Welcome To Arlington, Sergeant Gallegos

Rachel Larue

The light of the sun blinds me, my ears are ringing, and I’m lying on the ground. My eyes begin to focus, the ringing fades, and I see a hand reach out for me and I grasp it. It pulls me up to my feet.

“Welcome to Arlington, Sergeant Gallegos,” he says. He’s wearing an olive drab Army uniform with Master Sergeant rank on his sleeve.

“Uh…Arlington Master Sergeant?” I respond. I swivel my head about, noticing the rows upon rows of symmetrical white headstones.

“Yes, in case you haven’t figured it out—you’re dead,” he says sharply. “By the way, we don’t use rank anymore in the afterlife. I’m Sam,” he says, reaching out and shaking my hand.

“Tony,” I smile. “Dead? Huh? How did I die?”

“In the most glorious of all ways—combat,” he laughs.

“What? I don’t remember getting into a firefight recently.”

“What’s your last memory?”

“Well…I had just stepped off of a Stryker and walked a couple blocks toward our objective and…”

“BOOM!” he bellows. “I-E-fucking-D, motherfucker! And now you’re here with the rest of us KIAs.”

“Fucking A. But my body feels fine.” I begin to check myself out, looking for any injuries and notice that I’m still wearing my uniform and body armor.

“Well, this is the afterlife; of course your body is fine,” he laughs.

“Did any of my men get killed, too?”

“No, you’re the only one who bit it. Sherman and Tran got hurt, but not too bad. Don’t worry, they’re fine.”

“Damn…well at least there’s that,” I sigh.

“Now see over there?” Sam points to a funeral procession. “Your earthly body is right there…or what’s left of it, anyway. It ain’t a pretty sight.”

“That’s my funeral?” I see a group of people, some in black, others in Army Class-A uniforms in front of a casket with an American flag draped over it.

“Yes,” he responds.

I run toward it and see a bunch of familiar faces: my wife, two daughters, mama, friends, and a few men from my unit.

“My god, dear god…my love! My love! Sweet Pea and Cookie! Mama! Mama!” I try to grab ahold of my wife, but I pass through her. I attempt the same with my mama and pass through again. I fall to my knees and begin to cry. “They can’t see me, can they?”

Sam puts his hand on my shoulder. “Roger.”

Cookie, my youngest at age seven, sits on my mama’s lap, crying into her chest. My mama’s holding her close, releasing a storm of tears. My eleven-year-old, Sweet Pea, sits next to my wife, holding her hand tightly, head on her shoulder. My wife’s attempting to hold her composure, yet some tears overpower her and pour down her face.

“Ready, aim, fire,” orders a staff sergeant to the seven soldiers of the rifle party. The first volley is fired.

“Ready, aim, fire.”

“Ready, aim, fire.”

“Present arms,” every man in uniform salutes. “Taps” begins to play.

The casket party folds the flag into a triangle. One of the men walks it over to my family, takes a knee, and presents it to my wife.

“Ma’am, this flag is presented to you on behalf of a grateful nation for the honorable and faithful service displayed by your husband, Sergeant First Class Antonio Gallegos,” he says to her, then stands at attention and salutes her.

The cemetery workers finish shoveling dirt over my grave. My headstone looms.

Antonio Leonard
Gallegos
SFC
US Army
Apr 20 1977
May 4 2009
Bronze Star
Purple Heart
Operation
Iraqi Freedom

My wife, mama, and daughters are alone. I stand right next to them, placing my hands on my loves’ shoulders. Even if I couldn’t feel the warmth of her skin nor she mine, I still felt connected to her. My wife hugs my headstone, caressing the engraving of my name, and giving it a kiss on top.

My dearest Carrie…the love of my life…I’m sorry…

My daughters are on their knees. “Papa, papa…we love you. We love you. Don’t go, don’t go.”

Sweet Pea and Cookie…you two are my light…I wish I didn’t have to…

My mama stands there, running her fingers through my daughters’ hair. “You were my angel, my most precious possession, my gift from God. I’ll miss you, mi niño.”

Mama…you taught me how to be a good man…I love you…

I watch them in silence, wishing I could feel their tender embrace once more. Wishing that I had more time with them. Wishing I wasn’t dead.

They begin to leave and I follow.

“Sorry Tony, but you can’t go with them,” Sam says gently.

“Like hell I can’t.” I begin to sprint after them, yet as fast as I move my feet, I make no progress. I’m running in place as they are getting further and further away from me. “Damn it! What is this?”

“You’re dead, Tony,” Sam reminds me. “You may no longer go among the living. That’s not your place anymore. This is the afterlife and I’m here to help you on this journey.”

I give up running, watching my kin until they disappear. Goodbye my life. I wipe the tears from my face, turn around, and face my fate. “So now what?”

“Follow me,” he says, and we begin walking deeper into Arlington through a forest of headstones.

“So you said, us KIAs…that means you were killed in action also?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“What war?”

“Vietnam.”

“Holy shit. What was that like?”

“I couldn’t really tell you. I was shot in the forehead jumping out of a Huey on my first mission,” he says with a smirk.

“But you have Master Sergeant rank on. So you had to been in the Army a while.”

“Oh yeah, seventeen long years. I was also in the Korean War. Made it through a whole year’s deployment in that frozen hellhole without a scratch. Then did the whole peacetime Army thing. Those were some wild times, I’ll tell you what. The first couple of months I was in Vietnam, I was doing a damn staff job. So I didn’t leave the wire much. I was waiting for a First Sergeant slot. Then finally got one. I was supposed to take over a company in a few days. So I decided to shadow one of the company’s First Sergeants on a few missions so I knew what shit to expect. Right as we landed on a hot DZ…BAM…bullet right through my fucking skull. Pretty funny, huh?”

I shake my head. “What’s funny about it?”

“Surviving one long bloody suckfest unscathed, just to be snuffed out quickly in the next one. It’s almost poetic.”

“You can only press your luck so many times, I guess. God knows I have. This last one was…”—I pause and count in my head—“my eighth deployment. Damn, I knew I shouldn’t have reenlisted.”

“Well, you did.”

“Yeah, well, I did have a family to support. Plus, the goddamn economy sucks right now. Those reenlistment bonuses were insanely good.”

“Hey, bud, look at the bright side, at least they’ll get your life insurance money now,” Sam remarks.

“Yeah, that’ll hold them over for a good while. But if you want to know the truth, I just fucking loved the job. Even if it sucked at times, I just loved training my men and going to war.”

“So did I, Tony,” Sam pats me on the shoulder.

“Did you leave a family behind, too?”

“Yeah, an ex-wife and a son. She and I were divorced before I even went to Nam, yet she cried hysterically when she found out about my death. She’s still alive and kickin’. Good woman she is. Pretty as a sunset and sweet as honey. My damn foul temper while drinkin’ chased her away.”

“What about your son?”

“He’s a high school teacher somewhere in California. Has a nice family of his own. He was too young to really know who I was.”

“That’s rough, Sam.”

“That’s life and death, brother. The world will keep spinning without either of us. I’ve been dead longer than I was alive. Whatever impact we were meant to leave on the world is done and now we must be spectators to it all.”

Stone stairs leading up to the sky appear over the grass.

“This leads to heaven?”

“Nah…you wouldn’t want to go there right now anyways. Its kind of lame without your family. I’m taking you somewhere way cooler,” he winks.

“Where is that?”

“Valhalla. You ready?” He grins.

“Hell, yeah!”

~Raul Felix

Read: Oh Well, We’re Off To War Again
Read: Eager To Pop My Cherry On The Battlefield
Read: Four Years Of Hell: College V. The Army

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Maybe I Shouldn’t Have Taught A Psycho Bitch How To Shoot

Duke decides to make a pot of tea to ease his stress and tension. He sits in the living room waiting for it to boil. His ex-wife was released from jail a week ago after violating his restraining order. Still, he isn’t sure whether she would at last leave him alone. He can still smell the faint scent of her perfume. It made the hair on the back of his neck rise up. Even though he’s a foot taller and about a hundred pounds heavier than her, he fears this woman. He thought he would be able to start over here at his brother’s home. His family had urged him to leave that psycho bitch for years. He loved her. He was a man of his word. He couldn’t leave her when she was sick. That’s how he reasoned holding onto her in those dark days.

He remembered when he first met her. He was twenty-two years old and had just returned from a year’s deployment to Iraq. His previous ex-girlfriend had Dear Johned him with a two-sentence e-mail and refused to answer any of his phone calls.

He met Jade the psycho bitch at a classy piano bar with a wide variety of lovely women from which to pick. About seven or eight beers deep, he laid on eyes on her. She was dancing in a silky black dress with a skirt so short that it barely covered up her ass and pussy. At times, he was sure he could see her white panties. Under normal circumstances, Duke would not have the nerve to talk to her. But liquid courage and the fact he hadn’t touched a woman in over a year took away his inhibitions.

Stumbling over toward her seemed like a quest in itself, for he was shit-canned hammered. A year of no alcohol was taking its toll. He tapped her on the shoulder, gave a quick smile, and started grinding himself on her. Jade, who was equally as drunk, proceeded to rub her ass on his crotch. Their conversation, barely coherent to the outside world, had a wicked chemistry of teasing, flirting, and touching. They were lost in pure, alcohol-driven lust for each other. They fucked at her apartment later that night.

Suddenly he hears her footsteps coming down the stairs. “How did she know I would be here?” he thinks. The steps grow close and closer. He can’t move. Move, damnit, move. He can’t. Even in Iraq he never froze up, yet here he was, unable to move a single muscle.

“Hello, my love,” she says.

He sits there in silence, focusing on her devilish smile and the .45-caliber pistol in her hand. She moves with swift precision toward him and sits down on the recliner across from him.

“Don’t make any sudden movements or I will blow your fucking brains out,” she says. “Now listen. Remember what I told you when we first decided to get married—that I would never, ever let you leave me? Well, I’m keeping true to my promise.”

His body begins to shake. He looks into her dead, emotionless eyes.

“Who is she, Duke?”

“I’m not cheating,” he says.

“Bull fucking shit! You think I’m some sort of fool, don’t you? You think I’m going to let some other woman just have you? You’re fucking mine. Your cock and fucking balls belong to me, Duke!”

He sits there stunned, looking down at the pistol she holds in her hand like a pro. He regrets teaching her how to shoot.

“Let’s say I was cheating on you,” he says. “What would you do then? Kill me? Kill that other bitch? Kill our daughter? What?”

“Oh, Duke, you’re so simple. Do you really think I would let you off that easily? By the time I’m done with you, you’re going to wish for death. I just need a name.”

“No.”

“So you are cheating on me?”

“No. We’ve been done for almost two years now. I have never cheated on you. But I do have someone new in my life,” he says.

“For us to be over, both of us have to agree. I never agreed to it. So you are a fucking cheater. I’m going to kill you and that dirty fucking whore.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, Duke, you would love that, wouldn’t you? I know you miss having me all over you. I know you miss my mouth on your cock. I know you miss having your hands on my boobs and ass. I know you miss the way I would fuck your brains out. I’ll be honest; I miss your body, too. But now you’re tainted with the stench of that bitch’s cunt. I can’t let you just slip away. You have no right to leave me.”

They sit there in silence. She never takes her eyes off him. She seems cold and calculating, as if she’s going over any possible routes for him to escape.

Duke can’t seem to come up with a plan. His eyes shift between her, the pistol, and the living room. He tries to think of something, anything that could get him out of this situation.

The pot of tea on the stove begins to screech. Jade hears it but attempts to ignore it. She has her eyes fixed on Duke. After a few minutes, the hissing starts to irritate her.

“Get up and take that goddamn pot off the stove!” she yells. He heads into the kitchen; Jade follows with the gun locked on his skull. Duke slowly picks up the pot, then as quickly as he can, he turns around and throws the boiling tea into Jade’s face. Jade shoots one round, hitting Duke on top of his right shoulder blade. She howls in pain as the water scalds her skin. Temporarily blind and panic-stricken, she shoots wildly. Duke keeps low and attempts to crawl out of the kitchen. He misses being hit several times by mere inches. He then hears the unique click that signifies the gun is out of ammo.

His shoulder’s bleeding, but Duke gets up and musters his strength and charges toward his blister-faced ex-wife. He tackles her into the kitchen counter, causing knives to be knocked down all over the floor. He’s on top of her, choking her with his left hand. Struggling for air, Jade frantically tries to locate a knife with her hand and grabs onto a knife handle. She picks it up and stabs Duke in the thigh. The pain is unbearable and he rolls over. Covered in their blood, Jade stands above her injured former lover. She grabs another kitchen knife and stabs him in the other leg. “Fuck! Fucking bitch!” he screams. She finds the pistol, heads back to the living room, looks through her purse, and fishes out another clip of ammo.

“My love, I will now purify you.” Jade aims the pistol right at Duke’s forehead. She gently squeezes the trigger and Duke’s brains splatter on the kitchen wall.

~Raul Felix

Read some more of my stuff at Thought Catalog.

She Wants Me

I operate under the mind set that every single woman wants my cock, they just don’t know it yet. I can be walking by a cute girl sitting at a bus stop and she will briefly glance at me for no more than half a second. “Oh yeah, you want my cock you dirty little slut,” immediately goes running through my mind. Poor little thing is just so shy that she can’t help but look away when she see’s such a fine specimen of manhood. It’s okay, young lady, we weren’t all meant to handle the glory that is I.

Its kind of sad, really, that there is only one Raul Felix and there are only so many women I can love. I am the essences of what every woman dreams about in a man: tall, dark, handsome, muscular, impeccable hair, smart, funny, witty, confident and I fuck like a god. But alas, most of them are not worthy. Sorry ladies, but I keep my standards high when alcohol is not running through my veins. When it is, I’m usually too much of a dick head to care about getting laid.

Now don’t get your adorable little red panties in a bunch. While you can’t have me, there are plenty of other men who will take you. I know, I know, it makes you cry and may bring you to the verge of suicide, but please, consider your friends and family; they’ll miss you and may even love the homely you. Just because you can’t have the best, doesn’t mean you can’t settle for the rest.

It’s actually really tough being as dashing as I am. Women always staring at me, wanting me to rip their off clothes and spread their legs open for me to shove in my poon destroyer. They want me to bite down on their lip, slap their ass, and with laser focus, look at them in the eye as I make any male they have been with before obsolete.

Oh yes, it’s a curse really, for they only know the surface me. They don’t know the depths of my mind and soul. The ambitions and dreams that I have. If they did, it would overwhelm them and make their girlie parts so dripping wet that it would ruin their favorite pair of jeans.

Okay, cute girl at the bus stop, I’ll approach you and make your dreams come true.

“Hey, I’m Raul… what’s your name?” I say coyly.

“I have a boyfriend, sorry,” she responds.

I walk away. Some women just can’t appreciate greatness when it appears before them. Oh well, her loss, poor little thing.

~Raul Felix

Want to read more? Read: Shy Girl

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

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

A Gathering of Fools

You have your best friends in the world gathered around you at your favorite local bar. These grimy son of a bitches you knew since high school and the military. You love and care for them; yet, you will never say it. The simple fact that you’re still in touch enough to know each others occupation and have a semi-decent idea of what chick(s) they’re banging, whether it be a random sluts and/or trophy wives, is enough. You’re here to enjoy a long night of heavy drinking and poor decisions. Ever since you’ve all become pseudo-adults, it seems to have been impossible to get all of you together. Even tonight you’re missing your fat Jap best friend whose off in Japan doing whatever the fuck Japanese people do in Japan; math and jerking off to hentai.

No matter. You buy the first round of beers with shots. You make a witty toast to days long past and drink your whiskey. One of two things happens with that shot; it goes down smooth and you realize you’ve become a world class alcoholic, or it goes down harsh and you realize you’ve become a world class pussy. Either way, you show no emotion cause you’re still the fucking legend you used to be, in your heart at least.

The exchange of stories begins. The first tells you about a Thai hooker who turned out to be a lady boy and ended up stealing his wallet. Another tells you about the time he was double penetrating this girl with his friend and at one of the thrusts, he pulled out too far and ended up shoving his dick in the other guys nuts. One sits there in silence, realizing how boring his life has become ever since he married a JAP (Jewish American Princess.) The fourth tells you about how he got so drunk in Mexico that he got into fight with five Mexicans, managed to get away, had the police arrest him and had his mom bribe the cops with $50 from his own wallet.

Struggling to breath from laughter as you listen to these grand tales of misadventure and defiance of social norms, it’s your turn again to order round number six. Crossing the threshold from buzzed to inebriated. You slur out a tale about when you were going through Airborne School. Desperate and lacking any form of female companionship, you went on a phone dating line called Lava Life. There you talked to this black chick who claimed to be “slightly chubby and curvy, not fat.” You sent her a message and got something set up. You go to meet her in a motel. You don’t see a Georgia Peach, but rather, a Georgia Pumpkin. Her breasts are bigger than your head, not the glorious defying gravity sort, rather, nipples touching her knees type. Her definition of slightly chubby meant 300+ pounds and curvy meant looking like Jabba The Hut. You stare at her in disbelief. You were expecting to really lower your standards, but not to rock bottom. You say your hellos and start making mindless small talk. Maybe I can get a blowjob you think to yourself. You kiss her, hoping that bitter taste in her mouth is a salty sandwich and not another mans semen. You work your way down, taking her bra off and exposing nipples with the circumference of your hand. You notice her gut is over her pussy. You lift the gut up, and reveal a penile abyss. You stare blankly, the utter horror of this dawns on you. You can’t do this. Without a word, you drop her belly, put your jeans on, and run out the motel.

Your friends hung on to every word of your epic. Making sounds in disgust and laughter at the key points. They laugh at you and you laugh at yourself. The thought of that woman still disgusts you. You drink. The night wears on, more stories are exchanged, and the scouting and approaching of chicks commences. You make several attempts to hit on chicks and promptly get rejected. Oh well. It can’t get you down, you’re with your boys and you’re happy. You don’t get to have these nights with these guys like you used to. You love every moment of this; the shit talk, the laughter, the drinking, the memories, and for tonight forgetting your real-person life.

A couple of your friends are hitting it off with some chicks and wave you over. Irish Car Bombs are ordered. Maybe this will turn out to be one of those nights you talk about a few years down the line. You drop your Baileys into your Guinness and begin to chug.

~Raul Felix

Shy Girl

It was quite a glorious scene if I say so myself: I’m sitting there in my work out shorts, topless, and a dozen Coke cans scattered throughout my floor and computer table. My iTunes blaring some Iron Maiden at the perfect volume where its loud enough to rock, but low enough so my mom doesn’t yell at me. I sent out text to my boys expressing my lack of nightly ambitions. They were either working or spending quality time with their “girlfriends.” Cocksuckers. As I worked my way through my phonebook hierarchy, at last reaching rock bottom with that guy who I drank a beer with once at my friends cousins friends house; it grew evident that this was to be one of those nights destined for obscurity.

In order to salvage the night, I did what most people who are in that tender age where they’re legally allowed to join the military, but not yet responsible enough buy their own alcohol do; I went online. I logged onto my myspace, pathetically hoping someone had sent me a message or left comment. To my bitter disappoint, there was one comment; left by a monstrosity of a woman I had embarrassingly befriended: “To the world you may be just be a person, to a someone, you may be the world.” People who post this sort of shit are the reason God invented anal sex.

After moments of despair, self-loathing, and finally, reinvigoration; I set out on the audacious quest to find some hot myspace pussy. The lackluster results that occurred afterwards were disheartening. I saw women with broken dreams, fat bellies, nasty dreadlocks, and kids. These offspring producing women were the worst of all. Pictures of those little dream crushers engulfed their profiles like they were the only humans in history to ever give fucking birth. Most of them were single, with that little bastard lingering, as a permanent reminder of another mans dick being in her.

Just a cunt-hair close to the onset of irreversible misogyny, I found my precious little Shy Girl. She had a black and white default profile picture. It showed a side profile of her tight, little body with well proportioned breasts and butt. I looked through more of her pictures and was pleasantly surprised to find a light skinned, emerald eyed, blonde haired, heavily bosomed woman. I analyzed every single major and minor physical feature of hers. I noticed how her nose was tiny and slightly perked up and how her eyebrows were always perfectly plucked. I even examined the insignificant mole on her right cheek and how full her lips were.

There are a lot of pretty women, I thought to myself, lets see if anything makes this one special. I read her “about me”. She only identified herself as Shy Girl because she didn’t want any creepers to know her real name. Negative point me. She is a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, majoring in psychology, and yet, doesn’t know what she want to do with her life. She loves taking care of her nieces, nephews, and dog. Thinks hip hop is stupid and loves muscle cars. This woman was tailored made for myself and my attraction, and blood flow to my cock, significantly increase.

I decide I must formulate the perfect message to her. I mustn’t appear too desperate, nor cocky, nor vague, nor specific, nor seem to care too much at all. Basically, I over think the whole concept of writing her message and sit there staring at a blank screen. I type, type, type, FUCK, delete, delete, delete. Each word, sentence, and paragraph is dissected as I attempt to assemble a perfectly casual prose. I repeat this retarded little dance for about an hour until I finally forge something worthy of being sent to my little Shy Girl. I finish correcting my grammar and spelling mistakes, give it a quick check for the quadruple time and hit Send and request her as friend; my heart sinks.

Thoughts of my little Shy Girl wrestle me in my sleep. I randomly get up and check my computer to see if she has read what I’ve wrote. She hadn’t. I start thinking about the beautiful babies, shenanigans, and inside jokes we have together. I wonder if she is the one for me and how our first interaction is going to be like. I wonder about our future first date. I wonder what her real name is. I doze off to a restless sleep full of rainbows and Shy Girl.

The whole entire next day I randomly check my computer and see if she had read what I’ve written; she hasn’t. Finally, one day, three hours, and thirty-three minutes later, she read it. At last! I would get a response! I wait. An hour, then two, then four, and then a day passes and another. No response, friend request declined.

I stare at her page and I think of what could’ve been.

What a bitch.

~Raul Felix