The Pick-Up Follies: Sleazy-E’s Revenge

It was all going so well. One moment I’m in with this group of girls who were totally digging me and the next I’m jumping around like a baboon trying to figure out what the fuck happened. My best friend from high school, “Sleazy-E” leering and smirking at me as his swiftly delivered revenge dealt a punishing blow to my ego. He walks up to me and says, “Revenge is a bitch.”

To make sense of this, I have to take you back to the previous weekend. I had just returned home on leave from my first deployment to Iraq. Always excited to have me back in town, Sleazy-E invited me to a house party some students from his university were hosting. Being a 19 year old kid who had not been to a real party in ages, I was more than eager to join.

We arrived at the party, which was located at some suburban house in Riverside. It was a pretty standard college party, most of the people there knowing Sleazy-E in one capacity or another. Sleazy-E pumping me up to be a big deal by saying, “This is my friend Raul and he just came back from Iraq and fought for your freedom!” to everyone he introduced me to.

Most of the college students were asking me the same standard questions they ask every veteran: “Was it hot there…” “See any of those freaky camel spiders…” “You kill anybody…” “What do you think of George W…” “Fuck any of those Arab chicks…” “I would have joined, but…” and so on.

Though it was a decent size party, the girl to guy ratio was atrocious, so I was on a scouting mission for some poon. At one point, I saw this cute blonde that Sleazy-E was talking to. Not thinking much of it, I come up and start talking to her also. As Sleazy-E and I talk and drink with her, I get the feeling she is more into me than into him.

Sleazy-E goes away for a moment and I start heavily flirting with the blonde. He returns and is boxed out and I fail to notice that he is quite upset that I have cock blocked him. Eventually, I get a peck on the lips from her and her number. We eventually leave the party, and I’m oblivious to the fact that Sleazy-E would let this event boil deep inside his core and wait for the proper moment to get revenge.

Fast forward to the next weekend. Sleazy-E’s fraternity is hosting a party and I get invited. I show up and do the standard drinking, socializing, and talking about pseudo-intellectual bull shit that college aged kids tend to talk about because they have the world figured out. I wasn’t having much success with any of the girls I was hitting on. That is, until a group of three girls took a liking to the fact that I was in the Army.

I ran with this. Talking highly of myself and my Army career for the next few years and they were eating it up. The voluptuous Latina girl who was an overall 7 was my target of choice. The group and especially the Latina grew more and more interested in me. Even allowing me to rest my hand on her leg, which is my standard move to see if it’s good to escalate to the next step. Confident that I have this locked down and they’ll wait a few minutes for me, I go to the bathroom to take a piss.

Little did that I know Sleazy-E was watching this interaction and a ploy to get even was brewing in his head. He walks up to them, makes small talk, and then drops this.

Sleazy-E: “Have you met this guy named Raul? Apparently he goes around to parties and says he is in the Army. I think that’s kind of sad. He even had a fake military ID made. But in reality he is just a garbageman.”

Girls: “What? Really?”

Sleazy-E: “Yeah, well I have to go to the bathroom. See you ladies later.”

I come back to the group of girls and notice Sleazy-E leaving them, but think nothing of it.

Raul: “Hey ladies…”

Girls: “We heard something interesting about you. Just wanted to let you know that you don’t have to lie to us. We think you’re cool and have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Raul: “Huh? What are you talking about?”

Girls: “That you’re really a garbageman.”

Raul: “What? No I’m not! I’m a fucking soldier!”

Girls: “Come on now, someone told us that you say that to impress girls. Its kind of messed up you know? There are real soldiers out there risking their lives. Just because you aren’t one doesn’t mean you’re not a valuable part of a society.”

Raul: “What the fuck! But I am a fucking soldier! I just got back from Iraq! Here is my military ID to prove it.”

Girls: “We heard you got a fake one. That’s really sad.”

Raul: “What the fuck? I’m a god damn veteran! Why don’t you believe me? Why the fuck would I lie about that?”

Girls: “We don’t know, but we don’t talk to liars. It was nice meeting you. Maybe if you truly want to be a solider, you should just join the Army instead of lying about it.”

Raul: “What the hell is happening?”

I continued to frantically press my case that I wasn’t an impostor and in fact the real deal, but the girls weren’t having it and they walked away. Sleazy-E came up to me with a huge shit-eating grin because his planned worked out perfectly.

I spent the night completely mind fucked by the experience and spiraled into a vicious cycle of drinking, getting rejected, drinking some more, getting rejected some more, and settled into a lonely, pussyless stupor.

I know you’re reading this Sleazy-E, with a huge self-satisfied grin on your face. Fuck you!

~Raul Felix

Note: Make sure to read the comments for Sleazy-E’s and Kendawgs version of said events.

Read about my other failures in life: The Pick-Up Follies: Taqueria Hottie

Pussy Cats and the Appreciation of Modern Technology

Across the street from the hostel I was staying at in Zurich, Switzerland is a pussy cat theater. I wondered how this was still a viable business model. Ever since the invention of the internet and a day later, internet porn these archaic dens of masturbation have become extinct in the United States. I didn’t come of age when they were around and only seen them in movies from the 70’s and 80’s. Usually, when the protagonists meets up with a shady character who gives him essential information. So being the Curious George I am and the appreciator of anything related to naked women, I decided I would go in and expand my horizons.

The theater walls were covered with posters of porn flicks with women in poses suggesting the want to get gang banged. I pay for my ticket and the attendant gives me a look suggesting he thinks he is better than me. Well, fuck you, at least it’s not my job to clean semen off the floor. As I am walking to enter the theater, a Swiss geezer passes me by and avoids making contact, probably cause he just jerked off. I take my seat in the mostly empty theater with about four or five old men there looking intently at the screen. I think I see one jerk off underneath his trench coat. Movies don’t always lie.

I take my seat and watch the porn flick. After one minute, I’m already bored and have the urge to leave. This sucks. I stop myself from leaving. Give it a chance, it’s a cultural experience, I justify. I tell myself that I’m going to stay for one hour. The flick is in German and it looks like it was made in the 90’s judging by the clothing the actors were wearing. The chick they’re going to bang is the kind I like, big boobs, big ass, and white with brunette hair. I become annoyed at the fact I have to listen to all the talking and see the “plot” unfold. I wish I could just fast forward and see the bitch naked already.

Two women begin to walk around the movie theater, whispering little things into the mens ears. I sneakily look at them and see what they are up to. One grabs a guy by the hand leads him out the theater. They’re fucking prostitutes. Ah, so that is the real business model. This is a place where men can meet prostitutes. The other one comes and offers her services to me. Yes, I declined assholes. I had a conversation the previous night with a local who told me that area of Zurich is currently going through gentrification. Which explains the unique mix of artsy fartsiness, drug addicts, expensive shops, and hookers at the pussy cat theater.

After thirty minutes, I had enough. I didn’t even feel my dick move in this environment. I couldn’t even enjoy the porn knowing that on the other row there was a 50 year old Swiss man jerking it.

I left the theater with a new found appreciation for my laptop and instant access to internet porn in complete privacy. I appreciated being able to watch whatever I want, skip scenes, and go to my favorite parts. Men actually had to put up with this shit back in the 70’s and 80’s if they wanted to watch a porn flick and jerked off discreetly while a few feet away another man was doing the same. It showed me that life sucked in every previous generation and that being of my generation is the best time to be alive. We got all the technology to get us instant access to porn and we have access to archives of every porn film ever made, even on the iPhone. What a glorious time to be alive.

~Raul Felix

You loved it? Of course you did. Now read: Strip Club Blues

The Pick-Up Follies: The Gimp

It was the summer of my third year in the military and I got a phone call from my Army buddy, “Schooner”:

Schooner: “Hey bro, what the fuck are you doing?”

Raul: “Nothing, what’s up?”

Schooner: “Come down to Olympia. I’m with two chicks and they’re down to fuck. I told them about you and they want to meet you.”

Raul: “Sweet, I’ll be over there”

I say without missing a beat.

I jump into my truck and drive down to Olympia, WA to the address he text me. I get to a small suburban neighborhood and locate the house. I knock on the door and a blonde, mediocre looking girl, barely clearing the age of 18 opens it. Then from behind her, comes out Schooner. He leads me to the living room of their house. I find out that the Blonde is a friend with the girl who rents the place. Then from the kitchen, walking awkwardly, comes the “The Gimp.”

As I sit there and listen to them talk, I found out more about The Gimp. She is decent looking woman, aged 28, is about 4’11” and weighs no more than 100 pounds. She had small breasts and no ass. Pretty much a walking, limping stick with a decent looking face. I wonder why she is walking like that, so I whisper to Schooner:

Raul: “Why the fuck is she walking like that?”

Schooner: “Her spine is fucked up. She got in a car accident a few years ago.”

Raul: “Oh, that fucking sucks.”

Schooner: “Yeah, but she is slutty as hell.”

Raul: “Cool.”

At this time in my life I wasn’t the ladies man that I am today. It was sporadic when I hooked up with random chicks. So I wasn’t really in a position to be too picky about a potential dick wetting experience. She brought me a beer and asked:

The Gimp: “Do you know Snuffy and Snaplink?”

Raul: “Yeah, Snuffy lives on the same floor as me and Snaplink is always at his room drinking and playing video games.”

The Gimp: “Yeah, they’re hot, I fucked both of them at same time the other night.”

I sit there not knowing how to respond. Back then I was relatively innocent of the knowledge of how big of utter whores women can be and had not fully developed my jaded and dark attitude towards them.

Raul: “That’s cool.”

I sit there silently thinking to myself that all I want to do is get the fuck out of there. My sexual moral compass was that of a nice kid who wanted to only fuck a girl he cared about and maybe have random hook ups with slightly slutty girls who “usually don’t do that sorta thing.” Not full blown whores whose pussy walls have catered to hundreds of cocks. At least lie to me, bitch.

Schooner and the Blonde start making out. The Gimp grabs my hand and leads me to her bedroom. I’ve barely talked to this girl and she is already leading me to her bedroom. I don’t resist. I start feeling a bulge developing in my pants at the thought that I’m going to fuck her. “Whatever, she’s not that bad looking,” I justify to myself. “I have condom, so I’ll be good.” As we cross the threshold of her room, I smack her almost nonexistent ass, she turns around, and we start kissing. Then I throw her down on her bed and jump on top of her.

The Gimp: “Shhhh… we’re going to have to be quiet. My baby is sleeping.”

Raul: “What?”

The Gimp: “My baby, she’s sleeping.”

She points to the crib I didn’t notice and in there was a baby, no older than three months, sleeping. I didn’t want to know anything about her baby’s daddy, so I refrained from asking. I’m sure if they were still together, I wouldn’t be the last guy she’d cheat on him with. We continue to kiss and I undress her down to her bra and panties. As I work my hands down to her panties, I notice what could only be described as a perfect irony, her panties had a huge cherry right on the crotch. I take a half-second to smile to myself, which I’m sure she misinterpreted as excitement.

As I pull them off, it hits me like a bag of rocks. A very foul stench. What the fuck? Confused, I pause to think of the source of this, and then I realize its coming from her pussy. Holy fuck. This bitch’s pussy smells worse than a fish market on a hot day. I compose myself and quickly think of an escape plan. No way am I fucking or touching that reeking clam of death.

Raul: “Oh shit!”

The Gimp: “What?”

Raul: “I have to go. I forgot that I have to be somewhere very important right now.”

The Gimp: “What? Where?”

Raul: “Don’t worry about it, I just have to go. Sorry.”

I jump out of bed, pick up my clothes, and run to her sink to wash off my face, hands, and use my finger to brush my teeth in a desperate attempt to get the taste and smell of whore off myself.

I step out of her house, get into my truck, and drive off. Her nasty, whorish taste still in my mouth, and reeking of her pussy funk. God damn it. Why can’t it ever be good girls who are down to fuck?

EPILOGUE: I later learned The Gimp was notorious for fucking guys from my unit. I’ve heard of many guys fucking her, maybe she actually washed herself beforehand. But knowing the sexual standards of some of the men I served with, it didn’t matter. She is and will forever be known compassionately as The Gimp. It wouldn’t surprise me if she is being double penetrated right now.

To recap, it wasn’t her whorish behavior that drove me away, or that she probably still had juices from another man inside her, or the fact that her freshly minted baby was right next to us. It was her wretched, stinky pussy. So ladies, take heed, if you’re going to act like a whore, at least don’t smell like one.

~Raul Felix

Strip Club Blues

(c) Dandy Danny

Oh, the wonders of the strip club. The raping that is the entrance fee, the overpriced drinks, and the black lights exposing every little bit of white lint on your black t-shirt. Lets not forget the stickiness of the floors, the aura of pity surrounding the geezers and obese men, and the distinctive smell of a strippers skin, covered in coconut milk lotion, perfume, and glitter in an effort to mask their dead souls. A true wonderland of silicone breasts, C-Section scars, big badonkadonks, and athletic to fat figures.

Recalling the old elementary school rhyme, “There’s a place in France where the naked women dance.” One used to wonder what was so special about France that made naked women dance? Then we learn that there are such places in America, first introduced to many of us by the legendary Al Bundy as The Nudie Bar. As an ignorant and horny youth, it’s one of the places that most young men look forward to visiting. Moms beauty magazines, stolen Hustlers, and online porn do sustain us while we wait; but what can compare to seeing a real life woman dancing and letting you see, and quite possibly touch, her boobies! It’s a young mans right to throw dollar bills at women dancing to support their cocaine habit and/or two kids by two different men.

Of course, in youthful innocence one doesn’t know the bitter reality that actually occurs at these ballrooms of nudity. Images of Al Bundy and the members of No Ma’am getting wild, dancing on the stage with a babe with Rocky Mountain breasts are soon exposed as lies! Upon entering, one is immediately surrounded with an overwhelming amount of testosterone. Businessmen, young GIs, thugs, college kids, and loners occupy some of the best seats. Which wouldn’t be so bad, if it wasn’t for the dead silence of the place other than the music. It isn’t the dungeon of nude wackiness that Married With Children lead us to believe.

As one sits drinking their watered down drink, strippers come around offering to give you and your buddies the dance of a lifetime for $15 for two songs. You do the math in your head and quickly think about how much money you have in your pocket. You pass on this one, she’s not the type of girl you’re looking for. A few more strippers offer and you promptly deny. You have some money to blow, but not that much. You said to yourself you’re not going to spend more than $70 tonight. You already spent $20 on the entry fee and $15 on the two mandatory drinks. You are only going to get one lap dance, maybe two. So you’re going to make it worth it. You’re waiting for the right one to come along that fits your taste.

As your two buddies are each getting a lap dance from a beautiful blond with an athletic build and a petite Asian girl, your eyes are focused on the stage. You’re gawking at her: A curvy, caramel colored mixed Latina/White dancer twirling around the pole upside-down, her brown hair flailing chaotically. She is wearing an American Flag patterned bikini that can barely contain her large breasts. Since you don’t have any singles, you ask your buddy to give you $2. As she finishes her set and picks up the money that is scattered throughout the stage, you walk up to her, pull her g-string back, stuff the $2 in, snap it back and say with a devilish grin,“Come to my table.” She smiles at you and nods.

As she is grinding your crotch and placing her immaculate breasts on your face to motorboat, your finger tips are rubbing her ass ever so gently as to not catch the eye of the bouncers. Your two song are up. She asks if you want another dance. You don’t want her to leave. You haven’t had enough of her. Yes, you do. Another set, another $15. Once it’s complete, she sits next you and runs her hands through your hair. “You’re pretty cute, you know,” she tells you in her soft, accented voice. You start talking to her about yourself and your silly hopes and dreams. She tells you about how she became a stripper and about how she is not like the other girls in the strip club. In fact, she can’t stand them and thinks they’re all a bunch of self-absorbed cunts. Her stage name is Candy, but since you two have formed such a true connection she tells you her real name is Jessica.

After ten minutes of discussing your lives and philosophies, Jessica asks you if you want another dance. You do, you really do. You walk over to the ATM that charges a $10 transaction fee and take out $200. “Okay, I’ll only spend $100 of this and save the rest for later.” Thirty minutes later, your $100 is gone. You continue to talk to Jessica and you realize she doesn’t fit the cocaine addict, single mother, soulless stripper stereotype. She is just a sweet, down to earth girl trying to make some good money until she makes it as an actress. You’re struggling to make something out of yourself, so you understand the pain and suffering of having to do a job you don’t really like until you make it. You two are kindred spirits. You use your second $100. You want more of Jessica and head to the ATM and pull out another $200.

After spending a good hour and a half with this enlightened soul trapped in the stripping profession, you know you have no more money in your bank account that you can blow. But you built such a deep connection with this woman in the process and you’re sure she is completely into you. “All right, I think I’ll let you go for tonight, but before you leave how about I get your number?” You ask. Jessica smiles back at you and gives you a big ol’ hug and says, “I would because you’re sweet, cute, and funny, but I have a boyfriend. I’m so sorry, but you’re going to come back and visit me sometime right?” Your heart sinks, but you lay out a big smile and say, “Of course.”

After you leave the strip club on an emotional high, it hits you. You just spent $490 in 2 hours. That’s a painful amount of money to lose for your broke ass and pay day is not for another 10 days. You got played by a world class saleswoman. You’re pissed at yourself and you’re determined to stick to your $70 budget next time, unlike the previous five times.

~Raul Felix