Teaching Men How To Mate: An Interview With Tucker Max

The name Tucker Max inspires either approving smirks or rolling eyes. Tucker is (in)famous for his hilariously written stories of drunken debauchery and philandering, graphically depicting both his epic failures and towering successes. He has amused many a man and woman who possess a raunchy sense of humor. Feminazis scorn him because of his supposed misogyny.

Whether you love or hate him, Tucker—along with Maddox—pioneered the literary genre of “fratire.” After having his three books— I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell, Assholes Finish First, and Hilarity Ensues—simultaneously on The New York Times bestsellers list, he retired from fratire.

He is one of my influences as a writer. In his retirement essay, he said something that got the juices in my mind flowing:

I’m the Dr. Dre of fratire. Which means that the Eminem and the Biggie and the Tupac and Jay-Z are all still out there, and I’m just as excited as anyone to read their stuff when they come along.

I read that and was like, “Fuck yeah.”

Tucker Max has moved on from the entertainment realm to the self-help genre. In conjunction with the academic expertise of Dr. Geoff Miller, an Evolutionary Psychology Professor at the University of New Mexico and author of The Mating Mind, Tucker has written Mate: Become The Man Women Want. He says he hopes to teach men through science and empirical data—as opposed to biased religious, cultural, and political agendas—what traits women find attractive.

Raul Felix: Tucker, your new book started off from a conversation over dinner with Dr. Geoff Miller after you learned his nephews saw your books as some sort of manifesto with how to get women to sleep with them, then began mimicking your asshole behavior with probably lackluster results. I personally remember reading your books when I was nineteen and thinking that I needed to act like a dickhead in order to slay bitches also. Regardless, you still got laid. What things did young Tucker Max do right and what things did young Tucker Max do wrong that align with some of the things you teach in Mate?

Tucker Max: What young guys never understand is that my books were only a small slice of my life. I only put in the funny and ridiculous stuff, without a whole lot of other context, because that was the stuff that was entertaining to read. They were NEVER intended as instructions or even a guide at all. That’s absurd.

The reason young guys took them that way is because our culture does a terrible job honestly teaching young men how to effectively attract women, so in the void of instruction, they just use the only honest thing they see working—which was my writing. But they missed all the context.

First off, I failed at getting women A LOT. Go actually read the books. I fail far more often than I succeed, and in most cases, I fail spectacularly. They never really thought about that, because it takes experience to understand that. They only focused on the successes.

But make no mistake, I was successful with a certain type of woman. The problem was that young guys didn’t even understand why. They thought it was BECAUSE I was a drunken asshole. That’s ridiculous. If anything, I succeeded IN SPITE of being a drunken asshole. No guy has ever been successful with women by JUST being a drunken asshole.

They were missing all the other things I was doing well, because they didn’t know what to look for, and I didn’t talk about them in the book—things like my humor, my extraversion, my quick wit, my body language, my social intelligence, my singular focus on certain types of women looking for the same things as me (short-term relationships)—these things are invisible to inexperienced young guys, because no one explained them.

That’s what Mate is about: making invisible into the visible so that guys can understand what works and what doesn’t, and then focus on doing the things that work for them. It’s not about acting like I did in my books. No way. It’s about understanding the core fundamentals of attraction, and then improving them so you can have the success you want with women.

Raul Felix: Yeah, I remember you saying in an interview that no one wants to hear about a time you saved a puppy because that isn’t funny. You said time and again that your books are for entertainment. A consistently recurring theme in Mate is the need to be physically fit as a display of masculinity, health, willpower, etc. As a man who has been consistently in shape my entire life, I can attest that women love how strong I am. Yet there is a point of diminishing returns with how in-shape you have to be, like bodybuilder status. Why do you believe that stereotypically, being buff equals brainless meathead and being book-smart is correlated with being fragile and weak?

Tucker Max: Yes, definitely. We say this in the book: You need to be in shape, but you do NOT need to be an elite athlete. In fact, being too in shape—think of a bodybuilder, for example—can often be a negative sign to women and hurt you. Most women look at guys who focus an extreme amount of time on appearance as being narcissistic and self-involved. This is very unattractive. The best bet is being in good shape—think of the body of a swimmer, or a CrossFitter, or decathlete.

The question you ask about perceptions of men is a complicated one. The idea that strong = dumb, and smart = weak is very modern. If you look at ancient Greeks and Romans, or Mongolians, or almost any preindustrial culture, strength and intelligence were not seen as conflicting. In fact, they were seen as helping each other.

I think this split happened in the higher social classes in the industrial age. Essentially, if you were rich, you could afford to not do manual labor and [to not] be brawny. For a while, it was seen as a marker of high status. This is an old idea and has shifted, though. There are very, very few women under 50 who like scrawny men.

Raul Felix: One of the most enlightening things I read in the book was the need to see it from a woman’s perspective. I honestly never thought of that before. Some huge guy trying to get into her panties that could easily overpower and have her way with her if he wanted. The fact that she’s been dealing with creepers, losers, stalkers, and potential rapists ever since she took on real feminine features. How can a man show he is not a threat, but still sexually attracted to a woman without give off those negative vibes she’s used to getting from window-licking mouth-breathers?

Tucker Max: A lot of guys have said this—that they never thought about looking at dating from a woman’s perspective. Think about how absurd that is! I was the same way too for a long time. It just goes to show how broken our dating notions are—we don’t even think about the most important thing to think about—the perspective of the other person!

The most important thing a guy needs to understand is that women see men as a threat, because they are. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person; it means that she’s had to deal with awful men her whole life, and until she knows you aren’t one of those guys, she doesn’t know. This does not mean you should be an apologetic coward. It means you need to be respectful and not aggressive at first, and not do things that set off her danger alarms. We go into this in-depth in the book; it’s actually very simple. In short, it boils down to, “Approach her like a human and not a sex object.”

Raul Felix: A big limiting factor for men is their Mating Market. I saw this a lot while I was in the Army. The local community would have an overabundance of young, in-shape men with a steady paycheck—more than there were women of equal quality. Many a Joe will get have to settle for sloppy seconds on subpar women because that’s all there really was. In my hometown of Huntington Beach, CA, it was tough to stand out even as in-shape guy because people take having a beach body very seriously and Latinos are everywhere. Now that I live in Central New York, where both my buffness and my ethnicity is way more rare, I have more options than I’ve ever had in my life. What are some of the key things a young man needs to know about Mating Markets and what are some of the best places to be a single man in the US?

Tucker Max: This is possibly the MOST important thing in mating, and very few people have any idea about it. This is a stark fact we hope to drill into the head of every man: If you don’t live in a place where there are a lot of single women, you are drastically hurting your chances of dating success. This is very simple math that economists and biologists have understood for years, yet no one gets it when applied to dating.

Think of it this way: There are two bars next door to each other, each with 100 people in them. Bar #1 has 60 women (and thus 40 men), and Bar 2 has 40 women in it (and thus 60 men). Which do you go in? OF COURSE you go in Bar #1, because your odds are way better.

Well, you should apply this logic to EVERYTHING in life. How you pick your school, your job, what city you live in, where you live in that city, what activities you do, and where you spend your time. But very few guys do this.

Raul Felix: Thanks, Tucker. Any last bit of random advice for your typical male who really hasn’t accomplished much but wants to get started?

Tucker Max: The big thing is to not see this as a big hard thing. Start with what you want, then figure out what you have to offer, then work through how to show that what you want is what you have to offer. We walk our readers through this process and break it down into simple and actionable steps. You can do this. Every guy can find at least some success with women if he works the process.

~Raul Felix

Read: Influences: Maddox, Tucker Max, APB, TC Luoma
Read: An Army Ranger Interviews A Navy SEAL On Resilience.
Read: Why Men Look Up To Tony Montana

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The She Serpent Wrapped Herself Around The Young Man

The She Serpent wrapped herself around the young man.
He had looked into her eyes, mesmerized by its beauty.
With a quick strike to the neck,
Venom began to flow through his veins.
It was painless. In fact, it was pleasurable.
He was none the wiser that his life blood had been tainted.
Mesmerized by those piercing eyes.

The She Serpent wrapped herself around the young man, tighter.
She hissed an enchanting hiss,
Its rhythm sparking grandeur illusions in his mind.
*Hiss* Yes, baby. *Hissssss* Of course, my love.
*Hiss* Anything you want, sweet heart. *Hissssss* Anything.
Enchanted by that gentle, rhythmic hiss.

The She Serpent wrapped herself around the young man, tighter.
The young man began to falter, losing feeling in his limbs.
*Hiss* Help me, baby. *Hissssss* But I love you!
His blood corrupted, bones breaking, lungs failing.
*Hiss* Show mercy, baby. *Hissssss* Fuck you.

The She Serpent unwrapped herself from the young man.
He lay there lifeless.
She analyzed him with those mesmerizing eyes,
Hissed with that rhythmic tongue,
Opened wide, ate him whole.
He was no more.
The She Serpent will be hungry again.

~Raul Felix

Read: She Was Traveling Through My Country
Read: For This One Day, She Made Me Forget

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She May Have Given Up On You

You lie on your bed with your face buried into the pillow.
Churning over the events that led to the demise of your latest tryst.
Another one lost, another flake, another you thought would be different.
Another girl masquerading as a woman.

You don’t feel attractive, you don’t feel worthwhile, you don’t feel missed or longed for.
You work up the energy to look out the window of your downtown apartment.
You see a scrawny, low-life holding hands with a fine ass bitch.
“Why do I even bother trying to be a good man?” You wonder.

You walk to the fridge and take a peek inside.
Empty of food with a few beers left over from a previous night of boozing.
You consider drinking them all then heading out to the bar.
You close the door without a drink in hand.

You walk to your laptop and put on some motivational music.
You change into your workout clothes.
“Fuck her,” You say out loud. “Fuck her!”
She may have given up on you, but you won’t give up on yourself.
You tie the laces of your sneakers and head out the door.

~Raul Felix

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For This One Day, She Made Me Forget

She met me at an English pub in Toronto.
It had been almost two years since I’d laid my eyes on her.
She walked through the door, saw me, hugged me, and sat at the bar.
She was as pretty as I remembered.
Pale skin, petite frame, curly hair, freckles about her face.
My ex-girlfriend.

We talked awkwardly at first,
My legs were shaking, my hands flailing in conversation,
I was stuttering and mumbling.
It was tough to resist the urge to kiss her right away.
I deeply wanted her.

We slowly grew comfortable with each other again.
Talked, teased, and flirted like we used to.
I went in for a gentle kiss,
I looked into her eyes,
Then I pulled her close for another.
Her lips had a calming effect on me.
We ate dinner and though she was hesitant,
She agreed to go back to my place.

The next morning I awoke to her by my side.
She was wearing my T-shirt, work-out shorts,
Her hair a mess, reading glasses, and no makeup.
Beautiful.
She was watching a TV show on her laptop,
I scooted closer and lost myself in her.

It’s as if the past two years never happened.
I was back in her room in Jerusalem.
Where the winter cold would cause her to seek my body for warmth.
Where the summer heat would have us waking up in sweat.
Where her cat would attack my feet in the middle of the night.
Where we would take long walks exploring the streets, bars, restaurants, sites, and parks.
Where she grew to understand me more deeply than any woman has.
Where Orthodox Jews, Muslims, soldiers, tourists, pilgrims, merchants, and stray cats appeared on all corners.
Where she was mine.

We got ready and headed out for the day.
I felt it in my chest,
A dam of repressed emotions,
Finally allowed to be free,
I would win her back.
We will have new memories, new inside jokes,
New adventures, new fights, a new life.
She’ll be mine again, and I’ll never let go.

It hurt her to say,
That she no longer felt the same way.
It hurt her to say,
That she could no longer see herself with me.
It hurt her to say,
That she was sorry but needed to make the best choice for herself.
It hurt her to say,
That she didn’t love me anymore.

I walked her to the subway station,
Held her close, kissing her forehead.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
She nodded.
“I really do love you,” I said.
She looked up at me.
“You don’t have to say it back,” I told her.

She boarded the subway,
I saw her through the window,
Never taking my eyes off her,
I waved at her and she waved back,
As the cart left
I blew her a kiss.

As I walked, tears I’d held back started rolling down my face.
For this one day,
I possessed the happiness I once had,
For this one day,
Life seemed full of possibilities,
For this one day,
I had felt whole again,
For this one day,
I had forgotten I was alone.

~Raul Felix

You can read more of my work at Thought Catalog.

I Was Hot For Teacher But Late For Class

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

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

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

My friends and I would speculate about her.

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

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

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

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

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

“How are you going to fuck her?”

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

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

“Fuck you! She’s mine!”

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

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

“Yeah?”

“She’s in my summer chemistry class.”

“What’s she doing there?”

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

“Does she remember you?”

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

“Are you developing a scheme to fuck her?”

“Of course.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, shit—long haul, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“What does he do?”

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

“He doesn’t have a job?”

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

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-five.”

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

A text message awakes me at 10:37AM.

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

“I’m too far behind. I dropped it.”

“:(”

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

“Heather!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good,” he says.

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

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

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

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

~Raul Felix

You can read more of my work at Thought Catalog.

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

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.

4 Things Women Can Do To Be More Attractive (From A Non-Beta Bitch Male Perspective)

Most of you girls seem obsessed with the fact that you’re still single and there are no good men left out there who can handle that you’re a strong, independent woman who don’t need no man. By the way, there are—you’re just too much of a stuck-up cunt to realize it. So I’m going to give you some #realtalk girlfriend advice because I don’t give a shit if I offend you or not. It’s not like you were going to fuck me anyway.

1. Shave or trim your fucking pussy.

Just as you’ve been brainwashed by Hollywood to seek out the perfect man who meets an impossible list of standards that the average Joe isn’t capable of reaching, we men have been brainwashed by porn to want a woman with a shaved—or at the very least, neatly trimmed—pussy. No, this isn’t our desire to fuck a prepubescent girl like so many fuzzy-vagina feminist writers want to #hairlesspussyafcionadoshame us into believing. It’s because a shaved pussy, like shaved legs and armpits, looks distinctly more feminine and sexy.

We don’t want to trudge through a jungle of your pubic hair just so we can find your clit. You are aware that they are not as big as a cock and balls, right? We have to dig to find your cute little cunt cap, then hold it open and go to town. We don’t want to have your hair go into our mouth and teeth when we are trying to lick and suck on your clitoris and labia.

By having a shaved or trimmed pussy, you’re showing a man you actually take care of yourself and aren’t too lazy to do such a simple task. Yes, I know it’s time-intensive, but you know what else is time-intensive? Living up to all these damn standards you demand from us on your listicles.

2. Keep your fucking pussy fresh.

There are few things more exciting for a man than the prospect of getting laid. All of our hard work—taking you out for drinks, flirting, putting up with your flaky bullshit, pretending to care about your hopes and dreams—lead up to the moment where we are feeling you up, kissing you, and throw you on the bed. Then we slip off your jeans and see your glorious body in your underwear. Then, when we’re ready to fuck you, we take your panties off, only to be hit in the face like a bag of rocks by your cunt funk because you decided you didn’t need to shower before the date because you had a long workday.

It has always boggled my mind when a girl can’t tell her pussy stinks. I’ve sat across chicks wearing skirts that I had every intention of fucking. Then they would briefly open their legs in an effort to entice me, but all I could focus on was the fact that I could smell the wretched stench of her meat curtains. I’m pretty aware when my balls stink and make it a rule to have them be fresh whenever I have the slightest chance of getting laid.

You ladies need to adopt a similar philosophy. A foul pussy can be a boner-killer for a lot of men. Yet a fresh and clean pussy is one of the most delicious and wondrous things in the world. It’s an addicting smell and taste that we can’t get enough of. If you keep your lady bits fresh for me, I’ll make sure to have you squirming with my tongue.

3. Put your fucking phone away.

I know you girls’ lifeline is your phones and you have 56 #selfies on your Instagram with slightly different angles with 100+ likes because desperate guys on the Internet like to over-inflate your ego by liking your picture that literally required no effort on your part to take other than to make a #duckface in irony, but put that shit in your purse. We are trying to form a connection with you and get to know you. We want to make eye contact with you and see your smile in its natural state, not the heavily altered best-of-10-pictures state.

You ladies bitch and moan about how modern men aren’t real men anymore. But are you even real women anymore? Are you stuck as a caricature you developed through your online persona that constantly needs to be reaffirmed and validated? Why the fuck do you care if CoolGuy69 liked your picture if all you’re going to say is he is a creep for doing so? Is your real self such a hollow shell of a human being that your only form of effective communication is through filtered pictures, Marilyn Monroe quotes, emojis, and putting 20 different hashtags on each picture?

Or are you more? Are you capable of giving your undivided attention to one person? Are you able to be truly disconnected from the cyber world for an extended period of time and just enjoy the real world for what it is? Are you able to be sincere, talk about meaningful subject matter, and ask intelligent questions? Oh, fuck—I lost your attention already because you’re checking who liked the photo of you modeling that killer lipstick color you discovered.

4. Acknowledge that you’re equally as responsible as men for today’s fucked-up dating culture.

Here is a double standard you ladies refuse to acknowledge: When a man is a flirt who gives you every signal in the book that he is into you but then decides he isn’t, he’s an asshole. But when you talk to a dude in a flirty way, lead him into thinking he is more than he is, and then you decide you’re not into him, that’s just your adorable little personality and you are having some innocent girl fun. It may sound strange to you, but we men have feelings, too. We become smitten, form crushes, and become enthralled with a chick that has caught our eye. We just don’t show it because we’ve learned through trial and error that as soon as you show a woman any form of emotion, you scare her away because she no longer sees you as a challenge.

You want us to stop playing games? Then you need to stop playing games, too. But you won’t because you refuse to acknowledge that you’re even playing a game. You operate in this fantasy world where women are always the victims who are incapable of doing anything wrong. While you’re bitching to your #bff about McDreamerson and how much of a dick he is for not returning your text, you have three or four texts from other guys in your inbox that you have not returned. That makes you as much of a dick as the guy you are hung-up over. Oh, right—you’re a girl and thus are allowed to be a pussy because it’s the man’s job to understand that you’re not into him.

You seek to blame men for treating women like objects, when you treat men like objects yourself. Just like you may be a brunette with a fine ass that we can’t wait to pound, we are a tall, muscular guy you can’t wait to blow. Just like you may be a fat, gorilla-faced chick who falls far below the Jack Off Line, we are that short, pimply-faced, creepy guy who still lives with his mom who won’t stop texting you. We both see the other person as objects, not as people.

Maybe I’m just a bitter misogynistic pig with a small penis so you should dismiss everything I say as wrong because it doesn’t fall in line with your fairy-tale princess fantasies. Or maybe I’m calling you out on your bullshit like a real human being and friend will do to help you understand things from a male’s perspective. Either way, it’s on you whether you incorporate my advice or ignore it like that one chick that I like is ignoring my text message right now.

~Raul Felix

Read more of my work Thought Catalog.

3 Life Lessons An Old Man Called “Wild Bill” Taught Me

During my time working in Israel, I had the good fortune to be coworkers and friends with one of the most badass old men I have ever met in my life. While he was flawed, he also possessed traits any young man would want to have: He had tons of money in his bank account, was physically fit, and was a womanizer. Through many long work hours and discussions over the course of a year and a half, I got to learn a lot about “Wild Bill” and his philosophy. In turn, he taught me that even though you’re in your 50s doesn’t mean you can’t keep up with the young bucks.

1. Money management is very important.

“Hey! Raul! Why’d you call off work yesterday?” he’d ask.

“Well, Wild Bill…”

“Nah, nah…I don’t want to hear it. I know what you did. You went out and got drunk with your buddies.”

“Yeah…”

“What have I told you about that? Not only did you lose out the money you could have made from coming into work, but you also spent all that money at that bar. Knowing you, I know you spent at least a hundred bucks.”

“I know.”

“You say you know, but you keep on doing it. You don’t listen!”

If there is one thing Wild Bill loved, it was making money. Wild Bill was a workaholic. People knew if they wanted to take an extra day off, all they’d have to do is call up Wild Bill and he’d cover their shift. He’d cover so many shifts that he once went 112 days without having a single day off. After having that day off, he went on another 60-day streak.

He had a simple mindset: You’re either working and making money or you’re not working and you’re spending your money. Wild Bill loved receiving his paycheck and seeing it pile on top of all the money he had already saved.

“How much money you got saved up, Wild Bill?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Come on…”

“I’ll tell you this—I’m not a millionaire, but I’m close.”

Wild Bill had no debt, owned a house, and had a nice car back in the States. He did that by always being extremely frugal with his money and avoiding debt throughout his life. Wild Bill was a bit on the extreme side, since his diet consisted of ramen noodles, chicken, and the cheapest beer in Israel, Günther’s. Nonetheless, he never made six figures, but his financial intelligence put him in a position where we wouldn’t have to worry about money like too many people arriving at retirement do.

2. Just because you’re old doesn’t mean you have to get fat.

Wild Bill consistently worked out, which put him on a higher tier above his peers. Running and weightlifting were constants in his life. Even during our work shift, it would be common for him to do some wind sprints and knock out some pushups to get his heart rate up. While he was a heavy boozer, he knew it was important for him to counteract the physical effects. It would be common practice for him to run to the store two miles down the road because beer there was 25 cents cheaper than at the place right down the street. He’d buy three or four Günther’s, drink one in front of the store, run back home, drink them all, run back to the store, return the cans for some money, buy a few more Günther’s, and run back.

Other than a serious injury or illness, there is no reason why a person can’t keep themselves in shape throughout their lives. You don’t have to have a bodybuilder’s physique or be one of those crazy in-shape cross-fit buffs, but you can at least maintain a level of fitness that helps you counteract all the bullshit you put in your body over the years. Veterans tend to get fat after they leave the military because we no longer have that forced physical training to burn away all the booze and junk food we consume. Wild Bill showed me firsthand that you can be a boozer and a physical badass at the same time.

3. You’re never too old to philander.

Next on his list of life essentials was the quest for getting new pussy to destroy. Wild Bill was a womanizer and a pretty good one at that. With a strong body in his mid-50s, Wild Bill stood out from all the other old farts who let themselves go. Combined with the air of confidence that only age and experience could bring, that made him a poon-slayer to be revered.

Whether en route or at the store, he would get the attention of some fine young things, which for him were women in their 30s and 40s. Being a man who has fucked hundreds of chicks throughout his life, Wild Bill knew how to make his potential prospects swoon. Whether it was a Moroccan businesswoman or Philippine caregiver, he knew the right things to say to get them to come over to his apartment sometime in the near future to cook him dinner while he drank beer and watched music videos.

He kept his women in line by adhering to the age-old adage of “money over bitches” and refused to ever take a day off to see them. They would work around his schedule, not the other way around. They would get pissed at him, stop talking to him, and try to knock him out of their lives. But eventually, they’d call him back and agree to be in the relationship on his terms because they realized that men of his age and caliber were rare indeed.

Wild Bill wasn’t a perfect man. He had many faults and demons like we all do. He was an alcoholic, was never loyal to a woman in his life, could be cheap to the point of absurdity, and was stubbornly stuck in his ways. Yet he worked, kept in shape, and fucked like he was in his 20s. He didn’t let the notion of being an old man stop him from living life on his own terms. In a society where too many people let their age be a hindrance and only look back on their glory years, Wild Bill decided to keep his glory years going. As he once said to me, “One day you’re going to look back at this time in your life and think to yourself, ‘You know, that old man, whatever his name was, he was a pretty badass dude.’”

~Raul Felix

See more of my work at Thought Catalog

2 Stupid Pieces of Dating Advice That Women Always Give Me

I’m no dating expert, despite the fact that I’ve been on tons of dates and have hooked up with a lot of women who won’t return my texts. I have a competitive edge over most guys in the dating scene because I have cojones grandes. I’m not scared to talk to any girl in any situation, and I probably hit on and get rejected by more chicks in a week than the average American male will in his lifetime.

My balls-to-the-wall attitude regarding women and sex, coupled with the extensive human sexual evolution and psychology literature I’ve read over the years, have led me to the conclusion a lot of the advice you chicks give us men regarding women is bullshit. A lot of their advice operates on the premise on “how it ought to be” rather than “how it is.”

Well, I don’t live the utopian future where all of society’s ills regarding gender inequality and communication issues between the sexes don’t exist anymore. I live in the present, where chicks are flaky and have contradictory notions of what they want. Most girls these days are doing the whole “Eat, Pray, Love” shit while they bitch about not having Dreamy McDreamerson galloping in on a white horse to save them from themselves. They also demand that he respect the fact that she is an independent woman with a past, a heart that loved too much, and herpes she contracted from that one guy she fucked in the bathroom of Baja Sharkeez.

As if my bitter words weren’t enough of an indicator, I often get frustrated dealing with the opposite sex—sometimes enough to want to throw in the towel and swear off the she-devils for a while. During those turbulent times, I reach out to the few female friends I have and ask for their advice, only to be given this sort of useless claptrap:

1. “Just wait: Someone special will come along.”

This sets up the advisor to be right, no matter what. You can “just be waiting” for a week or ten years, but regardless, they’ll be right. When a lovely lady finally comes into your life, your advisor will smugly say, “Told you I was right” as if it was her advice that brought this person into your life in the first place.

It makes sense from the female perspective, because dating for a chick comes down to chance encounter with a charming, dashing gentleman. If he doesn’t meet the aesthetic requirements on her checklist, not to worry—another dashing gentleman will come around in a few minutes.

If you’re an assertive male who grabs life by the balls, this type of advice makes zero sense. Why, if you truly want something, would you sit around with your thumb up your ass waiting for some mystical force in the universe to deliver it to you? Wouldn’t you want to figure out how to meet pretty girls and where they congregate? Wouldn’t you want to figure out how to best increase your chances of meeting one who fits you and your personality? Wouldn’t you want to learn what you can and can’t accept in a partner? Merely waiting won’t accomplish any of that.

It may come as a shocker to you girls, but most of you are cowards. Chicks rarely, if ever, hit on us directly. The closest that most of us guys get to being directly hit on is when a chick looks at us while we’re looking away and then looks away when we look at her. We’re left having to read the fact that she is twirling her hair or playing with the straw in her cup as a subtle clue that she into us. Then, hoping we read the hints correctly, we go up to her and try to avoid saying anything too stupid. We’re the man; we make the first move. It’s part of the game. But that can’t happen if we are “just waiting.”

2. “You’re not going to meet a good girl at a bar.”

This advice is spewed out with zero irony by chicks that just posted Instagram pictures of themselves hosting drinks at the bar. Yeah, every girl at the bar is a fucking wretched whore—except you and your friends, right? While I agree that the women who frequent bars are trashier per capita, there are also a lot of girls who go to bars that aren’t.

Let’s say I was to follow this advice and not try to meet chicks at bars. Where should I meet them, then? What other places have a consistently fresh supply of females that a man can approach?

Coffee shops? It sounds good in theory. Sophisticated chicks love coffee, especially if it’s expensive. You order something at random because you don’t know shit about coffee and sit down at a chair that gives you a good vantage point of the room. After waiting for an hour for a chick to appear who is clearly alone, you sit next to her and strike up a conversation. It all goes well until you ask her what university she goes to, and then she tells you she is 17 and wants to go to UCLA. You realize that it’s best to leave the conversation there, wish her well, and be on your way. I’ve found that females at coffee shops are typically 70% high-schoolers, 20% old bags, 15% chicks who already have boyfriends, and 5% chicks who are talking on their phone the whole fucking time so you can’t even make a move.

Meeting girls at church? I’m a godless, heathen bastard.

Gym? Of course! That has the built-in benefit that the chick is far less likely to be a useless fat sack of shit. You go to the gym and are getting your swole on, trying to scout for potential targets. You notice that those chicks who wear those revealing, skimpy outfits for you to ogle all seem have a big rock on their finger that is worth more than your annual salary, or she’s with her man working out because that’s what healthy couples do. The one chick that is truly alone is wearing a baseball cap, has her headphones in, and is wearing a loose T-shirt. She’s basically stating, “I’m here to work out. Leave me the fuck alone.” If you foolishly attempt to hit on her, you’ll get shut down quickly—not only that, you’ll have to avoid her piercing, judgmental stares every time you go to the gym afterward.

Fuck. I wish there was a place where men and women could casually gather to meet other men and women in an atmosphere that encourages you to meet new people. If only such a place existed.

You ought to be able to be yourself and have a wonderful woman come into your life, but that shit doesn’t happen. You have to be proactive and take the hits of rejection and failure until you meet one that makes all the bullshit you dealt with worth it. You ought to be able to meet girls casually in a non-alcohol-induced daze, but the reality is that if you’re no longer in college or don’t have a work environment that allows fraternization, an alcohol-induced daze is probably how you’re going to meet your next lover. It’s the dirty, filthy reality.

~Raul Felix

You can read more of my work at Thought Catalog.

Why Men Look Up To Tony Montana

Scarface

Tony Montana is one of those rare figures in popular culture who crosses racial boundaries. He’s played by Al Pacino, who is an Italian acting as a Cuban who would later inspire a generation of black and Hispanic guys to create hip-hop tributes that will be listened to by white suburban kids.

He is the kind of world-class criminal a lot of men would aspire to be if they were ambitious enough. They envision living the fast life of cocaine, killing cockroaches that cross them, and having scantily dressed women fucking them because they have tons of cocaine. Most give up those high ambitions and settle for mind-numbing office jobs with free snacks and synergy.

Yet Tony’s inspiration lives on. Single males across the country have a Scarface poster hanging on their bedroom walls this moment. So why does this ruthless criminal inspire so many of even the most upright of young men?

 

1. He’s Self-Made

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Take one look at a guy like Tony Montana and you know he didn’t grow up in the suburbs. His default facial expression consists of a scowl, and his trademark scar is an indicator of his street-thug roots. Like many people seeking to escape Castro’s grips, he headed to America to start a new life via banana boat to engage in free black-market capitalism.

“Me, I want what’s coming to me,” says Tony as he drives his Cadillac.

“Oh, well, what’s coming to you?” asks his right-hand man Manny.

“The world, chico, and everything in it.”

Tony is a man who is going places and is nearly delusional about his potential. He doesn’t let the fact that he is without education, power, money, or influence become roadblocks. Tony uses the tools he has—balls, decisiveness, and street smarts—to help him overcome every obstacle.

He’s shrewd and cunning, quickly moving up from a small-time crime syndicate’s foot soldier to running Miami’s most powerful criminal empire. He epitomizes a version of the American dream to which many downtrodden youths can relate: coming from absolutely nothing and transforming yourself into a total boss.

 

2. He’s A True Family Man

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Tony shows up at his mother and sister’s house one quiet night. It had been years since he had seen them. He had purposefully held off on seeing them until he was a success. He wants them to be proud of him and know that he has made it.

He proudly gives his mother $1,000. “Who did you kill for this, Antonio?” she inquires. She knows well what kind of man her son is. She rejects his blood money and ends up kicking Tony out of the house. Even after that, Tony has tremendous love toward his mother and tells his sister Gina to slip her some money a little at a time so she won’t notice.

He’s highly protective of his little sister, Gina. He constantly keeps his eye on her and attempts to prevent other men from getting close to her. This speaks volumes to men who feel extremely protective toward their little sisters or cousins. He may be overbearing in his protection of her, but it shows that his love for his blood is true and strong.

3. He Sets His Own Values

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“All I have in this world is my balls and my word and I don’t break them for nobody, you understand?” It is an outlaw ethos that has been echoed for the last 30 years by many an inspired male. Tony lets you know that even though he is a criminal, he is the type of criminal who does crime the right way. He only fucks over those who deserve it. If you weren’t Tony, you know you’d want to be in his crew because you’d have one of the best bosses around.

“In this country, you gotta make the money first. Then when you get the money, you get the power. Then when you get the power, then you get the women.” Tony knows business comes before bitches, that a man must focus on what is good for himself and his future. Figure out how to get yourself ahead of the game and not worry too much about random pussy. This is tougher to do for some men than others, as his his sidekick Manny is constantly giving in to la mamacitas.

Nowhere else does Tony exemplify his rock-solid values more than when he refuses to allow the killing of the wife and kids of a man he was supposed to assassinate. He feels that’s the coward’s way of conducting business and refuses to let the assassin detonate the bomb by placing a bullet through his skull. It was a fine case of hip-pocket executive decision-making.

 

4. He Got To Fuck The 1983 Version Of Michelle Pfeiffer

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While any version of Michelle Pfeiffer is sexy, feminine, and alluring, the 1983 model of her was a pristine example of female beauty.

“I say she’s a tiger. She belong to me,” Tony states to her. While Tony knew to put money before bitches, he also knew that if had the right one by his side, he could go to the top. When he saw the one he wanted, he went after her. He was not too shy or nervous. He didn’t wait for her to give him hints. He didn’t care that she wasn’t interested in him. He went for her for like the boss player he is.

No one intimidated Tony. He had a high sense of confidence in himself and displayed it again and again and thus winning over such a fine woman. He had mountains of coke and she was addicted to coke, so he kept her rolling in it. It was a coke dealer’s style of bringing your girlfriend flowers every day.

Maybe he wasn’t the good guy in the legal sense, but he was the best at what he did. He told off the true bad guys, the corporate thieves and corrupt politicians: “You need people like me so you can point your fuckin’ fingers and say, ‘That’s the bad guy.’ So what that make you? Good? You’re not good. You just know how to hide, how to lie. Me, I don’t have that problem. Me, I always tell the truth. Even when I lie.”

He died in a hail of bullets, taking out as many motherfuckers as possible, his body center stage for all the carnage surrounding him. Most men would dream to go out with such style.

~Raul Felix

You can read more of my work at Thought Catalog

Images – Scarface