Category Archives: Love

She Was Traveling Through My Country

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1SheWasTravelingThroughMyCountry

She was traveling through my country.
Olive skin, long silky hair, deep brown eyes,
full lips, quirky smile, physique of a Disney princess.
We walked down Hollywood Boulevard,
sharing bits and pieces of ourselves,
she was interested in my experiences, my family,
my ideas, my writing, and my goals.
In me.

She was traveling through my country.
She carried herself with dignity, but without pretension.
sweet with a biting wit,
She gave me half her dinner and bought me a beer.
Every time she spoke, my heart melted.

She was traveling through my country.
She had a man back home whom she respected.
Though she couldn’t be mine that night,
she gave me something more valuable:
Hope.
That the type of woman I desire does exist,
That I am able to get her attention and interest,
That all the work I’ve put into myself is paying off.
She was traveling through my country.

~Raul Felix

I Was Hot For Teacher But Late For Class

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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 Her style was neither trendy nor outdated.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.

Watching You Get Dressed Again

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You’re walking around the bedroom, freshly showered with towels wrapped around your body and hair. I’m lying on your bed, observing your every move. You bend over and dig through your drawer and scoop out a pair of panties. You pick my favorite pair—the hot pink ones with the black laces. The towel hits the ground, exposing your petite body. You slip on your underwear one foot at a time, stumbling. I laugh.

“Oh, shush,” you say.

You’re looking through your closet, trying to pick out an outfit to wear. I’m staring at your ass, a slight red outline of my hand still imprinted on it from when we fucked earlier. You can’t decide what to wear, so you reach in and grab a bra. It doesn’t match your panties, but that zebra pattern makes your already perky breasts pop. I get up, hug you from behind, feel up your chest, place my lips on your neck, and begin kissing you.

“OK, OK…I have to get ready, baby,” you giggle.

I slap your ass and go back to lying on the bed. You’re frustrated by your closet’s inability to provide anything worth wearing today, so you start rummaging through your roommate’s selection. After much deliberation you find a blouse that fits your fancy. It’s black and perfectly complements your torso’s curves. It covers most of your ass, except for the bottom portion. Glorious.

“Come here,” I say.

“No, I have to finish getting ready.”

“Come here,” I direct you with my fingers.

You approach me and I firmly place a hand on each butt cheek, then kiss you and bite your lip.

“This is why it always takes me forever to get dressed when I’m with you,” you tell me. “All you want to do is touch.”

“Fuck, yeah, I do. You turn me on.”

You struggle to squeeze into your tight blue jeans, scooting them up your legs a few inches at a time. You zip up the fly and fasten the last button. Oh, God, those jeans—the way they hug your thighs, then run snugly all the way to your pussy. It shows off your ass in its full, wondrous splendor. I always stare at it when you’re walking ahead of me.

Your hair has had time to dry off. You remove the towel and toss it on the ground. You lean over to one side and vigorously begin to brush your hair, doing your damnedest to remove all the knots and tangles. You switch off to the other side and repeat the process. You put in some product and your curly hair begins to shine as you brush, brush, brush until it’s sculpted to your liking.

You powder your face. A slight rose color on your cheek contrasts starkly with your pale skin. The eyeliner is skillfully applied around your eyes that are at times green, at times brown, and in the right lighting hazel.

“Sweetie, should I put on red or pink lipstick?”

“Red!”

“You always want red.”

“Then why the fuck do you ask me?”

You smile at me with your red lips. Now it’s the arduous task of choosing which pair of shoes to wear. You know we’re going to be doing a lot of walking, so you skip the high heels. After much thought, you settle for your tried-and-true pair of black slippers.

“Well?” you say to me. “Are you going to get ready? All you’ve done is take a shower and you’re still in your shorts.”

“Give me a second.”

I take off my shorts, grab my pair of jeans from the ground, and put them on. Then I reach into my backpack and put on the first T-shirt I touch. I quickly slip on my socks and shoes. I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, rub on some deodorant, and run some gel through my hair.

“Alright, mi amor, ready to go.”

~Raul Felix

Read more of my work at Thought Catalog.

She Wouldn’t Make Me So Angry If She Didn’t Own My Heart

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“Fuck you, cunt!”

She deserves it. She deserves to be called out for what she is. Just because she has a pussy doesn’t mean she isn’t capable of doing wrong or being a malicious, self-centered cunt.

“I wish you nothing but the worst, bitch!”

This is the sort of frustration that only a woman can bring to a man. Her fucking bullshit, lies, half-truths, omissions, and contradictory behavior. Just because she has those pretty eyes, perky breasts, and amazing ass doesn’t mean she is immune from being a bitch. She’s not some fucking innocent little angel unaware of the bad things she does. She will make whatever excuses she can to justify her behavior to herself and to others.

“I fucking hate you. God, I fucking hate you!”

Only a woman who owns your heart has the power to evoke so much rage inside of you when she wrongs you. Only a woman who made you believe in love once again and then destroy that dream has the power to make you lose your cool in that heated moment. Only a woman who made you feel emotionally secure—and then ripped the security away from you—has the power to make you hate her so.

“Fucking rabid whore.”

The tears fill your eyes. You hold them back because men don’t cry. Your once-proud demeanor is now replaced by a browbeaten slump that gives the world an indicator of how utterly defeated and deflated you’ve become. The booze hits your lips and you play your angst-filled ballads and hip-hop songs that objectify women. She, like others before her, broke something inside of you.

“They are all the fucking the same. They are all the fucking same.”

The tears overwhelm you, and you sink your face in your hands. The booze lets you access that raw part inside your heart. You blame yourself for allowing yourself to believe she would be different. You’re smarter than that, yet you let you heart loose recklessly because you’re determined not to let the darkness, cynicism, and hopelessness that comes with the quest of finding love completely eliminate the genuine tenderness, sweetness, and ideals you harbor.

“Fucking bitches…”

Fucking womankind. You try to understand them, yet they’re always a step ahead of you. It would be admirable if they had actually put forth the effort. Instead, their natural lot in life has simply placed them in that position. As the man, you must struggle daily to capture their attention and curiosity. Most of them are throwaways and you can remain hard, tough, and stoic because you don’t give a shit about them. Yet every so often, one prances into your life and swiftly knocks down the barriers you’ve built.

“Fuck! I thought she was fucking different. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

You pound your fist on the table, causing some beer to spill. There is a mess, but you don’t fucking care. She was different. She was smart; you’ve met too many dumb girls. She was pretty; you’ve met too many ugly girls. She was charming and funny; you’ve met too many humorless bores. Most importantly, she understood you. You’ve met too many girls who don’t understand you. She took the time to dig deep and sought out who you were, and for that, you cherished and adored her.

It’s over. The reasons why don’t really matter. All that is left is the empty void in your heart that she filled. Loneliness is your companion once again as you drunkenly pick up the last remnants of your dignity and your heart.

“Fuck her! I don’t need her.”

You have to motivate yourself because there is no one who is going to pick you up but yourself. You’re right; you don’t need her. It’s not a matter of need, but of want. You want her, but she no longer wants you. It’s soul-wrenching coming to terms with the fact that someone you desired more than anything no longer wants you. Little by little you’ll accept it. Little by little you’ll push the thoughts of her outside your mind. Little by little you’ll be able to let yourself be warm, soft, and caring again. But as right now, you just want her.

~Raul Felix

You can read more of my writing at Thought Catalog.

How To Spend $60 On A Date And Get Nothing In Return

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Her fake breasts fill my hands; they’re a little too firm but they’re big and she has fantastic plump brown nipples. I can feel how hard they are as I firmly squeeze them, holding them in between my index finger and thumb—just enough pressure to excite, but not so much where it hurts her. Now it’s time to undo her belt and slide my hand into her pants … wait … fuck … they’re too tight. All right, I only have to unzip them to loosen them up … wait … what? Fucking buttons? God fucking damn it.

I have to keep my composure: I’m kissing her neck, fondling her breasts, and now trying to unbutton her jeans with one hand. I can’t just let go of the boob—that will cause her to regain her composure and notice that I’m trying to slip my fingers into her pussy. It’s all a decoy. She knows what I am after, but she enjoys being lost in the moment. Keeping her in a trance is essential. I unbutton the last button, slip my fingers in, and feel her warmth.

I have this down to a scientific process now. I take her out for drinks at the bars where I used to work. The bouncer, bartender, and even some customers will greet me, and I’ll introduce my date to them. It creates the illusion that I am more popular than I really am, when in fact I’m just a nobody like everybody else. I order myself a beer and order the chick whatever she fancies. If the bar has a patio, I’ll do the gentlemanly thing—open the door for her and lead her outside. Then I’ll make sure to sit next to her as opposed to across from her. It’s a less threatening position and you aren’t forced to look directly at each other the whole time. She’ll comment about how nice it is outside.

I ask her questions about herself, attempting to find some common ground to explore, and toss in a joke or two. I downplay my accomplishments and use self-deprecating humor so I don’t sound too cocky. She’s impressed by the tales I weave and the hundred-dollar words I throw in occasionally. Her drink is empty. I ask if she wants another and she says, “Yes, please.” It means she’s comfortable and that she’s having at least a decent time. I go to order another round, return, sit slightly closer to her, and put my hand on her knee. She doesn’t brush it off; it’s a good sign. We continue with our conversation and when the drinks are nearly empty I suggest we go to a different bar. Chicks dig a change of scenery.

En route out the door I reach for her hand and hold it. She doesn’t brush it off; it’s a good sign.

We sit down at another establishment. By now I know her drink of choice and order her another one. I ask her about something that she vaguely mentioned in the conversation we had before. She’s surprised by my meticulous attention to detail yet unaware that I have already forgotten half the things she’s told me. It’s pretty easy to get a girl to talk about herself if you ask the right questions. Chicks dig telling their life story.

I suggest we go for walk. I pay the tab and reach my hand out for her and she grabs it. As I lead her to an area that is more private, I twirl her around and kiss her. She kisses me, overwhelmed in the moment. She doesn’t push me away; it’s a good sign. We spend the next few minutes making out, trying to establish a rhythm that suits both our styles. Since I like to bite and shove my tongue in, my style usually wins. Then I take her to a very private location and feel her up. Chicks dig spontaneity.

I drop her off at home and kiss her goodnight. I won’t get to go upstairs tonight. I drive off and think to myself, “I just spent $60 in booze and four hours of my time to finger-bang a bitch.” I don’t feel anything. I don’t expect anything more than what just occurred. Experience has taught me that there is never any use getting excited about a chick, no matter how much of her body she gave you that night. They’re fickle creatures and there is no assurance that they’ll be back for a second date or even return your text the next morning. She’s probably a bigger player than you are. Society wants to say you did well because you got to feel her up, but in reality, she was the one who got a wild night out for free and got rubbed out until she came. What’d you get? A raging hard-on, blue balls, some pre-cum in your pants, and negative $60.

~Raul Felix

Read more of my work on Thought Catalog.

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

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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.

6 Things I Learned About Israel While Living and Working There

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Living abroad seems to be on the bucket list of nearly every twenty-something who is on the road to self-discovery. There is this urge to get away from the safety, familiarity, and security of our homeland and go to another place with a different culture and language. I got the opportunity to live and work in Israel a couple of years ago. I went there not knowing much about the country other than that Muslim extremists hate them, but they hate everything, so their opinion is worthless to me. During my time in Israel, I learned a lot about that wonderful land’s customs and quirks.

1. Shawarmas Stuffed With French Fries Are Delicious

I’m not a foodie of any sort. I don’t know shit about spices, herbs, textures, nor about any of those adjectives food connoisseurs use when describing fine delicacies. But my taste buds are refined enough to taste the difference between good, OK, and totally disgusting. One of the staples of my diet was the shawarmas stuffed with French fries that I told the street vendors to make extra-spicy. They were delicious and were one of the few items that could fill me up with only one serving. Before I got there, I had no idea what hummus was, but once I tried it I was in love with it. My girlfriend and I would often go to eat at her parents’ house for Shabbat dinner. The whole family and their friends would gather together. There were the world-famous Israeli salads, but I’m a man and I like dead animals, so all of my attention to went to foods such as Cholent, St. Peter’s fish, lamb kebab, shish taouk, and shashlik. There was also a wide variety of chicken-based foods with carrots and peas that had a flavor I never have tasted anywhere else.

Israeli versions of other cultures’ food were hit-and-miss. They had “Mexicani” food, which was supposed to be authentic Mexican burritos but never tasted like real burritos although they were delicious nonetheless. Sushi and Italian dishes were as popular there as they are anywhere else. In Tel Aviv and Jerusalem there was a restaurant called Mike’s Place that specialized in American-style food and was a popular hangout for Americans aching to get some food that reminded us of home.

2. Jerusalem Doesn’t Have Strip Clubs

I lived in a medium-sized city in the Negev Desert called Be’er Sheva. Thanks to Ben-Gurion University providing an influx of students, there was a vibrant nightlife considering how small and remote the city is. Bars were the main gathering place for my coworkers and me. From my impression, Israelis aren’t big drinkers like Americans, or at least they don’t get drunk, wild, and out of control like we do. We would go to a bar at 10PM and be the only patrons there as we drank Gold Star, Tuborg, and Carlsberg. They have a hard alcohol known as Arak, which I avoided after my first taste of it. Israelis operate on something known as “Israeli Time” and are ridiculously late to everything. All of a sudden at 11:30PM there would be a huge crowd of people at the bar. Then at 1AM, everyone would be gone with us Americans still drinking ourselves into oblivion.

Jerusalem had a better and more intimate nightlife than Tel Aviv, but Tel Aviv had strip clubs while they were nonexistent in Jerusalem. If you wanted to go to bars where you could actually hang out, talk, and get drunk with your friends and everything was within walking distance, Jerusalem was the spot. If you wanted to go out to the beach, get drunk, get some titties in your face (the strippers actually let you grab their tits), go to clubs with loud music and dancing, and maybe score some drugs or a prostitute, Tel Aviv was the spot. The drawback there was that everything was spread out, so you would have to take taxis to go bar-hopping.

3. Attacks From The Gaza Strip Are Part Of Life

One night I was out for a run when I heard a siren go off. I wasn’t sure what I was hearing and thought to myself, “Did my iPod just change to an N.W.A song?” I stopped and looked around, searching for an ambulance or a police car. All I saw was one car pulling over and a person running toward a building. I took off my headphones and noticed the sirens were coming from everywhere. Then I heard a missile launch and looked up to see the trail. A couple of seconds later, I heard an explosion. That’s when I realized the Iron Dome had shot down a rocket coming from the Gaza Strip. I posted on my Facebook a status along the lines of, “I guess Gaza sent a harassment rocket.” One of my Israeli friends commented, “Welcome to Be’er Sheva.” That’s when I learned that random rocket attacks were a fact of life in the southern cities. They would never make the international news because they would only send a couple every month or two.

Rocket attacks became a spectacle for us. My roommate and I would hear the siren and run to the rooftop so we could see the Iron Dome intercept it. After the siren stopped, people would go back to their routine.

In November 2012 the Israeli Defense Force launched operation Pillar of Defense, which kicked off with the killing of Ahmed Jabari, a chief of the Gaza military wing of Hamas. After that, the rockets started and didn’t stop. Every thirty minutes, the siren would go off, and you would hear the explosions as they landed in the streets or the Iron Dome intercepted them. At first it seemed pretty fucking cool. Rocket attacks had been seen as a nuisance rather than a legitimate threat, since either the Iron Dome intercepted them or they landed in the middle of the desert. Then three people got killed by one while they were on their balcony. That’s when my girlfriend put her foot down and wouldn’t allow me to go up and see the action anymore.

4. It’s Expensive As Fuck

One of my Israeli friends told me a joke: “In Israel, the Jews Jew the Jews.” Here in California I could spend $200 in groceries and be set for a month; over there, that would last me a week, maybe two. I was told that people there work 12 hours a day, six days a week merely to get by. The government loves to tax everything so they can fund the IDF. You’re never quite sure how much you’re being taxed because the taxes are already worked into the price.

5. People Don’t Wait In Line

Whenever you would board a bus or a train, it would become a shoving match. After a while I learned how to out-shove everyone. Tiny women are tricky, though; they’ll squeeze beneath you and go ahead of you. They’d do it so quickly that you wouldn’t even realize it until they were ahead of you.

6. I Only Learned A Few Phrases Of Hebrew, But I Wish I’d Learned More

I never learned more than a few phrases of Hebrew. It’s an irrelevant language anywhere else in the world, but I had an opportunity to learn it and never cared enough to do all the work needed to learn more. I think it would have been a cool little skill to have in my pocket, because knowing random little things like that is always a good thing.

I also didn’t study much of the region’s history while I was there. I researched more about it after I moved back to the US. Instead of just going to museums and cities looking at pretty things, I would have understood what exactly those pretty things were and what they meant in historical context. I would have had a firmer understanding of the complex relationship between Israel and the Arab League instead of the oversimplified version the American media conveys.

I hold my time in Israel close and dear to my heart. I lived in debauchery a lot during my time there. I found a woman I truly loved and lost her. I made some good American and Israeli friends. I traveled and saw nearly everything there is to see. I made some good money and came back to the US in a better position. It may the Jews’ homeland, but it will always be a second home to this American.

~Raul Felix

Read more of my writing at Thought Catalog.

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

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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

Four Things Only Mexican-Americans Will Understand

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Aside from the fact that Tea-Baggers and conservatives want to deport half of your relatives, being a Mexican-American is pretty damn great. You have at least one Jesus in the family, so you know you’re protected from the wrath of God come judgment day. Also, your family knows how to make the greatest food ever created—Mexican food. You have a huge, supportive family firmly held together by Catholic fear and guilt. Like any culture, we have our little quirks that only those who grew up in a Mexican-American household will understand.

1. Come 7PM On A Weekday, It’s Time For Novelas

“Es tiempo para mis novelas,” your mom will say as she changes the channel to Univision.

The Mexican household is full of workers, and when a person works all day, they need some sort of method to wind down. The men have their nights of drinking themselves to oblivion, while the women have their novelas. Novelas are Mexican soap operas that air each weekday from 7PM to 10PM.

While it isn’t too bad these days with the Internet and cheap televisions, it was pure hell for a young Mexican kid growing up in the 90s when the house only had one television set. Grandmother, mom, and aunts would be glued to the TV as they watched the dashing middle-aged Erik Estrada juggle the complications of having a young girlfriend while dealing with his kids and ex-wife. Or watching the drama unfold as a lowly india marries a big-city lawyer and struggles to be accepted into upscale Mexican society.

Mexicans are a passionate, fiery people, but the reality of the hustle and bustle of everyday life working long hours for low pay leaves them bored. The Mexican psyche needs its daily dose of drama, scandals, and gossip to function properly.

2. You Have At Least Two Family Members Who Are Here Illegally

Here’s a dose of reality for you gringos: Even the most patriotic of us Mexican-Americans has a couple of members in our family who are here illegally. We also think there is nothing wrong with them being here illegally because we know they’re just trying to build a better life for themselves. We’re not going to single them out or tell anyone who doesn’t need to know. It’s tough enough making it in this country without having any documentation, let alone when la migra is coming after your ass.

For Mexican-Americans, immigration is always a touchy issue. Candidates who go on Mexican television get drilled and called out for what they said to appeal to the FOX News-consuming demographic. We’re not as far removed from our roots as those of European descent who aren’t even sure what country their family is from originally.

For us, an illegal immigrant isn’t some random statistic that conservative pundits always seem to bitch about stealing lucrative ’merican jobs like picking strawberries and working as dishwasher at Denny’s. No, he’s our cousin Pepe who works two full-time jobs for minimum wage as he struggles to raise a family of four. Or they’re our uncle Poncho who snuck into the US 25 years ago, worked his ass off, saved his money, got his citizenship, and now owns his own business. Or it’s me, who came here illegally at age five, grew up as an American, got his citizenship, served in the military, and proved he was as much of a fucking American as any of you.

3. Every Little Thing You Do Will Be Gossiped About To The Point That Even Your Relatives In Mexico Will Know

This probably isn’t unique to Mexican-Americans, but it sure is true. The Mexican-American family thrives on gossip. Whatever happens to you or any other family member, no matter how insignificant, will be talked about repeatedly via telephone with each other member of the family. When they’re not discussing what happened in their novelas, you can best bet they’ll be discussing you.

As a kid, I would see this occur: My mom would be talking to her sister Lupe for 30 minutes. At the same time, her two other sisters—Pulga and Debra—would be talking to each other. My mom would finish her call with Lupe. Then she would call Pulga, who’s just finished her phone call with Debra. Lupe would then call Debra. My mom would have the same exact conversation, except Pulga would add details. They’d finish their conversation 30 minutes later. Then my mom would call Debra and begin to gossip with her while Lupe and Pulga called one another. This happened nightly.

That’s only the beginning. If the gossip is extra juicy, they’re going to each be calling their cousins. The gossip network is vicious and has many branches and offshoots. Word will get around, and one day you’ll be hanging out with a second cousin of yours you hadn’t seen in seven years and he’ll say, “Hey wey, I heard you got arrested a while back…”

4. Your Old Clothes Go To Mexico

If there is one thing you’re aren’t allowed to do in a Mexican household, it is throw away your old clothes or shoes. No fucking way. If your old clothes are somewhat serviceable and you don’t want them, they’re going into a box. That box isn’t just a cardboard square used for storage; it’s a lifeline of new goods for your more downtrodden relatives to wear.

Even the most industrious and Americanized of Mexican families has those members who stayed behind in Mexico. Since Mexico doesn’t always offer the best opportunities for advancement, it’s sometimes hard for a man to secure a decent-paying job. Or just like any other family, we have members who suffer from their own demons and vices that prevent them from keeping a job. La Dona of the family always feels it’s her duty that even the lowliest and most undeserving member of the family have the bare essentials: clothing and food.

It’s common practice for the Mexican-American family to go to Costco and stock up on food and other assorted goods to fill the truck up with before visiting Mexico. As much as there is a cliché that everything is cheaper is Mexico, it isn’t true. There are a lot of products that are significantly less costly in the US than they are down there. Food bought in bulk and old clothes are given to our family members who are not living quite as large as we do here. While we know it’s not much in the grand scheme of things, we help out in whatever little way we can. Porque la familia es lo más importante.

~Raul Felix

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6 Ways Women Have Rejected Me

Posted on by Standard 1

Like all you readers who click through articles that speak to the current trend in millennial dating—or sorta-dating—I, too, am on a constant and maybe hopeless quest for love and/or pussy to feed my insatiable lust. In addition to jacking off every night while crying, I go out and attempt to catch the attention of a pretty lady or two.

Most guys go to the bar and content themselves with boozing, and maybe if things go right and she gives him enough signals, they’ll go out and talk to a chick. I go in, scan the scene, designate possible targets, and decide how I am going to go about hitting on them. Contrary to my excellent writing skills, I’m not a smooth talker whatsoever. To compensate for this and my many other shortcomings as a human being, I’ve developed a dead-reckoning philosophy for hitting on chicks.

It’s a simple two-step process:

1.

See cute chick and check for possible indicators that’s she single.

2.

Go talk to her and hope I say the right thing that leads to me ripping off her panties with my teeth in the near future.

What happens next is what separates the men from the boys. You get rejected a whole fucking lot—so much that you start to notice patterns in the ways you get rejected.

1. The One-Word Answer

This is a staple among girls who are too shy or nice to tell you they’re not interested directly. You’re trying to strike up a conversation about something—anything—in order to get the natural flow of human interaction going, but you keep hitting dead ends.

“So, what do you do for a living?”

“Secretary.”

“Uh…that’s cool. That’s a very dashing red dress you have on.”

“Thanks.”

“Have any idea of what you want to do in the future?”

“School.”

“What’s your opinion on the ISIS taking over Iraq?”

“Sad.”

“I’ve traveled quite a bit; what’s your favorite place to travel to?”

“Paris.”

You then stand there, hoping she will elaborate or maybe ask you a question, but she just sits there, looking in any direction but yours.

“OK, I can see I have failed here…I’m out.”

“Bye.”

2. The Overly Aggressive Bitch Block

The shock and awe of this tactic surprises even the most experienced of men. The usual condition: A highly attractive woman, rating an 8-plus on a scale of 10, is standing around with one or two of her chick friends. Her friends may even be attractive in their own right. You go to the group with hopeful vigor and enthusiasm at maybe hitting it off with such a beauty. You attempt to make your presence known:

“Hey ladies…how are….”

“She’s not interested!” One of the wenches interrupts you mid-sentence as she puts her arms in front of you.

You pause, not sure whether you should be a dick because fuck that rude bitch or attempt to reason with the callous creature. Whatever path you choose, it’s going to lead you through Strike-Out Junction en route to Rejectionville.

3. The New Age Hippie Rejection

You’ve been talking to this girl for a while. She’s pretty, cool, laid back, and seems to have a decent sense of humor. It’s not the deepest immediate connection you’ve had, but there may be something there. When it’s time to part ways, you ask for her number.

“Not this time. If fate has us crossing paths again, I’ll give it you.”

“How about we don’t count on fate and you give me your number now?”

“If it’s meant to be, we’ll cross paths again. You should trust in that.”

“I don’t believe in that hippie shit.”

The New Age Hippie Rejection is passive-aggressive rejection disguised as mystical false hope in order to make the girl who just shot you down seem like a compassionate human being who believes in karma, destiny, and goodwill. The truth is that if she was truly interested in your cock, she’d give you her number instead of making you seem like a gullible idiot who hopefully awaits the day when true love and fate will align and bring you two back into each other’s lives.

4. The Bait and Switch

You’re talking to a table of girls and are being quite charming for once in your life. The booze is flowing through your veins at the perfect ratio that enables you to be witty, sarcastic, and a bit debonair. They’re really receptive to you, and the one you have your eyes on is giggling to her friends. You take a seat next to her and attempt to begin a one-on-one conversation, which she humors for a little bit.

“Have you met Becky?” She then proceeds to point out her homely friend that you barely noticed before. You attempt to be as cordial as possible and ask Becky canned questions.

“You two should talk. She’s single!” The two switch places, and the glorious example of womanhood is replaced by the dud. You grudgingly talk to Becky a bit more and realize you’re not going to get anywhere with the woman you actually want. You pleasantly bid them adieu and go on your way. Your days of jumping on grenades are over, dammit!

5. The Best Friend Forever Barrier

I’ve written about the Best Friend Forever (BFF) Barrier before. It’s a simple yet highly effective method of rejecting would-be ass-grinders while dancing. Chicks have employed this technique since their first middle-school dance, so by the time they’re old enough to hit the bars, they have internalized it to the point that they might not even realize they’re doing it.

Should you be so bold as to attempt to infiltrate a group of chicks during their body-spasm ritual and go for the prettiest of them all, you may meet with the treacherous BFF Barrier. The BFF will take a disliking to you because either you’re not a dreamy heartthrob or because you dare impose on their “girls’ night out.” For committing such heinous sins, it’s of the utmost importance that they exile you swiftly.

Like clockwork, one of the BFFs will strut up to the woman of your dreams and provocatively dance with her. This is but a ruse to enable her to shrewdly snatch her friend away. While this occurs, the rest of the BFFs form a perimeter of jealousy; it’s creeper-protection to box you out. You have two choices: either stand there looking like a fool or abort.

6. The Disappearing Act

You’re in a good mood today. The previous night, you met an awesome chick and really clicked with her. Your conversation flowed effortlessly. She was educated, quick-witted, and uniquely beautiful. She gave you every signal in the book to indicate that she was as into you as you were into her. While you only got a simple kiss out of her, it was enough. Hell, she even had you call her cell number so she could have your number. And she told you to text her the next day. You know better than to get excited about getting just a number, but fuck it; you’re going to let yourself get excited.

It’s late afternoon and you decided it’s an appropriate time to text.

“Hey, it’s Raul.”

You don’t hear back from her within the hour…or day…or the next couple of days. You know that girls always have their phones glued to their hands, but you also know better than to pester them with texts. Hoping that she was just absentminded, you text her again a few days later. You hear nothing. You look at your two unacknowledged texts and shake your head. “Oh well,” you think to yourself as you delete her number, “that’s what you get for letting yourself get excited.”

~Raul Felix

You can read more of my writing at Thought Catalog.