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

Read more of my work Thought Catalog.

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

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

1. Money management is very important.

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

“Well, Wild Bill…”

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

“Yeah…”

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Come on…”

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

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

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

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

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

3. You’re never too old to philander.

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

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

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

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

~Raul Felix

See more of my work at Thought Catalog

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

Duke decides to make a pot of tea to ease his stress and tension. He sits in the living room waiting for it to boil. His ex-wife was released from jail a week ago after violating his restraining order. Still, he isn’t sure whether she would at last leave him alone. He can still smell the faint scent of her perfume. It made the hair on the back of his neck rise up. Even though he’s a foot taller and about a hundred pounds heavier than her, he fears this woman. He thought he would be able to start over here at his brother’s home. His family had urged him to leave that psycho bitch for years. He loved her. He was a man of his word. He couldn’t leave her when she was sick. That’s how he reasoned holding onto her in those dark days.

He remembered when he first met her. He was twenty-two years old and had just returned from a year’s deployment to Iraq. His previous ex-girlfriend had Dear Johned him with a two-sentence e-mail and refused to answer any of his phone calls.

He met Jade the psycho bitch at a classy piano bar with a wide variety of lovely women from which to pick. About seven or eight beers deep, he laid on eyes on her. She was dancing in a silky black dress with a skirt so short that it barely covered up her ass and pussy. At times, he was sure he could see her white panties. Under normal circumstances, Duke would not have the nerve to talk to her. But liquid courage and the fact he hadn’t touched a woman in over a year took away his inhibitions.

Stumbling over toward her seemed like a quest in itself, for he was shit-canned hammered. A year of no alcohol was taking its toll. He tapped her on the shoulder, gave a quick smile, and started grinding himself on her. Jade, who was equally as drunk, proceeded to rub her ass on his crotch. Their conversation, barely coherent to the outside world, had a wicked chemistry of teasing, flirting, and touching. They were lost in pure, alcohol-driven lust for each other. They fucked at her apartment later that night.

Suddenly he hears her footsteps coming down the stairs. “How did she know I would be here?” he thinks. The steps grow close and closer. He can’t move. Move, damnit, move. He can’t. Even in Iraq he never froze up, yet here he was, unable to move a single muscle.

“Hello, my love,” she says.

He sits there in silence, focusing on her devilish smile and the .45-caliber pistol in her hand. She moves with swift precision toward him and sits down on the recliner across from him.

“Don’t make any sudden movements or I will blow your fucking brains out,” she says. “Now listen. Remember what I told you when we first decided to get married—that I would never, ever let you leave me? Well, I’m keeping true to my promise.”

His body begins to shake. He looks into her dead, emotionless eyes.

“Who is she, Duke?”

“I’m not cheating,” he says.

“Bull fucking shit! You think I’m some sort of fool, don’t you? You think I’m going to let some other woman just have you? You’re fucking mine. Your cock and fucking balls belong to me, Duke!”

He sits there stunned, looking down at the pistol she holds in her hand like a pro. He regrets teaching her how to shoot.

“Let’s say I was cheating on you,” he says. “What would you do then? Kill me? Kill that other bitch? Kill our daughter? What?”

“Oh, Duke, you’re so simple. Do you really think I would let you off that easily? By the time I’m done with you, you’re going to wish for death. I just need a name.”

“No.”

“So you are cheating on me?”

“No. We’ve been done for almost two years now. I have never cheated on you. But I do have someone new in my life,” he says.

“For us to be over, both of us have to agree. I never agreed to it. So you are a fucking cheater. I’m going to kill you and that dirty fucking whore.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, Duke, you would love that, wouldn’t you? I know you miss having me all over you. I know you miss my mouth on your cock. I know you miss having your hands on my boobs and ass. I know you miss the way I would fuck your brains out. I’ll be honest; I miss your body, too. But now you’re tainted with the stench of that bitch’s cunt. I can’t let you just slip away. You have no right to leave me.”

They sit there in silence. She never takes her eyes off him. She seems cold and calculating, as if she’s going over any possible routes for him to escape.

Duke can’t seem to come up with a plan. His eyes shift between her, the pistol, and the living room. He tries to think of something, anything that could get him out of this situation.

The pot of tea on the stove begins to screech. Jade hears it but attempts to ignore it. She has her eyes fixed on Duke. After a few minutes, the hissing starts to irritate her.

“Get up and take that goddamn pot off the stove!” she yells. He heads into the kitchen; Jade follows with the gun locked on his skull. Duke slowly picks up the pot, then as quickly as he can, he turns around and throws the boiling tea into Jade’s face. Jade shoots one round, hitting Duke on top of his right shoulder blade. She howls in pain as the water scalds her skin. Temporarily blind and panic-stricken, she shoots wildly. Duke keeps low and attempts to crawl out of the kitchen. He misses being hit several times by mere inches. He then hears the unique click that signifies the gun is out of ammo.

His shoulder’s bleeding, but Duke gets up and musters his strength and charges toward his blister-faced ex-wife. He tackles her into the kitchen counter, causing knives to be knocked down all over the floor. He’s on top of her, choking her with his left hand. Struggling for air, Jade frantically tries to locate a knife with her hand and grabs onto a knife handle. She picks it up and stabs Duke in the thigh. The pain is unbearable and he rolls over. Covered in their blood, Jade stands above her injured former lover. She grabs another kitchen knife and stabs him in the other leg. “Fuck! Fucking bitch!” he screams. She finds the pistol, heads back to the living room, looks through her purse, and fishes out another clip of ammo.

“My love, I will now purify you.” Jade aims the pistol right at Duke’s forehead. She gently squeezes the trigger and Duke’s brains splatter on the kitchen wall.

~Raul Felix

Read some more of my stuff at Thought Catalog.

3 Signs A Woman Is A Dependopotamus

The Dependopotamus is a vile creature that can be spotted throughout all branches of the US military. She is the dependent of a military man and lacks any form of self-awareness and cognitive capacity to realize what an utterly worthless sack of shit she is. Since most women who marry a military man are upstanding people and citizens, the Dependopotamus is able to disguise herself as a person of character like an insurgent among the local populace. It takes a skilled eye to spot a Dependopotamus in the wild, but if you pay attention to these tips, then you, too, will be able to spot these wretched parasites in their natural habitat.

1. She has an unearned sense of entitlement.

The Dependopotamus has no real-world accomplishments to call her own other than dropping out of the cosmetology program of her local technical college because it just wasn’t her “thing.” Though she is a lazy bitch, she is also a prideful one who boasts to the world that she is a somebody. To sustain her masquerade that she is a contributing member of society, she’ll take her military man’s professional accomplishments and hardships as her own.

She holds on firmly to the belief that just because her husband is a Sergeant First Class, she automatically earns his prestige by proxy. She’ll look down on other women who are married to men who are of a lesser rank, even attempting to boss them around and implying that if they don’t do what she says, it could negatively affect their husband’s career. She shamelessly wears her husband’s rank, not realizing that just because a man sticks his dick inside her body, it doesn’t mean she gains ranks through whore-smosis.

You’ll see her in the comment section of military articles, talking about how her husband has been deployed three times and how hard that’s been to her on the home front, even though all she did was get fat as fuck, spend all his money, and have a half-dozen other cocks inside of her while her husband was in Iraq hoping not to get his legs blown off by an IED.

Yet she will insist on wearing her XXXL T-shirt with yellow pit stains on them that boldly proclaim to the world, “Army Wife: Hardest Job In The Army”—as if sitting on the couch while eating bonbons, fucking around on her iPhone, and watching Netflix as she lets the house get progressively dirtier can compare to being a real soldier. She’ll bitch about how lonely she is because her hubby is always working and deployed, and she’ll use that as her justification to fuck other men—despite the fact the she has no real career or even semi-respectable means of employment. She leeches off the trusting nature of her man in uniform. Poor sucker doesn’t even realize that his homely wife is the incarnation of what is wrong with modern society.

2. She spurts out one baby after another.

While dimwitted, the Dependopotamus is a shrewd beast who knows that there is one surefire way to trap a man: Bear as many of his offspring as possible. Since having a baby in the military is free thanks to the dependency benefits, she’ll be in a constant state of hosting and developing new fetuses that she isn’t certain are from her husband or one of her many lovers.

Though she has three or four offspring, she has little to no motherly qualities or skills. She will allow them to roam wild through the base’s housing tracts like feral critters as she sits in front of her computer Skyping her sister, a fellow Dependopotamus, bitching about how she feels military wives aren’t appreciated enough. She doesn’t see her offspring as children who need love, attention, and care; rather, they are pawns in her scheme to secure a permanent position in the life of her military husband—or, more importantly, a cut of his paycheck and benefits.

The Dependopotamus knows that she has no shot of surviving in the real world without someone else footing the bill. In a different life, she would be one of those women who lives off welfare and has seven kids by four different men, then expects the government to pay for her dumb cunt mistakes. Luckily for her, she grew up near a military base with plenty of young, desperate soldiers who don’t know any better. Like a predator on the hunt, she sought out the weakest of the pack and sank her claws and teeth into them. Poor Private Snuffy never stood a chance.

3. She is a fat fuck.

Not all fat chicks are Dependopotami, but nearly all Dependopotami are fat chicks. A hallmark trait of a Dependopotamus is her gluttony and sloth. Unlike a self-respecting woman who will take advantage of her free time to improve herself, educate herself, and at least keep some token form of physical fitness, the Dependopotamus is content with feasting on junk food, booze, and her husband’s soul.

When she does leave her den, the poorly bathed Dependopotamus will waddle very slowly to her car. She will then drive to the Dependopotamus social ground, the Post Exchange (PX). As she and other Dependopotami sit there eating their third Big Mac and gossiping away, they will scoff with jealousy at the younger, skinnier wives who aren’t complete pieces of shit like themselves. They will stare them down in an effort to shame them for giving their husbands a reminder of what a woman who actually takes care of herself looks like. God help the poor, pretty lady if her husband happens to be in the same chain of command as these green-eyed monsters. For surely they will make her existence miserable until she falls in line and agrees to take measures to become a blubber-bag herself.

The Dependopotamus is a paradox. She is an utterly useless woman with a high sense of entitlement and self-importance. She is completely repulsive, fat, and poorly hygienic but is able to secure a new dick willing to lift up her floopa and smash her guts easily. She is extremely fertile but should be on a list of human beings who aren’t allowed to reproduce because her genes are toxic and will only perpetuate more parasites throughout society. She’s poorly educated yet cunning enough to know all the benefits, regulations, and loopholes to keep her dependent status, secure child support, and extort alimony after divorcing her husband because he had the audacity to accidentally catch her doing a gang bang in their bedroom.

Armed with this useful information, you are now ready to go to your local military base and see if you can spot one of these creatures, but be warned—it will cause you to lose what little faith you may have left in humanity.

~Raul Felix

You can read more of my articles at Thought Catalog.

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

She kissed the back of my neck as we rode the Ortega Highway on my motorcycle. She had asked me to take my jacket off. The reason why was unclear to me, but as we rode, it made perfect sense. She wanted to caress my chest, arms, and stomach. She wanted to rub my shoulder blades and feel the bulge of my biceps as I shifted gears. Her breasts would press against my back, and when I didn’t need to have my left hand on the clutch, I would reach behind, place my hand on her calf, and slide it up to give her ass a firm squeeze. Happiness is very simple for me: I just need a beautiful woman, my motorcycle, and an open highway.

I would always catch her looking out the window of the bar next to the one where I was a bouncer. Our eyes would briefly meet, then I would smirk and continue walking to work since I never had a moment to spare; I have the bad habit of getting to work two or three minutes late. I would do my beginning of shift duties: stand at the door, check IDs, and stare off into the beach. Occasionally, I would walk over next door to see if I could catch another glimpse of her. She seemed to have a sixth sense, because she would always turn in my direction as I did this. We would lock eyes and exchange smiles, but nothing more.

One night I went to have an after-work drink at that bar because I knew she would be there. I spotted her sitting at a booth with her friends. I couldn’t be as aggressive as I normally would have been, since I work around there and a lot of these people were regulars who knew my face if not my name. I needed to be coy and suave. After her friends left, she spotted me and called me over.

“You have a thing for me, don’t you?” she asked. I looked into her green eyes, her pink lips, and took a quick glance at her fake breasts.

“No,” I lied as I shook my head. She was what society would label a cougar, MILF, or mature woman. But I didn’t give a fuck; I wanted her.

“Yes, you do. I always catch you looking at me through the window.”

“I do.” I’m pretty bad at playing coy and suave.

“Well, I don’t really go for young men…”

“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me,” I said and headed toward the door. Once outside, I looked through the window, locked eyes with her, gave a smirk, and headed home. Maybe I’m not that bad at playing coy and suave.

Monday night, save for a couple of regulars, the bar was dead. She appeared through the door and walked up the steps.

“Can I see your ID, please?” I asked her.

“Really? Oh come on.” she tapped my thigh as she passed me, then headed toward the bar. She sat right in front of me. I bit my lip as I looked at the top part of her ass crack that rose above her jeans as she sat on the barstool. She stole glances at me but acted coquettish.

“I’m going outside for a smoke,” she said to the bartender as she walked down the small flight of stairs. I walked down also and stood in front of the entrance.

“There is something about you,” she told me. “You seem way more confident in yourself than a lot of men I run into.”

“Don’t let the fact that I’m a bouncer fool you. This is just a job. I have more life experience than a lot of guys who are ten years older than me.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

We talked. Flirted. Stole a touch here and there. Had short pauses where we stared at each other, resisting our primal desire to rip each other’s clothes off. She would go upstairs, drink a bit more, talk to other patrons to seem inconspicuous, and then come down to smoke another cigarette. She’d repeat the charade several times.

“All right, its time for me to go bed,” she said. “I don’t usually stay out this late.”

“Yeah? Hold on a second.” I grabbed her hand and led her outside to a blind spot out of the bar security camera’s range. I passionately kissed her lips and neck. I gave her sweet and tender goodnight kiss.

I would see her after my afternoon shifts. We would go into alleyways, make out, I’d finger her pussy, slap her ass, and do every form of heavy petting short of oral and actually fucking. She became the highlight of my week.

We arrived at a bar on Pacific Coast Highway and hopped off my motorcycle. I took out some weed we’d been smoking from my saddlebags and took a toke. Then we headed inside, holding hands. She ordered a drink and I just got water. As she stood I sat on the barstool, analyzing her beauty. I pulled her close, wrapped my arms around her, and rested my head on her chest. Heaven. I exhaled every ounce of oxygen in my lungs.

“Why do I feel all this tension released in you?” she asked.

I looked up at her. “I don’t know…”

“You haven’t been loved in a long time, have you?” I didn’t answer. I pulled her close again.

Later we’re in her bedroom. “Eat that fucking pussy!” she moaned. Her legs were on my shoulders as I was tongue-raping her cunt. I was determined to make her cum with my tongue, using every bit of force I could muster to ravage it as her juices and my spit dripped all over the bed sheets. Her body began to spasm, her legs squeezed in on my head, and her hands grasped what little they could of my short hair. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” she was getting closer. “Oh Fuck! Oh Fuck!” her body thrashed wildly, but I kept her under control. Then she came. She breathed heavily, trying to catch her breath. It was time for me to fuck her.

We were lying in bed together a couple of weeks later. I was cuddling up and kissing her all over. “You’re starving for love and affection, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Why do you say that?” I kissed her neck.

“Because you’re so passionate. You give so much. You work so hard at pleasuring me. A person doesn’t do that unless they want to be loved.”

“I do.”

“You know you can’t get that from me. I’ve already done that marriage and family stuff. You need find a girl your age to experience that with.”

“I know.”

“You have other girls, don’t you?”

“Yes. Just none have tried to get close to me. I’m just a fling, a rebound, and an adventure fuck. Something to keep them entertained while they’re bored, nothing more.” I kissed her shoulders and back. I never told her, but this was the closest I’d had to love in a long time. I wrapped my arms around her and buried my nose in her hair. Heaven.

I would walk to work and wouldn’t see her anymore as I looked through that bar’s window. I would text her and wouldn’t get a response. Then she paid me one last visit and told me she was seeing someone. She, too, would fade away from my life. It was to be expected, after all. That’s what men like me are only good for: a fling, a rebound, and an adventure fuck.

~Raul Felix

Read more of my work on Thought Catalog

6 Ways Women Have Rejected Me

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

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

It’s a simple two-step process:

1.

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

2.

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

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

1. The One-Word Answer

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

“So, what do you do for a living?”

“Secretary.”

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

“Thanks.”

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

“School.”

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

“Sad.”

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

“Paris.”

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

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

“Bye.”

2. The Overly Aggressive Bitch Block

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

“Hey ladies…how are….”

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

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

3. The New Age Hippie Rejection

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. The Bait and Switch

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

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

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

5. The Best Friend Forever Barrier

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

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

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

6. The Disappearing Act

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

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

“Hey, it’s Raul.”

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

~Raul Felix

You can read more of my writing at Thought Catalog.

2 Stupid Pieces of Dating Advice That Women Always Give Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~Raul Felix

You can read more of my work at Thought Catalog.