Category Archives: Women

Skill Vs. Serendipity: Why Men Are Studs And Women Are Sluts

Posted on by Standard Reply

(c) cso237(taeb)

Like oh my god, I can’t believe our societal double standard. Why is it that men can fuck around and be studs, while if I fuck too many dudes, I’m a slut?” That’s a question many a young lady has asked herself as she fandangos her iPhone filled with text messages from the two guys she is currently banging at random intervals and a few others who she may bang in the future.

Why is there a double standard? Is it because the evil patriarchy has put into place the systematic oppression of women and uses sex as one of its many tools? Is it because biologically speaking, men subconsciously correlate a woman’s previous promiscuity as an indicator of future behavior and the likelihood she will cheat or worse, trap him into raising a child that isn’t his? Or maybe, just maybe, in order to get laid, a woman doesn’t have to do Jack shit and a man has to tromp through a bunch of bullshit?

Most guys don’t give a shit about girls style, race, where she went to school, or what she does for living when their sole objective is to fornicate with them. Whether she’s an indie-punk chick, a hipster, a quirky nerdy girl, a beauty queen, a preppy, a sexy tomboy, or even one of the few genuinely attractive hardcore feminazis, their pussies are all warm, pink, and moist on the inside.

As Chris Rock said, “It’s easy for ya’ll [to turn down sex], every woman in here since you were 13, every guy you’ve met has been trying to fuck ya.” The truth is that it requires absolutely no skill whatsoever on a chicks part to get a dick to fill her up. Unless she’s an absolute behemoth of a woman with a fucked up face, most of you ladies, if you truly wanted to, can look through your current contacts and find a dozen guys willing to fuck you tonight. Or you can just go to the bar, wear a cute little outfit, and make seductive little faces that convey how much you want a cock up in your guts.

Casual and random sex for you girls is a pure act of serendipity. Other than looking cute and being pleasant, it requires no investment on your part at all. You have a girls’ night out where you “just wanna dance” and enjoy yourself in your circle as you get hit on by guys you consider creepy because they don’t have the style you’re into. Then finally, one who has the look and attitude you’re into finally hits on you. All you have to do is enjoy the attention he gives you; let him do the talking, giggle, agree with him. Play with your hair; drink a few to loosen you up, and next thing you know, you have a mouth full of cum as you finish blowing him in the front seat of his Camaro.

Casual and random sex for a man is an act of skill, perseverance, and a little bit of luck. There are certain standards we as men must meet and conditions we must operate under in order to get into your panties. First, we have to have confidence to approach you and face the stacked odds that you’ll ignore us, nicely say no, or tell us to fuck off because we’re not your type. Some chicks like pretty, blue eyed white guys, others like tatted up bad boys, while others hate their fathers enough to date a man of a different race. If we’re not the right type for you, we’re shit out of luck.

Secondly, you ladies have to be in the right mood to be even hit on. If the chicks period is extra heavy, if she’s undergoing some stressful time where she just wants the whole world to leave her alone, or she feels like being a cunt because she’s too cool to talk to anyone; then most men, no matter how charming or good looking, have no chance.

Let’s say that a man is able to jump those first two hurdles, he has the look a girl is attracted to or at least interested in and she is not in some rabid bitch mood. He still has to say things to keep a girls little feminine minds interested. This is where he has to use his experiences from failures and successes of yore. He has to assess the situation, pick a subject matter to talk about that is sure to make her feel intellectually stimulated, emotionally connected, and make her laugh. Depending on how good-looking of a dude he is, the degree of how funny he has to be varies.

Then there is the unforgiving Best Friend Forever (BFF) Barrier. Ladies, many of you have perfected this to an art form by the age of 21. You clumsily flop from one bar to another in your high heels. Upon reaching a new destination, through slut-mosis, you form a sphere shaped BFF Barrier effectively blocking out the rest of the world. Usually, the hottest chick will be in the middle, underneath the watchful of eyes of her less attractive friends. If a man should be so lucky to be able to attract the attention of the girl he’s after, he still must win approval from iron fisted BFF Barrier. He must outwit, charm, befriend, and persuade them to rally for his cause. If he is unable to do so, then they will veto him by passive aggression: they will start looking the other way, check their phones, and physically boxing him out with their flailing, I mean, dancing.

Upon completing that objective, it’s still not all smooth sailing from there. If a man is unable to seal the deal on the first night, there is less than 25% chance that’ll he’ll ever see or hear from this chick again to get another try since western women these days are notoriously fickle. They’ll lie about not seeing a text (bitch please, you’re on your phone 24/7, we’re not stupid, we don’t believe your poorly thought out lies), will wait forever to respond, will make plans but never confirm, or flake on dates without giving it a second thought because they just didn’t feel like it or found a better option.

Its rough, but these are the facts of the dating world that we as men operate in. We understand the supply and demand system. We have a demand for your little pink lady parts and chicks, as the supplier, have autonomy over the distribution of the goods. We want those goods, and are thus are willing to trudge through market driven price of chick-bullshit that comes with it. A man has to be able to brush off rejection with a simple, “Oh well, fuck it, her loss,” and move on, never thinking of her again. While most chicks, if they ever even have the balls to hit on guy and get rejected, will make it an emotionally significant event in their lives that will inspire many a shitty poem and emotioncon laden text messages to their BFF’s.

Adjusting for those extremely rare times when he got retardedly lucky, he had to earn every notch he gets. He had to have the confidence to approach, the right look, catch her at the right time, say the right things, make her laugh and smile, charm her and her friends. If he didn’t pee in her butt the night they met, he had to take her for drinks, charm her some more, impress her with his life story and interests, not say anything too stupid, make the right moves, in order to just lay the pipe. For ever pipe he laid, he has had to deal with half a dozen or more other chicks shitty attitudes, lies, flakiness, bullshit, fickleness, shit tests, stupid friends, irrational behaviors, and a host of other unique problems. This is why a man who is able to secure sex from various women is considered a stud. All a woman has to do is: look relatively decent, show up to a place where men gather, not be a bitch, and open her legs. She doesn’t have to approach, she doesn’t have to particular look, she doesn’t have to catch him at the right time, say the right things, or even win his friends over. She just needs to show up, be serendipitous, and it’s cocks galore. This is why a chick who has sex easily with various men is a considered a slut. In a capitalistic society, we value skill over mediocrity. The skills of being a stud are so hard to acquire that only a small percentage of men are able to accomplish it, in turn, society holds it in prestige. While the low level skill of being a slut can easily be mastered by any chick with a shitty enough upbringing.

So, ladies, as you text the couple of guys you’re banging, just think about how much bullshit you put him through to get into those panties or better yet, think of all the men you’ve rejected and how many rejections they have to go through just to eventually get a piece of ass. Surely, you didn’t have to put as much effort to get the current cocks you’re sucking.

~Raul Felix

Appeared On Thought Catalog: Skill Vs. Serendipity: Why Men Are Studs And Women Are Sluts.

The Pick-Up Follies: The Dance Fiasco

Posted on by Standard 3

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

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

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

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

HipsterGlasses: “Yeah? You want to dance?”

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

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

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

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

Dirty Dick: “Did you break her?”

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

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

Raul: “Fuck.”

I walked over to her.

Raul: “Are you okay?”

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

Raul: “Oh fuck. I’m sorry…”

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

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

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

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

HipsterGlasses: “Vodka Redbull.”

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

Raul: “How’s the foot?”

HipsterGlasses: “Still fucked up.”

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

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

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

Raul: “Sure.”

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

Which do you think was the cute one?

Which do you think was the cute one?

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

~Raul Felix

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

The Pick-Up Follies: The Snow Fatty

Posted on by Standard 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

Raul: “That chick is looking at me.”

Jonathan: “Go for it.”

Raul: “But she’s really old.”

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

Raul: “Really?”

Jonathan: “Yeah man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~Raul Felix

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

Who’s Fucking My Woman?

Posted on by Standard 26

“You know what is really fucked up?” says my buddy, “Your future wife is out there right now and she’s banging some other dude. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Yeah, your future wife could be getting gang banged right now,” I say with a smirk because I think I am clever.

A few hours pass and I’m working out at the gym, an epiphany strikes. ”Holy fuck! My future wife could be getting gang banged right now! FUCKING WHORE!” I think to myself, “No fuck that, I’ll never accept that in a woman who would be my significant other.”

Even without going to the orgy extremes, there is still a very high chance that she probably has some other dudes schlong nestled snuggly in one of her pleasure holes. More than likely, some other guy has already been her first blow job, fuck, and anal experience. As a fully grown man, there isn’t anything you can do about it. Girls are losing their virginity before they even graduate high school. Unless you want to run the risk of losing your anal virginity in federal-pound-me-in-the-ass prison because of statutory rape, it’s a fact of life you’re going to have to accept.

I try to reason with myself that maybe she won’t be a virgin by the time she gets to me, but please don’t be a used up whore. Then I churn in my head all the shit I’ve learned about women over my short lifetime. I think of the girls I’ve known who’ve gone through their slut phases in their teens and twenties. They are now settling down into a real adult relationship or having kids, kissing their little infants with lips that have sucked dozens of cocks.

This is where the modern man and traditional machismo man inside me have a moral qualm. “I’ve had my share of random pussy and sexual experiences,” says the modern man, “How can I be a hypocrite?” Then machismo man says, “You’re a man. It’s your nature to go out to fuck random women, do stupid shit, and then apply the lessons you’ve learned when you get into a relationship with a woman who is actually worth settling down with. Whores are to be used and then promptly tossed aside.”

“Women are people too. They’re free to make their own sexual choices,” says the modern man.

“Yes, they are. You don’t have to accept them though. Just as she has the right to fuck around, you have the right to not to take a woman who has fucked around too much as a candidate for a partner,” rebuttals the machismo man.

“Well, that’s true. But, you’re not going to find a virgin over the age of 18 though. Even if you did, there’s a 95.5% chance it’s either because she’s a religious prude or just an ogre of a woman,” says the modern man.

The machismo man pauses, “You make a good fucking point. There is a balance to be had, the number just can’t be too high.”

“What’s too high of a number?” Asks the modern man.

“I don’t fucking know. Uh… hopefully in the single digits or at the most, one dude per year since she’s lost her v-card,” responds the machismo man.

I can already hear the responses about how it’s hypocritical or how if she had safe sex, it really shouldn’t matter. Or more likely, it shows lack of a self confidence in a man because he can’t handle a woman who enjoyed sex or that he’s slut-shaming. There is nothing wrong with a woman loving sex. Women who love sex are fucking awesome. The issue is how easy it was for her to spread those legs to whatever cute guy she came across after having one or two cosmos.

This is the feeling a lot of us machismo men, yes, I unapologetically admit to being very machismo, possess: we want to conquer and dominate. We want to be the best lover in our woman’s life and it irks us to know someone else possessed her at some point. We don’t want to share. We don’t want to boldly go where dozens (maybe hundreds) of cocks have gone before. We want to go to pristine, fresh grounds that only a few, very select and lucky cocks got to prance around in.

Does a woman become a less valuable member of society because she’s had a train ran on her by a platoon worth of men? Of course not. It doesn’t make her a bad person or vile creature to be avoided. She can still be a great friend, co-worker, and contributing member of society. It’s her right to do whatever the fuck she wants. There are always consequences to said actions. Consequences of being a whore is that some men are going to be put off by it.

Just like many a woman may not want to be with me because I’m Hispanic, self-centered, not her type, unstable, lower class, unestablished, an alcoholic, uneducated, or many other factors. For me, being a whore is a deal breaker, plain and simple. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still fuck her but take her as serious girlfriend material? Not going to happen.

Some may curse me for wanting that, hoping that I do end up falling in love with a whore to teach me a lesson for having the balls to state my standards. That’s on par with me wishing for a woman to end up with a cheating husband because she said she didn’t want to be with a man who cheats. Or wishing a Jewish woman ends up with non-Jew because she said she only dates Jewish men.

Part of being a free individual in our society is that we get to pick the qualities we value in our partners. No body is perfect and we’re all fucked up in our own way, but each of us have qualities that we put at a higher priority above others. A woman can be a whore and be a great person or a woman can be a virgin and be a total piece of shit.

For myself, I value looks, intelligence, good character, ambition, and non-sluttiness. Other mens lists may be different. A woman’s list may be different. Your list may be different. It’s our quest to find that person that possess the qualities we value highly and hopefully, we possess the qualities they value highly in return so they’ll actually want to be with us.

Am I such a horrible person for not wanting a whore as a significant other? Its fine, you wouldn’t want to be with such a backwards thinking, macho, misogynistic asshole who doesn’t value your right to express your sexual liberations by having cocks of all sorts destroying your orifices any ways. And future ex-wife, if you’re reading this, please try to keep it in the single digits.

~Raul Felix

“You sexist pig! Who do you think you are?” At least I didn’t make a rape reference… oh wait: Politcally Incorrect and Loving It

Guy Talk: Hot Tranny

Posted on by Standard 8

Raul: “Dude, that fucking Tranny was hotter than most chicks. I am genuinely jealous that you picked her up.”

Calvin: “I know, right? It was really sexually confusing.”

Raul: ”Well, it’s not gay because you weren’t attracted to her masculine features. You were attracted to the parts of her that looked like a hot chick.”

Calvin: “Still, she told me she had a dick.”

Raul: “Ewww… fuck that.”

Calvin: “I figure the only way I could do it is if she and I were both fucking the same chick. The chick could be sucking my dick and she could be fucking her from behind. That way I only see the her face and boobs and I can kiss her and play with her boobs.”

Raul: “So you can go to second base with her? Anything after second base would be gay?”

Calvin: “Exactly.”

Raul: “Fuck yeah. She had some really fucking nice boobs. I wish I could have seen them like you got to.”

Calvin: “They were really nice.”

Raul: “I don’t know man. I wouldn’t be able get to over the fact that she had a dick.”

Calvin: “That part is sort of gross.”

Raul: “Maybe if she was post-op it would be easier.”

Calvin: “Surgeries are pretty good these days.”

Raul: “Do they actually make it look like a legit vagina?”

Calvin: “Yeah man. They use your scrotum skin to replicate the labia.”

Raul: “What about lubrication? There is no way they can replicate that.”

Calvin: “I don’t know. Just use lube I guess.”

Raul: “Do they still feel pleasure if you fuck them in the pussy? One of the best parts of sex for me is making my woman feel good and if she doesn’t feel anything, what the hell is the point?”

Calvin: “I think they use the skin from your dick head to make a makeshift clit. That’s all a clit really is, an underdeveloped dick.”

Raul: “You think technology will get so good one day that they’ll be able to perfectly create everything about the vagina, even the whole lubrication and pleasure aspect of it?”

Calvin: ”I’m sure it will.”

Raul: “If I did fuck one, I’d prefer to stay blissfully ignorant.”

Calvin: “You can always tell by the hands. You can change everything but the hands.”

Raul: “I’ll fucking keep a look out for that. I don’t want to fuck a dude.”

~Raul Felix

“That’s fucking disgusting. You’re going to hell!” Fuck you and read: Guy Talk: Animal Love

Three Crappy Mistakes I’ve Made as a Boyfriend

Posted on by Standard 14

So you think you’ve got your woman on lockdown because your competence as a lover is so grand that the mere sight of you makes her privates all moist and tingly. With your confidence, masculine presence, and sexual powers, you’ve managed to enslave her with your cock. It’s a great feeling isn’t? You’ve dedicated yourself to learning how her delicate, soft, and beautiful body reacts to your touches as you finger bang her through her pretty pink panties. You’ve communicated with her and found out what turns her on and what really turns her on, that nympho. She’s your little toy that you use as you please. Life is good.

Now, I want you to think about the other things you do in your relationships after you’ve given her the most amazing 30 seconds of her life with your 3 inches of fury, stud. As much as you wish it wasn’t true, a vast majority of the time you spend with her isn’t going to be with your cock punishing one of her orifices. What are some things you can do to avoid losing your precious little nympho during those times when you can’t display your coital powers? Here are some crappy mistakes I’ve made as a boyfriend.

Don’t Make Minimums, Maximums

You don’t cheat on, beat, or emotionally abuse your woman. Great, maybe you also want your cock sucked for not murdering someone, robbing a bank, or pushing old ladies down stairs. That’s not something to be proud of, it should be a standard that you hold yourself to. It’s what is expected out of you from a relationship, it’s not just a happy plus.

When is the last time you’ve done something to really make your woman feel special? Has it really been that long you can’t even remember? You’re fucking up. You don’t believe it matters, but it does.

My ex was a very lovely Israeli woman and I would take a one and half hour bus ride to go see her. I’d do it twice a week, sometimes more. In my mind, I was doing a lot for her. I was going out of my way to see her all the time, that’s romantic right? Did it ever occur to me to buy her flowers, get her chocolates, or other cutesy crap girls like? Yes, it did, but I always failed to act upon it. I thought the trip I was doing was more than enough to show my love. I failed to acknowledge the subtle and not so subtle hints she gave that she wanted me to do more romantic things.

Don’t make the minimums your maximums. She is your woman, you’re expected to go out of your way to see her. You’re expected to take her out on occasion. You’re expected to tell her she is beautiful. Just because you do those things, doesn’t mean you can’t do more. You can buy her those flowers or surprise her with a sushi candlelight dinner on the balcony. You can send cute little love letters through the mail that will be reminiscent of by gone era before the invention of e-mail. Yes, the big things matter, but so do the little things. Strive to do way more than is required to be a good boyfriend.

There is a lazy human tendency we all tend to have where we become complacent. We grow comfortable in our relationships and start believing the just doing the minimum to show our love and devotion is enough. We already did all that romantic bullshit in the beginning, why do we need to keep on doing it? It’s established how we feel. Boredom sets in, gentlemen, and your little sex vixen will wonder why she is no longer worth your thoughtfulness and attention. She will become bored and disenchanted, and a woman bored and disenchanted is one in a position to over examine every detail of the relationship and what it has become.

The choice is yours, maybe she’ll stay loyal and break up with you cleanly, or maybe she’ll fuck around on you, but either is something you can avoid if you took those extra steps. If she does either any ways, fuck that bitch then, at least you gave it your all.

It’s Okay to Look, but Don’t Lie About It

I know some people are in an open relationship, which is cool, but that’s not how I roll. That doesn’t mean I don’t take the liberty to check out a hot piece of ass that is passing by. My girl and I would be walking along being a happy and loving couple, when all of sudden some chick with a generous breast size would come towards us. My eyes would focus on those huge tits, but being the tactful man I am my head or body movements would never give a hint. Then, she would pass by, I would wait three-seconds and turn around to check out the ass. I was a sly one.

I wasn’t. My girl noticed every single time. Your girl notices every single time. She probably will notice the chick before you and thus knowing your tastes, will know she is the kind of eye candy you go after. She will then begin to sense any type of movements or subtle changes you make in your misguided effort to masquerade eye-fucking another chick.

Now, the part the truly pisses her off is not the fact that you’re checking out other chicks, but that you’re making a pathetic attempt to hide it. You really think your girl is that clueless that she won’t notice you eye-fucking every fine piece of ass the passes by? Don’t insult her intelligence.

The best thing to do is to be honest about it. It’s natural for you as a man to be attracted to other women (and she to other men.) Its part of our genetic make up. If you have a traditional type relationship, make sure to follow the age old rule: look, but never touch. As long as your woman isn’t the overbearing, jealous type she won’t mind too much if you look so long as you don’t do anymore than that. Honesty is the key.

Who knows, if you tell her what kind of girls you’re attracted to, she’ll be more inclined to suggest some extra naughty things in the sack and maybe, dare you dream, suggest a threesome. Most likely not though, but it’s always nice to fantasize about it.

Easy on the Criticism

You like big 36DD sized boobs, but your girl has a respectable, but slightly smaller sized 36C. You know what is not a great idea? Telling her that maybe she should get breasts implants. Yes, I said that, and yes, I am an idiot.

By criticizing her body, you have undermined her self-confidence, and thus her willingness to be your little sex vixen. How is she suppose to feel sexy wearing that silk red lingerie she bought just for you if you told her you prefer big floppy boobs over her nice and perky ones? It’s the equivalent of her saying she prefers a cock that is only a couple of inches larger than yours.

Seriously, think about that for a moment. Your woman who you love so dearly, just told your cock is just a bit too small. How good do you feel about yourself? Do you feel adequate? Do you feel like a man? I bet you don’t. You are doing the same thing to her by criticizing her slight lack of breasts size. You are making her feel bad, inadequate, and unfeminine. Pretty easy to make her pussy dry up like Death Valley. Kind of fucked up thing to do to the person you love.

As long as your woman isn’t obese, getting obese, or disgusting (why would she be your woman if she was), make her feel comfortable in her body. Her body has a special uniqueness that only belongs to her. Part of the fun of fucking a woman is that you get to feel every inch of her. Your hands have free to reign to run wild all over her body and feel how her special curves line up. Enjoy it, because they are a part of her and most likely, you’re never going to fuck a girl that looks perfectly like her again.

Make it known that you love to ravage every inch of her body and keep your hyper critical and non-constructive comments to yourself. You’ll get so much more in return. Otherwise, you’ll be back to jerking off to porn with girls with 36DD in no time.

~Raul Felix

“Awww that was sweet, how about you stop this love shit and show me some sexist stuff.” Fine: The Feminine Afcionado

Note: This post has been featured on Return of Kings

Empty Chair

Posted on by Standard 9

I take my seat at the restaurant
Table for one
An empty chair across from me
Your chair

I sit there waiting for the waiter
I wonder what I would have said
To make you crack a smile
To hear the sound of your laughter

The waiter asks my drink order
I’ll take a beer, a Hoegaarden please
What would you have ordered?
Or would you have just sipped off of mine

Silence
I drink my beer in silence
something that was rare
when you were sitting across from me

No snarky comments about the
lady across from us who is too fat
or that big breasted chick on the right
or how you should just order your own beer

I place my order
something filling and hearty
you would have ordered
something with shrimp in it

Running low on my first glass
I would have ordered two
just to stop you
from sipping off of my beer

I look at the empty chair
My hand would have been on your thigh
I would be giving you random kisses
And teasing you in what I believe to be adorable ways

The food is here
After I took my first few bites
I would have taken some of yours
you would have taken some of mine

The meal is good
I would have ate it too fast,
still hungry
I’d take what’s left of yours

The check is here
It would have been my turn to pay
I’d let you calculate the tip
and we’d be on our way

I leave alone
Those days are over
I wonder who would take your place
In that empty chair.

~Raul Felix

Some more deep shit: Heartbreak

The Pick-Up Follies: The Halloween Abandonment

Posted on by Standard 15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither one of these girl is VampireWitch.

Neither one of these girls is VampireWitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. I took a couple of shots of whiskey.

5. I vomited in the bushes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VampireWitch: “Do you have a condom?”

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

VampireWitch: “Are you kidding me?”

Raul: “You could suck my dick.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Man: “Can I help you?”

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

Man: “You were here with VampireWitch?”

Raul: “Yeah…”

Man: “Hold on a moment.”

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

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

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

Man: “God damn it.”

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

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

Raul: “Thank you.”

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

~Raul Felix

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

For The Women

Posted on by Standard 9

“If there hadn’t been women we’d still be squatting in a cave eating raw meat, because we made civilization in order to impress our girlfriends.”
-Orson Welles

Behind every form of art composed by a man there is an ulterior motive. Artistic expression is important and good for the soul, but what a man is truly trying to do is attract the attention of higher quality woman than he would have other wise. I trudge forward each day, not only because I know this what I want to do with my life on a professional level, but because as an added benefit, my little artsy fartsyness attracts the attention and forms a connection with women I wouldn’t have otherwise.

Successful and ambitious men are valued higher to women than not-so-successful and slothful ones. The more success a man gains throughout his lifetime, the more value he has to prospective women. The quantity and quality of his options increases dramatically. The driving force behind everything we do as men is to get more and better pussy, plain and simple. John Mayer can fuck at least 80% of the women who go to his concerts. Same holds true of Tucker Max with women who go to his book signings and Ray Lewis with women who are Baltimore Raven fans.

I’m not a fully successful man yet. I have to work my ass off for every piece of pussy I get. I get rejected by 90-95% of the women I approach. Women don’t just offer themselves up to me. I have to play the game like everyone else. A game where women have the distinct advantage because all they have to do is dress up slutty, show some cleavage, not be total repulsive freaks, keep their cuntish attitudes to a minimum, and they’ll have men hitting on them and offering to buy them drinks.

I play it hard. I have to say the right thing to peak her interest, I have to have the look she is attracted to, she has to be in the right mood to be hit on, and her friends have to not be cock blockers who will box me out. Yes, you girls know exactly what the fuck I am talking about. That little box out move you pull where you grab your friend, have her dance or talk close to you, put your backs towards the guy, then ignore him completely and act aloof while averting eye contact. You’re not sly, but whatever you got to do to keep creepers away right?

How important is success value? I’ll share with you a short tale. I was home on leave just freshly back from a deployment and went to a bar on Main Street, Huntington Beach. I started talking to this cute blonde girl and totally dropped the I’m an Army Ranger and freshly back from combat bomb in an effort to get her panties wet. It worked. She was digging me, rubbing up on me, and laughing at my shitty jokes. Things were going well. Then, her cunt of a friend strolls up to her and says something about how she met some guys who were defensive linemen for the University of Southern California. The chick grabs the blonde’s hand and took her away easily. Guess who banged the blonde and who went home to jerk off using his own tears as lubrication?

I can’t hate on those guys. They worked hard to become defensive players who were good enough to play at the college level. She obviously thought it was more impressive that they were college football players than the fact that I was a veteran. She was most likely just pumped and dumped by them any ways. The lesson is learned: Excelling at a form of entertainment makes women go after you and puts you in a better position to have your pick to use and discard them as you wish, and have your choice of the highest quality ones to make your significant other.

Why does a man play music? Yes, to express himself, but also because it makes the groupies in the front row privates tingle. Why does he paint a painting? Cause those artsy chicks dig it and will suck his cock. Why does he write? Because women who love his writing will write to him and offer their bodies. Even a man as ugly as Charles Bukowski had lovely women half his age clamoring to be pounded by him.

I don’t have athletic, musical, or painting talent. I’m not the smoothest talker and while I’m nice looking, I’m not great looking. However, I have writing talent. This is the place where I turn the tables in my favor. Day by day I hone myself. I’m obscure, I’m a nobody, and it’s going to be that way for a while. As I build myself, I’ll start getting messages from female fans who want to be more than just fans. It will be a random one here and there at first. Then a few more and a couple of chicks offering to do a threesome. Until, one day, I hit the big time and I’ll have more sexual offers thrown at me than I can handle. Then I’ll start to wonder if these women actually like me for the real me or my image, money, and fame. I’ll then write a post about how women are gold digging bitches and how I wish I could find a good girl to be with like the type who liked me when I was a nobody.

Those days are far ahead. Meanwhile, I’ll keep my scrappy and hungry attitude. Roll your eyes now, but one day, the words I write, will win over the hearts of the best of you.

P.S. As for why women and homosexual men create art, I don’t fucking know. I’m neither one of those.

~Raul Felix

If you’re not the best, you may be the rest: I’d Pee in Her Butt

Heartbreak

Posted on by Standard 6

We men are strange creatures. We’ll take an ass kicking, break our bones, or even take a bullet without shedding a tear. We’ll just take a salt tablet and drive on. Men don’t cry for that shit. However, give us a beautiful, charming, and witty woman who inspires us, fulfills us, and makes us feel emotionally secure, and then take her away, we’re crying ourselves to sleep every night. Eventually, she’ll get tired of your bullshit and insecurities. She’ll get tired of your vices and lack of maturity. She’ll get tired of you. Then before you know it, she has been pushed to her limits and decides to end the love affair.

I have been lucky enough to have had a few loving and heavily passionate relationships with some very pretty women in my life. Each one, ended with the woman ripping my heart apart. Some were gentler than others, but the end result was the same: A very angry, heart broken Raul Felix full of self-loathing and despair.

Being heartbroken, depending on your perspective, can be a spectacular comedy or tragedy.

First order of business: Drink heavily, indiscriminately, and execute the task with extreme prejudice. This act of self-destruction is highly effect at showing your ex-girlfriend what type of high-quality man she has let go. Through each drink conquered, you have shown her that you are truly a winner and an unrelenting go-getter who is unswayed by insurmountable odds such as the lines that defines socially acceptable, reasonable, or safe amounts of alcohol consumption.

As you sit there, alone in the dark, wallowing in the pile of shit that is your existence, you’ll begin to brood. You’ll start thinking about all the good times. The way she laughed, her wonderful scent, all those times you fucked and how hot she looked with your cum dripping down her face. How conversation with her seemed to effortlessly flow and your cute little inside jokes. The way you would smack her ass randomly. She was the person you told all the little and big things to and the first and last person you spoke to each day. She even sent you nude pics of her so you can masturbate to them when you weren’t spending the night together. Gives you a warm and fuzzy just thinking about it.

Then, anger will rush through your veins as you can’t seem to fathom why its over. You were good to her! You told her you loved her and bought her flowers that one time. Never mind all the times you were extremely selfish, unthoughtful, and just plain mean. Or those times that you pushed the envelope too far with your drunken bullshit. Or those times you flirted with other women shamelessly. Or those times you made her feel insecure and not worth while. Yeah, never mind those parts, you were a good a boyfriend 95% of the time.

“Fuck this cunt,” you think to yourself. That 5% of you isn’t that fucked up is it? You’re not a drug addict or a broke, unemployed loser with no ambition who lives with mama. Sure, you’re a bit of a slacker and procrastinate on shit until the last possible minute. But she isn’t perfect either! You then begin to list of the personal traits of her you don’t like, after calling out two or three, you can’t really think of much more. You’re an idiot, you let such a fine woman hate you because you acted like yourself.

You know what sounds like a great idea even though it’s 3 a.m.? How about you compose long winded e-mail professing your undying love to her. She will be greatly impressed by your mule like stubbornness to talk to her even though she has already blocked you from Facbooking and texting her. After composing a masterpiece of romance and eroticism that is sure to rekindle the fire of her love again, you press send. That line where you told her that she was as special as a retarded, dancing Hyena wearing a clown costume is a soliloquy destined to be placed among great cantos.

You know what isn’t going to give you a sense of nostalgia? If you look at all the pictures you have of her. No, that isn’t a sharp pain you feel in your chest as you notice how pretty her nose is. No, your heart didn’t skip a beat when you realize how perfectly she looked by your side. No, your eyes aren’t watering as you realize that she was right for you. Nope, you didn’t feel any of that shit. Your heart is not bleeding. Feeling feelings is for pussies.

You wake up in your bed the next morning. Your laptop on your chest and shut off because the battery ran out. There are several empty beer cans scattered about and an almost full one next to you on your table that you took one or two sips out of, after which you promptly passed out.

You take a huge beer-shit, shower, and begin to drink water. You replug your laptop and dread to find out what you wrote last night. You check your e-mail, a new message from her. Apparently, as your message history shows, you decided that she didn’t respond to your sugary prose quickly enough and you decided to turn sour and mean. Saying all sorts of things that no lady should ever have to hear and thus reminding her why she left you in the first place. Economists like to say that people always behave in a rational way with the information they have. At that time when you wrote to her and called her a “wretched cunt who destroyed your heart and is probably fucking some other dude right now cause she is a fucking whore.” You probably had some legit source of information that would make that seem like the right call, and not an act of drunken paranoia.

You chat and argue with her for a while. She then tries to plea with you to leave her alone, let her be happy, and that she wants what is best for you and you’re a good man in your own regard, but you’re just not right for her. That she will always love you and never forget you. You being of sober mind set, agree to leave her alone and not talk to her. A few nights later, fueled by booze and bitterness, you decide that if you can rally up the troops of lost love for one last push, you can come out triumphant.

~Raul Felix

Only certain type of women are worthy of my love: The Feminine Aficionado