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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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.

Watching You Get Dressed Again

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

“Oh, shush,” you say.

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

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

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

“Come here,” I say.

“No, I have to finish getting ready.”

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

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

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

“Fuck, yeah, I do. You turn me on.”

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

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

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

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

“Red!”

“You always want red.”

“Then why the fuck do you ask me?”

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

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

“Give me a second.”

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

“Alright, mi amor, ready to go.”

~Raul Felix

Read more of my work at Thought Catalog.

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

“Fuck you, cunt!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fucking rabid whore.”

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

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

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

“Fucking bitches…”

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

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

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

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

“Fuck her! I don’t need her.”

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

~Raul Felix

You can read more of my writing at Thought Catalog.

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

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

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