Category Archives: Nightlife

Another Night Wasted Getting Wasted

Posted on by Standard 2

I wake up still wearing my jeans,
I didn’t piss myself this time at least.
Room’s thrashed, emptied beer cans scattered throughout.
It’s 2 p.m. on a Tuesday.
Another night wasted getting wasted.

I have nowhere to be; I have no one to be with.
Eighteen, nineteen, twenty empty cans are stuffed into a garbage bag.
There is a comfort in escaping my frustrations with myself,
My frustrations with loneliness and reality,
Seeking refuge in vice.

Sweet serpent drink, whose poison kisses my lips.
Your cool embrace a reliable comfort in my life.
Women come and go, boozing remains.
Jobs come and go, boozing remains.
Cities come and go, boozing remains

Even when I muster the strength to resist your temptation,
Boredom, annoyances, celebration, life eventually strikes,
Causing me to seek your poison kisses once more,
Their gentle touch enhancing reality,
Distorting its undesirable aspects,
Allowing one to lose themselves in the abyss of the mind,
Wasting another night getting wasted.

~Raul Felix

Read: Maybe I Shouldn’t Have Taught A Psycho Bitch How To Shoot
Read: A Day In The Life Of A Debauched Traveler
Read: She Wouldn’t Make Me So Angry If She Didn’t Own My Heart

Read more of my work at Thought Catalog
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God Damn Common Whore Cold

Posted on by Standard Reply

I cough violently. I sneeze as loud as thunder, snot dripping.
“Fuck!”
I blow my nose into a tissue.
I know exactly who got me sick.
That chick with the pink hair I made out with after work.
The next morning, I felt raspy in my throat.
God damn common whore cold.

A few days later, I’m feeling better.
But, my roommates begin to exhibit symptoms.
Same violent coughs, loud sneeze, and snotty noses.
The unmistakable orchestra of the virus’s triumph.
God damn common whore cold.

A couple of weeks later,
The plague has spread to the dwellings of friends who visit often.
Wreaking havoc and causing despair,
Pink scabbed noses and constantly watery eyes.
Dozens of used tissues scattered about,
Empty medicine bottles and Vitamin C tablets,
Vain attempts to control,
That God damn common whore cold.

~Raul Felix

Read: Where Are My Whores?
Read: Eager To Pop My Cherry On The Battlefield
Read: The Witch In My Dream

Read more of my work at Thought Catalog
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She Dances Like A Flame

Posted on by Standard 1

Her red dress pops from the colorless crowd,
Hips swaying side to side,
Perfectly in sync with the music.
Arms in the air,
Her crimson hair thrashes about.
She’s a flame lighting those around her.

Bright red lips,
Jewelry glinting from the lights of the stage,
Beads of sweat on her brow,
Her smooth, muscular calfs rhythmically thumping.
She’s a woman releasing the fire inside her.

She uses the music as a flourishing wind,
Nourishing the kinder within,
Until it flashes into a wildfire.
For those fiery moments,
She is untamable.

The boiling of her blood,
Causing her skin to flush,
As her radiance engulfs those around her.

She’s a woman who’s normally shy and quiet,
Cool, calm, collected.
Yet when that music fans the fire in her soul,
She can’t help but dance like a flame.

~Raul Felix

Read: Watching You Get Dressed Again
Read: She Was Traveling Through My Country
Read: Why Should I Write About Her?

Read more of my work at Thought Catalog
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How To Spend $60 On A Date And Get Nothing In Return

Posted on by Standard Reply

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.

A Day In The Life Of A Debauched Traveler

Posted on by Standard 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12:36AM: Make out with mediocre chick.

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

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

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

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

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

1:54AM: ?

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

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

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

Read more of my writing on Thought Catalog.

The Pick-Up Follies: The Dance Fiasco

Posted on by Standard 3

Dancing is one of the most common and more effective ways to pick up a chick, slightly behind dragging her into a van. Unfortunately for me, I’m pretty shitty at it. The level of shittiness is equal to that of drunk white people at a wedding. The only thing I know how to do with some level of competence is twirling and a two-step. Nevertheless, it doesn’t stop me from incorporating it as one of the weapons in my arsenal in the grand crusade to get into a chicks’ panties.

I met up with my Ranger buddy, “Dirty Dick,” for the Old World Oktoberfest in Huntington Beach, CA. The original plan involved about six of us meeting up there and getting wrecked, but everyone flaked except for us two. He had with him his latest piece of fine ass who’s name doesn’t really matter. All that matters was his end-goal to fuck her and hoping a healthy dosage of alcohol into her system would expedite the process. We were drinking our overpriced beer, socializing, and scouting out a potential target for my irresistible charm. The pickings were slim since most of the women seemed to be with men already. I walked around and began to hit on a voluptuous Asian chick. I was quickly rejected and moved on. I hit on a thin white girl, and it was going well until she dropped the boyfriend bomb, after which I ejected myself from the conversation. I was three beers deep when I headed back to chill with Dirty Dick and his chick.

We were standing on the edge of the dance floor when we saw a decent looking chick with hipster glasses and middle aged woman dancing together. Dirty Dick pushed me to go dance with them, but I resisted because the timing didn’t feel right. Eventually, they stopped dancing and happened to stand next to me. Like a tiger on the hunt, I saw my prey, opportunity, and I pounced.

Raul: “I like your moves.” I lay out a smirk.

HipsterGlasses: “Yeah? You want to dance?”

Raul: “Let’s go.” I grab her by the hand and lead her to the dance floor.

She was a wild one. She eagerly spun underneath my hand as I twirled her again and again. She moved back and forth on the dance floor like a she-devil in heat, at times grinding up with me and them scurrying away suddenly, as if to tease me. Her plump breasts bounced, and her ass swayed lusciously. With each move, my eagerness to shove my dick so deep inside of her pussy that my semen would squirt out her mouth grew. She would aggressively dash toward me so I could twirl her. It required my full concentration and sense of balance to keep her from falling. I twirled her like a tornado.

Then she slipped from my hand, and I heard a big crash. She was on the floor screaming in pain. “Oh fuck,” I said and rushed to help her. I tried to lift her up and get her back on her feet. “Ahhh… put me down! Put me down!” she said. I complied with her request. She began to grab her ankle. Suddenly her family came over, helped her up and she hobbled away to sit down on the table. Her mother comes up to me and told me that it wasn’t my fault.

I stood there shocked for a moment, not really sure what to do. Dirty Dick and his current fling were looking at me, attempting to contain their laughter. I walked over to them.

Dirty Dick: “Did you break her?”

Raul: “I don’t fucking know. I hope not.”

Dirty Dick: “Dude, she flew across the dance floor.”

Raul: “Fuck.”

I walked over to her.

Raul: “Are you okay?”

HipsterGlasses: “No. I broke my ankle.” Someone hands her some ice and she it places on her ankle.

Raul: “Oh fuck. I’m sorry…”

HipsterGlasses: “It’s not your fault. I broke it playing soccer eight months back. Tonight was the first night I’ve been out without my cast.”

Raul: “Shit…” I’m not sure what to say or do in this situation. I still wanted to talk to her because I still had the goal of banging her, despite the current change of events.

HipsterGlasses: “You don’t have to stick around. You can go back to having fun with your friends. I’ll be okay.” Tear start forming in her eyes from the physical pain.

Raul: “Let me get you a drink. What do you want?”

HipsterGlasses: “Vodka Redbull.”

I went to buy her the Vodka Redbull and left it with her and rejoined Dirty Dick. I felt that the best play was to give her a drink and check up on her on occasion since I had no fucking idea what to talk to her about in her hindered state. About 15 minutes passed and I decided to check up on her.

Raul: “How’s the foot?”

HipsterGlasses: “Still fucked up.”

I attempted to make small talk in effort to distract her from her ankle pain and dared to dream that I still had the chance to get into her panties by playing the caring, empathetic guy. Though there was plenty of evidence toward the contrary, I gave it one last shot.

Raul: “How about you give me your number, and I take you out to make up for this?”

HipsterGlasses: “I don’t really trust you yet. Maybe if you get me another drink.”

Raul: “Sure.”

I walked away with the full intent of boozing her into forgiving me when I ran into two other girls hanging out. I completely forgot about HipsterGlasses and began to hit on them. I must have talked to them for 15 minutes when I learned the one I was targeting had a boyfriend and the other one I wasn’t really into. I went to the bar and ordered a Vodka Redbull.

Which do you think was the cute one?

Which do you think was the cute one?

By the time I got back to the dancehall, HipsterGlasses and her family were gone. I sighed and headed back to hang with Dirty Dick, who at this point was devouring the face of his female companion. There were no other single chicks to hit on, and I resigned myself to getting drunk. I was 0 for 4 for the night. Not every night can be a winner, but every night can be a learning experience. This taught me that if you break a girls ankle and are still trying to get into her panties and are going to buy her a drink to do so, don’t get distracted by other girls. Keep your eyes on the prize. Or maybe there isn’t any lesson and random shit just happens, and there is no way you could have succeeded any way.

~Raul Felix

“Do you have any other wacky adventures with the fairer sex?” Yes, of course: The Pick-Up Follies: The Gimp

The Pick-Up Follies: The Snow Fatty

Posted on by Standard 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

Raul: “That chick is looking at me.”

Jonathan: “Go for it.”

Raul: “But she’s really old.”

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

Raul: “Really?”

Jonathan: “Yeah man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~Raul Felix

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

The Pick-Up Follies: The Halloween Abandonment

Posted on by Standard 15

It was Halloween 2009, I got invited to a Halloween Party held at a bar in San Juan Capristano for a network marketing (pyramid scheme) company that I was a part of. Always being one to sport funny Halloween costumes, I dressed up as Frylock from Aqua Teen Hunger Force. I arrived alone and met up with some of the people I sort of knew. I began doing what Raul Felix does best, I started drinking irresponsibly and socializing.

I made my rounds, fully confident that I had the best costume there because who the fuck is going to top dressing up as a box of french fries? I’m about three or four drinks in and I start talking to girls and flirting, but nothing is connecting. I start getting a little frustrated and drink some more in an effort to amp up my charm, which history has dictated is always a great idea.

That’s when I saw her. She was dressed up as a vampire witch thing or something. Actually, I don’t even remember what the fuck she was dressed up as but I can tell you it was seductive enough to attract my attention. Or I may have just been drunk and desperate. She was tall, blonde, had a voluptuous body, big breasts, and my ultimate weakness, a full ass. She was a cougar in her mid-forties. I positioned myself next to her, and noticed she was drinking a beer.

Raul: “Wow, a woman who knows how to drink beer, that’s rare.”

VampireWitch: “Yeah, I don’t do any of those girlie drinks… like you.” She points to the white russian I’m drinking.

Raul: “Hey, the white russian is the manliest of all drinks. The Dude from The Big Lebowski drinks them.”

VampireWitch: “I like that movie. Still though, that’s still borderline fruity. Are those cherry’s in there?”

Raul: “Yes, cherries are bad ass. They add a sweet little flavor to it. Try it.” I give her the drink and she takes a sip from it. Here is a pro tip for you: if a woman takes a drink from your drink or allows you to take a drink from hers, it means she is somewhat interested in you or at the very least not completely repulsed by you.

VampireWitch: “Not bad. You’re too handsome to be wearing that silly costume.”

Raul: “Its funny though! I’m Frylock from Aqua Teen Hunger Force.” She gave me a blank look which truly indicted how far apart our generations were.

Neither one of these girl is VampireWitch.

Neither one of these girls is VampireWitch.

Our conversation then transformed into the mindless basics and we started dancing. That’s when I felt a vibration and looked down at my cell phone. A buddy of mine just texted me to remind me to pick him up at his work so we could go to some house party he invited me to. I told VampireWitch that I needed to go, got her number, and gave her a kiss.

I picked up “LittleBean” at his work and quickly informed him that he needs to take over driving responsibilities for I planned to get shit housed. We stopped by the store, bought beer, and headed to the house party. By the time we arrived, I was a few beers away from peaking and spiraling down into the abyss.

The house party was all of his co-workers and their friends. LittleBean was the only person I knew. Since I tend to be somewhat outgoing when I drink, I started talking to people and mingling. I don’t recall the exact order of these events, but the following ensued throughout my stay there:

1. I flirted with some chick in a Little Red Riding Hood outfit and she was digging me and rubbing on me, but I ended up fucking it up somehow.

2. I smoked some pot and started becoming extremely paranoid.

3. Some dude was overprotective of his female cousin and I had a man to man talk with him about how he should let her be her own woman.

4. I took a couple of shots of whiskey.

5. I vomited in the bushes.

6. The rest of the chicks rejected my ambitious, but sloppy and misguided attempts to hit on them.

7. I got into an argument with the owner of the house and got LittleBean and myself kicked out.

I'm STILL pissed off at myself for fucking it up this cute chick.

I’m STILL pissed off at myself for fucking it up with this cute chick.

Raul: “Fuck those mother fuckers, I’m going to call VampireWitch.” I call her up and she informs me that she is staying in Newport Beach at a friends house. She invites me over for us to have some fun. LittleBean drives my truck there and I stumbled out of the truck and VampireWitch grabs me.

VampireWitch: “You need to take that ugly costume off.” I take it off and throw it in my truck. Since VampireWitch agreed to give me a ride to pick up my truck the next day, LittleBean drives away and goes home.

I aggressively begin kissing her and grabbing her big ass. She then stops me, grabs my hand, and leads me into her friends multi-million dollar home. We sneak in, careful not to make too much noise because she didn’t want her friend to know, and go into the guest bedroom. I shove her onto the bed and get on top of her kissing her passionately. With each messy drunk movement, taking off an article of clothing. I take off her bra, releasing her big breast, and begin sucking on her nipples. I get completely naked. Then I work my way down to taking off her panties, she stops me.

VampireWitch: “Do you have a condom?”

Raul: “Yeah of course… wait… fuck! They’re in my truck!”

VampireWitch: “Are you kidding me?”

Raul: “You could suck my dick.”

VampireWitch: “Well you do have a nice cock.” She starts sucking and slobbering all over my cock. After a while I’m ready to cum and since I’m a man brought up by internet porn, I opt to cum on her face.

She cleans herself off and we are laying in bed talking and waiting for me to recharge when her phones rings.

VampireWitch: “Oh shit, it’s my husband.”

Raul: “Your husband? I didn’t know you were married.”

VampireWitch: “Yeah, it’s a weird situation. We’re about to get separated, but he still acts like we’re together.” She then begins talking to her husband on the phone, argues with him, and then…

VampireWitch: “What? You’re here? All right, I’ll come outside.” She then just leaves and to goes talk to her husband who is outside.

I lay there. I’m not really sure what I’m suppose to do in this situation. Do I wait? Do I go out there to see what’s going on? Do I just leave? I decide to just sit tight and wait.

Ten minutes. Fuck. She is not back yet. Maybe I should call her cell? No, if she is with him that would be suspicious. Fuck.

Twenty minutes. Fuck. I don’t know where the fuck I am. I should leave and call LittleBean to pick me up. I dial LittleBean and the phone goes straight to voicemail. Fuck.

Thirty minutes. Fuck. I have to piss. All the drinking has caught up to me. I have to find the bathroom in this house. My bladder is going to explode. Fuck.

I tip toe out the guest bedroom into the living room of the house. After much quiet stumbling around, I am able to find the bathroom and take a bladder emptying piss. I walk out of the bathroom and I realize, I have no idea where the guest bedroom is at. God fucking damn it. I begin walking around this huge house, trying not to make any noise. Seriously, picture this in your mind. I’m a 23 year old Mexican male, not wearing a t-shirt, reeking of booze and marijuana walking and stumbling around the house of some rich person in Newport Beach who has no idea I am there on Halloween. Yeah, how does that look like to you?

I see a swimming pool. I somehow convince myself that I must have passed a swimming pool on my way to the bathroom. I open the glass door and shut it behind me. I then realize that there was no way I passed a swimming pool. I attempt to go back in and the door won’t open. Fuck. I locked myself out. Southern California may not be Chicago or New York City, but it does get pretty cold at night in October.

I’m outside next to the swimming pool freezing my balls off for a good ten minutes. I walk around the backyard trying to figure out if I can just climb over the fence and break myself out of this house. I quickly realize there was no way to do it without making a shit ton of noise. I begin to pace back and forward trying to think of a plan and then as I looked into the house through the glass door I see a middle aged man. Oh well, here goes nothing. I tap on the glass.

He hears my tapping and looks me and is startled. Again, picture it in your mind, a 23 year old Mexican male with no t-shirt is tapping on the glass door of a mansion in Newport Beach on Halloween night at three in the morning. I’m lucky Californians are such pussies about guns. I wave at him and he walks away for a few minutes and comes back with his wife. She is holding on to a phone, probably ready to speed dial 911 and he has a baseball bat in his hand. He cracks open the glass door.

Man: “Can I help you?”

Raul: “Hey sir, I’m sorry, I was here with VampireWitch and she sort of just left me in the bedroom. I went out to take a piss and somehow ended up out here.” I said while shivering.

Man: “You were here with VampireWitch?”

Raul: “Yeah…”

Man: “Hold on a moment.”

I then hear him echo what I said to his wife. Then I hear the wife call up VampireWitch and asking her if she had some strange boy over the house. She then yells at VampireWitch for leaving me behind and bringing strangers into HER house. The Man comes back.

Man: “Your story checks out. But I don’t know who you are and you can’t stay here. You have to leave.”

Raul: “I don’t have a car right now. My friend dropped me off.”

Man: “God damn it.”

He shuts the door and comes back a few moments later with some blankets.

Man: “You can sleep here in the backyard. We’ll give you a ride home in the morning.” He hands me the blankets.

Raul: “Thank you.”

I then lay down on a lounge chair and wrap myself up in the blankets. I doze off into a very uncomfortable, shivering sleep. The bull shit a man goes through to get his dick wet.

~Raul Felix

I like reading about you failing with women. I want more: The Pick-Up Follies: Taqueria Hottie

Where Are My Whores?

Posted on by Standard 11

I feel like my generation has been gypped. I’m not speaking about the typical Generation-Y woes with the failing economy and our youthful optimism and ambitions being crushed by the real world. This feeling of unfairness is only felt by a select group of Americans; the men who served and fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. There is much talk in the news about how both the Bush and Obama administration mishandled those wars, but I’m not here to get into those politics. While these modern wars gave us luxuries unheard of in past generations, there is one thing that past generations of veterans had access to that we were completely fucked out of: liberated groupies and prostitutes.

After the long, intense, brutal fighting of the D Day invasion against the Nazis and slowly reclaiming Europe, the Allied forces were met and seen as liberators of France. With panties drenched in lust for their liberators, French women would fuck soldiers left and right to show their gratitude. Joe was a hero and his reward, if he chose to act upon it, was that wonderful European pussy. In war, no man knows which day will be his last, so it would be logical for him to act upon it. These women knew what their valiant saviors desired and wanted, and provided it with the utmost eagerness.

Such a simpler time.

Such a simpler time.

What happened in Iraq and Afghanistan? Whether we liberated them from the Taliban or Saddam, they may have been grateful, but the women of these nations were not throwing themselves at American troops. They weren’t happily repaying us for their new found freedom from tyranny by eagerly showing us their beautiful Middle Eastern bodies. We didn’t have free rein to fuck Haji bitches and get them addicted to our American dick. No Haji foxy lady ever gave us the “I want to fuck you eyes”. Most of them were quite the opposite, covered up head to toe in veils. Denying the horny and sex deprived American fighting male the eye candy he sorely needs in an effort to keep his sanity. A pure selfish act on their part.

Not sure if she wants to fuck me, or she is about to detonate her suicide vest.

Not sure if she wants to fuck me, or she is about to detonate her suicide vest.

Well, if we couldn’t win the hearts, minds, and pussies of the local women, we should have been able to use the free market and purchase it at a mutually agreed upon price dictated by the laws of supply and demand, correct? That’s what our fighting men were able to do in the Korean and Vietnam War. After killing hoards of gooks, our brave and battle hardened men were able to go back to base and take a few days of R&R. Around the bases, there would be bars and massage parlors where a GI in need of company could easily acquire it. There would be an overabundance of young, feminine, and attractive asian women with adorable accents to chose from and eager to love him long time. He’d then ravage her delicate little body to his heart’s content and consequently, she would then get paid a handsome price, it was truly a win-win situation.

The free market at work.

The free market at work.

In an effort to not piss off the delicate Muslim psyche, the US Military has made it almost impossible for a man to get a prostitute while he is in the war zone. There is no interaction with the local populace outside of missions for most troops. There are no flings with Afghan or Iraqi women or meeting a prostitute with a heart of gold. There are no love affairs that are complicated by the horrors of war and cultural differences as drama slowly unfolds, when both parties learn that love can truly conquer anything. There are no bastard children of American men left behind. The closest we came to finding love overseas is through porn and nude pictures of our and other troops whorish, cheating ex-girlfriends we uploaded to “The Drive” and shared with the rest of the base.

Sex was happening in Afghanistan and Iraq, but that occurred in support units where there were mixed genders and among government contractors. As for the combat arms units compromised of solely men(the ones that actually did the fighting), were left in a state of sexual purgatory, without any hope of female companionship. No Afghan damsel worrying whether the American man she loves will make it back. No Iraqi prostitutes eagerly awaiting for her core American cliental to come by. Nothing but masturbation for us while our girlfriends from back home cheated on us or stopped answering our phone calls. Men at war and whores go hand and hand, too bad our times did away with that beautiful tradition.

~Raul Felix

“Me so horny for more blog baby. Give me blog, me love you long time!” Alright: The Military’s Parasite Problem

My First Overnighter

Posted on by Standard 11

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

“You had quite a night,” she deadpans.

“What did I do?” I inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~Raul Felix

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