A Day In The Life Of A Debauched Traveler

While I don’t consider myself a globetrotter yet, I’ve done my share of traveling and have established a daily pattern while on the road. While some travelers take tour packages, stay at resorts, eat local delicacies, and buy knick-knacks, I tend to stay at cheap hostels, don’t buy any souvenirs, and eat at the cheapest place I can find. I opt to invest my money in more pleasing activities such as heavily boozing and paying the local strippers to rub their tits in my face. A typical day for me goes something like this:

11:12AM:Wake up with a vicious hangover, not quite knowing where I am, with random scratches and bruises all over my body. My muscles ache and are in desperate need of potable water. My bladder is full of piss, but I am unable to gather up the motivation to move my body out of bed. I decide to sleep some more.

12:30PM: Get a rude awakening with a bladder that is ready is to explode. Run to the bathroom and release a stream that gives me pleasure equivalent to an orgasm. Enter the shower and wash the smell of disgrace from my body.

1:04PM: Decide it’s time go see some touristy shit. If it’s a travel day, I decide it’s time to ride my motorcycle 250-300 miles to my next destination.

7:00PM: Finish either traveling or seeing touristy shit. Go to hostel to shit, shower, and eat chow.

8:00PM: Begin drinking either while socializing with people at the hostel or surfing the Internet while sitting in a dark corner by myself as I brood about my loneliness and how I wish I had a beautiful chick with whom to share this magical adventure.

10:07PM: Have a good buzz going and decide it’s time to go get some pussy. Either do a solo mission or go out with people in the hostel who aren’t lame.

10:48PM: Arrive at a bar and talk to people and hit on women. Get rejected by 90-95% of them. One eventually likes me enough, but I misinterpret her kindness as her wanting my cock in or around the general vicinity of her mouth. Make bold move; get slapped.

11:42PM: Go to a different bar because that one is full of total bitches that don’t realize how much of a catch I am. Lose the people from the hostel and join a new group.

11:48PM: Order a beer and take a shot. I’m a fucking beast. Look around the bar and see a chick across the room who isn’t totally disgusting.

11:50PM: Get mediocre chick interested in me by casually dropping the “former Army Ranger” card and mentioning that I’m traveling on a motorcycle. Her panties get wet, and I’m pretty sure she wants my cock.

12:01AM: Take a shot with mediocre chick.

12:17AM: She and I form a deep emotional connection. She becomes progressively prettier as I get to know her better, and I start imagining how life would be if I were to make her my woman.

12:36AM: Make out with mediocre chick.

12:54AM: Decide to take another shot. Vomit.

1:10AM: Mediocre chick runs away because I become overly aggressive with the ass-grabbing and biting.

1:12AM: Get kicked out of the bar because I start slurring, cursing, and spilling beer all over myself.

1:21AM: Stumble into another bar while attempting to seem as sober as possible. Make small talk with fellow patron that evolves into a deep philosophical conversation.

1:40AM: Say “goodbye” to my new friend who has altered my worldview forever. Leave the bar and immediately forget everything we’ve discussed.

1:54AM: ?

4:13AM: End up making it back to my hostel room somehow. Immediately get on Facebook and try to get whatever girls are online to send me nude pics. Fail.

4:34AM: Fall asleep while jacking off to pictures of chicks that have sent me nude pictures in the past because the Internet at the hostel is fucking slow and won’t load porn quickly.

11:12AM: Wake up with a vicious hangover, not quite knowing where I am. Decide I’m still too tired and go back to sleep.

Read more of my writing 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

My First Overnighter

I awaken on the cold, wet concrete floor of a jail cell. My head is pounding, my body is completely dehydrated, and I’m shivering. The bright lights of the cell are too much for me to handle and I squint like a gook. “What the fuck?” I mutter to myself as I try to comprehend my current whereabouts. I take a quick sniff at myself, I reek of booze and failure. I stand up and walk around my jail cell and notice how the whole floor is covered with water. Nothing clicks in my head. I hear the noise of the jail cell unlocking and a jailer comes in. She tells me to put my hands in my pockets and I follow her orders.

“You had quite a night,” she deadpans.

“What did I do?” I inquired.

“You made quite a mess of things. I would almost feel sorry for you, except you flooded your jail cell.”

My mind begins to connect the dots. As I am being lead to finger printing, images from the night fill my head.

I was placed in the jail cell and followed the orders given to me by the jailers. As they shut the door, I stood there attempting to analyze the situation. Hatred intensely filled my very core. I was in jail and I was going to make it known that I did not approve of this. Plan A, verbal protest. I’ll use my finely honed diplomatic skills to get my freedom back. “This is America! Call my aunt you mother fuckers! What crime did I commit? I want my human rights!” my booming voice echoed through the hallways. My tantrum was being ignored and I acknowledge that it would not yield any results.

Plan B, escape. Like a retarded monkey in a zoo, I begin to look around the jail for something to use to escape. There was nothing. Fuck it. I run to the walls and try to climb them. Surprisingly, it was unsuccessful. I then sprint at the door in an attempt to kick it down. I’m lucky I didn’t break my leg. I give up this valiant, but misguided effort. I then notice the toilet in the cell. Inspiration beckons.

Plan C, political protest. My mindset shifted. I was not a criminal, in fact, I was a political prisoner taken in by the fascist, Gestapo-esque state of we lived in. Civil disobedience was the answer to my woes. I walk over to the high pressure toilet, grab a roll of toilet paper, and shoved it down the drain. I flush the first time, the toilet fills up to the rim. I smile deviously. I flush once again, the toilet begins to overflow. I’m gitty and begin laughing like an evil genius who’s diabolical plan is going perfectly. I flush as fast I can. The water begins to accumulate on the floor. I then see a lot of it is going down the drain in middle of cell. No problem, I take off my shirt and clog that drain also. Water continues to flow out of the toilet, underneath the cell door, and into the hallway of the jail. I feel powerful as I’m sticking it to the man and letting him know you can’t detain Raul Felix without there being repercussions. I continue flushing for about 15 minutes.

The toilet stops flushing. The fascists shut off the water to my cell. Fucking high-knee bastards. They squashed my flooding ambitions, but the destruction had been done. I look outside my jail cell and see the jailers walking around in the water. Also, two women from the females prison begin to mop up my mess. I yell obscenities that I don’t recall at them. They ignore me.

Up in the corner of the ceiling was a camera protected by shatter proof glass. I decide I want to break it. I pick up my drenched shirt and begin throwing it at the camera. Direct hits have no effect in destroying the glass. On my third throw, my shirt wraps itself around the camera and stays there. I stand there, stunned and with a fractured morale. My protest against the man is over and I decide to go to sleep.

The jailer finishes taking my finger prints and then lines me up for my mug shot. Even though, I was able to remember what I did the previous night in my cell, I have no idea how I ended up there to begin with. I get my wallet and sandals back, sign some release forms, and am made aware of my court date. My charges: Drunk and Disorderly Conduct.

I enjoy the sweet taste of liberation as I leave the Huntington Beach Police Station. I then realize that I am a long ways from my cousins place. I begin to walk. I have no shirt or cell phone as I walk myself up Main Street towards Beach Boulevard. I giggle to myself at the insanity of it all. An old, Greek man whose out on his morning walk begins to walk next to me and notices how disheveled I appear. “Rough night?” he says in a friendly manner.

“Yes, sir, I have no idea how I ended up in jail. Trying to figure it out.” He laughs out loud and begins to tell me stories of his youthful, drunken shenanigans and some of the women he fucked in his glory days. I’m entertained by him and enjoy his company. We then have to part ways as he made a turn to his home. We shook hands and he wished me the best of luck.

I finish my three mile trek of shame to my cousins house. I knock on the door and he opens up. “What the hell happened to you?” he asks.

“I got arrested and spent the night in jail,” I say with a shit eating grin.

“God damn it. I knew it was either that or you fucked some chick when you didn’t come home last night.”

For the next few days, I couldn’t figure out what I did to end up in jail. Nothing came to mind at all and it was a total conundrum for my Neanderthal mind. That was until I picked up my police report which rattled my mind enough to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

I had pre-partied at my cousins apartment while hanging with him and his wife. I was nine beers deep and had the urge to go out. There was a bar called Tumble Weeds at the strip mall next to his apartments. I walked over there on a solo mission for pussy and good times. I used my alcohol amplified social skills to quickly make new friends to drink with. Some tattooed chick was eyeing me and I thought she was very pretty. We flirted heavily and then began to hook up. I alternated between kissing her, drinking heavily, and socializing with her friends. They all liked me. Last call was announced and I left with the tattooed chicks number written on a piece of paper. Though victorious with the tattooed chick, I still wanted to get more shit housed. As I walked back to my cousins apartment, I noticed that there was an apartment on the third story with its door open and the distinctive sound of people having a good time. I walk up the stairs and decide to invite myself to the party.

I'm even drunk enough to do the shameful duck face.

I’m even drunk enough to do the shameful duck face.

“Hey guys, I’m Raul and I’m one of your neighbors. I was wondering if I can party you guys?” I lie. They warmly invite me to join them and offer me a shot of whiskey. After this point, my mind goes blank. I am unable to remember what occurred in that apartment that caused me to have an argument with the people who lived there. Though, taking an educated guess based on personal history would suggest that my overly cocky, smart ass Raul Felix shit bomb personality took firm hold. With this, all semblance of human decency and social grace disappears from my being and I transform into an insufferable baboon. I’m sure I got into a fight.

My next clear memory, I am running around the apartment complex’s parking lot, knocking on windows, running on the hoods of cars, and yelling ungentlemanly things. Security is called and attempts to calm me down. I promptly tell the rent a cop to “Go fuck yourself.” I continue on my drunk rampage unchallenged. My drunken dominance was about to be crushed. I see the red and blue lights behind me. The cops have been called. I contemplate running, but look down and realize I have sandals. In quite possibly the most rational decision a drunk person could make, I put my hands up.

The police officer bombards me with questions my drunk mind is barely able to make sense of. I fall over. The police officer picks me up. “How much have you had to drink?” he asks.

“I refuse to disclose that,” I respond in a professional manner. I fall over again.

The police officer decides I’m too drunk and places me under arrest. He puts my hands behind my back, stomps my foot, and hand cuffs me. I scream out in pain as his boot crushes my ill protected foot. I am then placed in the back of the police car. On my way to jail, I sit there, wondering what crime I committed in order to be taken in by the secret police.

POST SCRIPT: At some point during the whole fiasco, I lost the tattooed chicks number, something that truly pissed me off because I really liked her. I also hired a lawyer and had my case dismissed, but it did cost me a pretty penny.

~Raul Felix

More stories you say? You’re lucky I have another to spare: The Pick-Up Follies: Sleazy-E’s Revenge