d repeat the charade several times.

“All right, its time for me to go bed,” she said. “I don’t usually stay out this late.”

“Yeah? Hold on a second.” I grabbed her hand and led her outside to a blind spot out of the bar security camera’s range. I passionately kissed her lips and neck. I gave her sweet and tender goodnight kiss.

I would see her after my afternoon shifts. We would go into alleyways, make out, I’d finger her pussy, slap her ass, and do every form of heavy petting short of oral and actually fucking. She became the highlight of my week.

We arrived at a bar on Pacific Coast Highway and hopped off my motorcycle. I took out some weed we’d been smoking from my saddlebags and took a toke. Then we headed inside, holding hands. She ordered a drink and I just got water. As she stood I sat on the barstool, analyzing her beauty. I pulled her close, wrapped my arms around her, and rested my head on her chest. Heaven. I exhaled every ounce of oxygen in my lungs.

“Why do I feel all this tension released in you?” she asked.

I looked up at her. “I don’t know…”

“You haven’t been loved in a long time, have you?” I didn’t answer. I pulled her close again.

Later we’re in her bedroom. “Eat that fucking pussy!” she moaned. Her legs were on my shoulders as I was tongue-raping her cunt. I was determined to make her cum with my tongue, using every bit of force I could muster to ravage it as her juices and my spit dripped all over the bed sheets. Her body began to spasm, her legs squeezed in on my head, and her hands grasped what little they could of my short hair. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” she was getting closer. “Oh Fuck! Oh Fuck!” her body thrashed wildly, but I kept her under control. Then she came. She breathed heavily, trying to catch her breath. It was time for me to fuck her.

We were lying in bed together a couple of weeks later. I was cuddling up and kissing her all over. “You’re starving for love and affection, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Why do you say that?” I kissed her neck.

“Because you’re so passionate. You give so much. You work so hard at pleasuring me. A person doesn’t do that unless they want to be loved.”

“I do.”

“You know you can’t get that from me. I’ve already done that marriage and family stuff. You need find a girl your age to experience that with.”

“I know.”

“You have other girls, don’t you?”

“Yes. Just none have tried to get close to me. I’m just a fling, a rebound, and an adventure fuck. Something to keep them entertained while they’re bored, nothing more.” I kissed her shoulders and back. I never told her, but this was the closest I’d had to love in a long time. I wrapped my arms around her and buried my nose in her hair. Heaven.

I would walk to work and wouldn’t see her anymore as I looked through that bar’s window. I would text her and wouldn’t get a response. Then she paid me one last visit and told me she was seeing someone. She, too, would fade away from my life. It was to be expected, after all. That’s what men like me are only good for: a fling, a rebound, and an adventure fuck.

~Raul Felix

Read more of my work on Thought Catalog

The Pick-Up Follies: The Snow Fatty

I was in my seat on an airplane in between two very attractive women. Yet, I was unable to talk them. My breath stank and I reeked of booze, smoke, desperation, fat girl spit, and body odor. Normally, I would have started a little coy conversation in effort to see if there was a connection, but not this time. This time, I sat there in silence brooding on the foul odor that had been cast upon my body. God was just, I was being punished for the sins I had committed the previous night.

We had spent two weeks in late October 2008 on a training trip in Fort Bragg. After doing our military training for the day, we spent nearly every night of those two weeks getting hammered beyond reason or recourse. It was our last night in North Carolina and we decided to have one final hurrah before heading back to Washington. “Jonathan” and I tried to rally up a bunch of the guys to go out, but most rejected the idea knowing that we had an early morning flight to catch. We were able to get a humble group, “Blitzy”, “Tiburón”, “Jonathan”, and I to go out.

We rode through the mean streets of Fayetteville to a bar called Doghouse Bar & Grill. The place was refreshingly different from the typical bars you see outside military bases. The amount of high and tights with off-duty soldiers wearing their dog tags outside their t-shirts as a fashion accessory was kept to a minimum. Typical of southern bars, there was a cloud of cigarette smoke that engulfed the whole place. There was a live band playing country music, cheap beers, and a decent female to male ratio.

Since I always keep my head on a swivel looking for attractive women to hit on and promptly get rejected by, I noticed there was only one really hot chick in the whole entire place. Our drinks came and we made a toast to the good times and to 2/75. I kept my eye on the hot chick and noticed that she was eye fucking the singer the whole time. After he completed one of the songs, she went up to kiss him passionately. With that kiss, went my one percent chance at success with the only hot chick. It looked like hitting on the bountiful subpar chicks of the bar were the conditions I was going to operate under.

I was drinking my alcohol at a respectable rate in order to boost my courage levels so I could actually approach women. While these days I am able to hit on a chick like nothing, back then, I still needed a good helping of alcohol to get myself to talk to one at a bar. The alcohol began to set in, ever so gently, taking over my psyche. Liquid courage had been spliced with my blood. I targeted a table made up of fuckable, but unimpressive looking women. I went in and begun speaking to one about witty and charming subject matter that surely sparked her interest. After a couple of minutes, the rest of my buddies decided to join the table. One guy in particular, Blitzy, began to hit it off with one of a generic looking chicks. Eventually, the girls tired of me and I went back to sitting at the bar alone. Blitzy was forming a true spiritual connection with the generic chick.

All the guys except for Blitzy rejoined me at the bar and we continued toasting and drinking. A couple more drinks in, I locked eyes with a woman who was in the late stages of being a cougar and in the early stages of being a sabertooth. She smiles at me, I sat there frozen not sure what to do.

Raul: “That chick is looking at me.”

Jonathan: “Go for it.”

Raul: “But she’s really old.”

Jonathan: “So? Women like that will show you some crazy ass shit that you can only dream of.”

Raul: “Really?”

Jonathan: “Yeah man.”

I walked up to her and begun flirting with her all awkwardly because I wasn’t sure how the fuck you’re supposed to hit on an older woman. She was dirty blonde, with rough skin conditioned by many a decade spent in smokey bar, and had a cigarette in her mouth. I don’t recall what we talked about or what poor excuse of seductive language I used to get her to the point of holding my hand. She pulled me close and said:

Older Woman: “You’re really cute, you should come home with me.” She squeezes my hand and places it on her thigh.

Raul: “Uh… I can’t… I have to stay here with my buddies. They’re my ride.”

Older Woman: “I’ll make sure you won’t forget it.”

Raul: “I can’t, I’m sorry.” I gave her a hug and walked back.

I’ll make no excuses about it. I pussed out because I was really intimidated by this older woman even though she wasn’t that attractive.

I rejoined my buddies and was mocked for having fucked it up with the almost-sabertooth. While my little frolic with older temptation occurred, it seemed that Blitzy had truly formed a one a kind connection with the generic chick. He went about consummating their one in a million love by fucking her doggy-style in the back seat of the van while she stuck her head out the window vomiting.

We continued to drink and were inebriated to the point where we sung along with the band. All morals and standards were being slain by the alcohol demon. Then she appeared: a paled skinned woman, with dark hair, and humongous breasts. She was like Snow White, if Snow White was about 100 pounds heavier. I didn’t care, I walked up to her.

Raul: “Let me guess, you’re drinking a Jack and Coke?”

Snow Fatty: “No, it’s a Rum and Coke, but good guess.”

Raul: “I like rum and coke, let me have a taste,” I take a sip out her drink, “Not bad.”

I introduced her to my buddies and we’re introduced to her shady looking friend “Daringer.” I got close to her and heavily flirted, touching her here and there. Fully aware that I was way above her league, I knew it was all a matter of playing the waiting game before my dick will be slaying her orifices. Eventually, the bar begins to close and Blitzy wants to go back to the motel. I asked the Snow Fatty if she could give us a ride to the airport the next morning and she agreed to do so. Snow Fatty, Tiburón, Jonathan, and I all pile into Daringer’s shitty little sedan.

We arrived at the mobile home park she calls home. She and I immediately head to the bedroom. I do my standard operating procedure of shoving her on the bed, positioning myself on top of her, and kissing her. All the while, firmly squeezing her huge breasts. I begun to undress her and that’s when the magnitude of the situation hit me. Her clothes, albeit not well, hid how fat she truly was. I had estimated a 100 pounds overweight Snow White, not a grotesque 150 pounds overweight Snow White. I made the executive decision not to fuck her, instead opting to get my dick sucked until I nutted.

I straddled on top of her, had her support her head on the pillow, and began thrusting full force into her throat. She stops me at some point and wants to fuck. I tell her that I don’t have a condom and luckily, she doesn’t have any laying around either. I continued until I busted in her hair.

I came out the bedroom and Tiburón was passed out on the couch. Jonathan and Daringer were nowhere to be found. It was nearly 4 a.m. and our flight was to leave at 7 a.m. I called Jonathan up and he told me that he went to get some cocaine with Daringer. Since they were my only ride, I began to panic a bit, but then decided that most practical solution was to sleep until they return.

At 6:15 a.m. I was awoken by the pounding of the door and my buddies voices. I scrambled to my feet and scoured the floor for my shoes. “Felix, we have to go man! Lieutenant Snuffy keeps on calling Sergeant Tiburón and he’s fucking pissed,” yells Jonathan. Fuck! I finished getting dressed and we all piled into the car. We were about 20 minutes away from the airport as Daringer drove us as quickly as his little jalopy could take us. Every five minutes en route, Lieutenant Snuffy called Tiburón to get a status report on where the fuck we were at.

At 6:35 a.m. we arrived at the airport. We stumbled out of the car and right before we were going to run off the Snow Fatty asked me, “You’re going to come back one day right? You got my number.” I smile at her and said, “Of course,” and gave her a reassuring hug and run off to the check-in. One of our buddies was on stand by with our bags and we checked in. We got through security rather quickly and ran to the gate where we met up with Lieutenant Snuffy and the rest of the men. “I don’t want to hear any of you fucking idiots speak. I’m going to take care of this shit when we get back! Got it?” He yelled.

“Roger, Sir!” we all responded. We tried our best not smile and giggle at the events that unfolded the previous night. We headed into the boarding gate and Jonathan took out his phone and showed me a picture he took of Snow Fatty. “Ugh… that’s pretty gross,” I said with disappointment. We boarded the plane and I sat in between two lovely women. That’s when I noticed how horrible I must smell.

~Raul Felix

“Tell me more about your follies of picking up women.” Here mother fucker: The Pick-Up Follies: Sleazy E’s Revenge

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