Category Archives: Women

Sabertooth Prowl

Posted on by Standard 5

I’m at a friends wedding; drinking, socializing, and over all having a great time. As my friends and I are dancing in a completely homo-erotic fashion, we noticed  a crowd forming around us. Some of those in the crowd cheering us on are 50+ years old women. Praising our daring and stylish dance moves. It would be flattering if these women were within a twenty year radius of our age, but these women are beyond cougars, they are sabertooth tigers.

I’m a dashing mo-fo. I’ve been blessed with being tall, dark, and handsome. I’m 6’2″, 205lbs, and I have always kept an athletic body. I have broad shoulders, strong arms, flat stomach, and a good sized chest. Not to mention that my thick, black Latino hair defies the laws of physics. I have a small crack in between my front teeth (a feature that runs in my family) that I think gives my smile a cute, unique character. I’m a rock solid eight when it comes to looks. Some girls have given me a seven but that’s because they are idiots. Pretty much, I am the balls.

Since I am such a fine specimen of a man, I find myself the target of these sabertooths when they are on the prowl. They’ll see me walking by and I will spark memories of that Latino bartender they banged in Cabo San Lucas during Spring Break 71′. Maybe of their schoolgirl crush of Ritchie Valens or their mid 30’s love affair with 80’s Latin sensation, Erik Estrada. In their mind, if they can corner me, the young unsuspecting cub, I can help them relive their younger, less boob sagging selves fantasy.

While none of the sabertooths made a move on me at the wedding and stayed content with their dirty fantasies about me, I’ve had my share of incidents with overly aggressive ones. One such incident occurred at a bar called Foxfire in Anaheim Hills, CA. I was sitting alone at my table, drinking my beer, and seeing what was going on on the dance floor. A sabertooth aged about 60 years sits down right next to me. She was blond, drenched in make-up, her breasts were heavily exposed, and she was wearing a white corset looking outfit. She looked like a salty ol’ time stripper who was looking for a place to die.

Stripper Sabertooth: “Hey, big boy, you’re mighty hot young stud aren’t you?”

Raul: “Uh… yeah, thank you.”

She moves in closer and presses her breasts on my shoulder.

Stripper Sabertooth: “I like Latin men. How about you and I have some fun on the dance floor?”

I reexamine her breasts and for as old as she was, they were actually in pretty good shape. Then I take a better look at the cosmetic explosion that is her face and look away to not make eye contact.

Raul: “No, thanks. I’m good. Just enjoying my beer.”

I say with an awkward smile. I’m doing my best not to say anything mean or hurt her in any way. She presses on.

Stripper Sabertooth: “What? Do I make you nervous honey? I’m sure a lady with my sort of experience can make good use out of a young stud like you.”

Raul: “I’m sure you could. But I have a girlfriend.”

I lie.

Stripper Sabertooth: “She’s not here and I’ll never tell. Come on handsome, let me show you a good time.”

She says into my ear and then brings up her breasts about an inch away from my face.

Raul: “I’m sorry. I just can’t…”

A drunk Raul would have been more aggressive with his rejection, but I was barely on my first beer and thus a decent human being with morals and boundaries. She looks at me, squints her eyes, adjusts her breast in an effort to show me the glory I was missing out on, and storms off.

As I watch her walk away, I begin to giggle to myself and shake my head. Just thinking about how this only happens to me with either: extremely older women or fat chicks, hardly ever with decent looking girls. I guess I am not as great looking of a guy as my overinflated ego makes me believe.

~Raul Felix

The Pick-Up Follies: Taqueria Hottie

Posted on by Standard 9

It was 3 a.m. on a random weeknight and I was starving. There is only one solution to cure my appetite, to go to Taqueria Mexico. Taqueria Mexico is an enchanting, ramshackle authentic taco shop that is open 24/7. It specializes in filling the stomachs of stoners, drunks, losers, winners, and community college students at the bleak hours of the night. Because of its utter deliciousness and bang for the buck, it’s not uncommon to see tatted up, freshly released from the state-pen vatos sitting next to preppy, Penn State bound rich kids of the Huntington Harbor and every social demographic in between.

As I stand in line and examine the social zoo that is Taqueria, I see her. From behind I noticed her hot pink dress, with it ending barely low enough to cover up her firm, well shaped ass. Her blond hair is completely wild in the reminiscent manner of 80’s Glam Rock. Her skin is dark, but not darker than mine. She’s wearing high heels that show off her long, muscular legs. “She must have just came back from a club” I think to myself.

My heart starts beating quickly. I have a personal rule of always hitting on a girl I am attracted to, no matter the circumstances or awkwardness of the situation. I wasn’t expecting to see a hottie at this time, so her attractiveness caught me off guard. I start to devise a plan on how I am going to hit on this hottie. I don’t want to lose my place in line and it doesn’t look like she is going to leave anytime soon. But personal history has taught me a valuable lesson about hesitating on hitting on a hot girl; some other guy always hits on her while one is developing the courage to do so. He may succeed or fail; it doesn’t matter because either way, he monopolizes her attention for the time being and it never turns out well being the second guy in a row hitting on her in a casual environment.

Self-doubt started engulfing me. I was in gym shorts, a dirty faded t-shirt, and flip-flops. I hadn’t shaved my spic-stach in a few days, so my face looked like I was a 15 year old boy going through puberty. My hair always looks glorious, so no worries there. I look around and analyze the competition. If I noticed her, I’m sure the other bastards eating noticed her too. I see other men, checking her out, giggling, quite possibly teasing their friends about not having balls to hit on her. “Fuck them. Fuck it.” I say to myself, I leave the line, and confidently approach the pink dress wearing vixen.

She is standing and facing away from me, so I tap her on the shoulder. She turns around and I begin to say, “Excuse me, I just noticed you from across the room and I had to come talk to you.” As I say these words I start to examine her face, which I hadn’t seen before, while it wasn’t ugly, it wasn’t pretty as I thought it would be. It was very heavily covered in make up and there was something off about it I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I do a quick half-second inspection of her cleavage and notice the perky breasts are definitely fake. She then responds “Awww… that is sweet, I’m Monica” in a gay-lisp. Then it clicks. This hottie is a fucking man. She either is a cross dressing dude or a transvestite. I notice other features I didn’t notice before: the strong jaw, the adams apple, and the man smile. While some of the more conservative readers may say they would have just walked out. I’m not a dick like that. I didn’t want to hurt her/his feelings so, I did the socially decent thing and proceeded hitting on her/him. After a couple of internally awkward minutes she had to leave. I took down her number on my cell and went back in line and ordered my food.

When I got home, I got curious if she was truly a he or if my mind was playing tricks on me. So I sent her a text:

Raul: Hey, It’s Raul, I met you at Taqueria about 20 minutes ago.

Monica: Heyyyyy Handsome.

Raul: I have to ask upfront, are you a guy?

Monica: Ohhh baby, don’t you know what I am? I’m a call boy, I charge by the hour. You interested?

Raul: No. I don’t buy hookers.

I didn’t hear a reply for about 30 minutes and then he sent me a text:

Monica: I’m very horny and you’re very cute. How about you come to my hotel and I let you try me out for free.

Raul: I’m sorry, I’m not gay. Thanks though.

Monica: That’s too bad. 😦

~Raul Felix

I’d Pee in Her Butt

Posted on by Standard 23

You look at that girl across the room. She is nothing special, but she is eye fucking you because you’re an eight and she’s a mid-range six. As long as you can keep yourself from showing too much of your shitty personality and not let on that you cry yourself to sleep, the odds of hooking up with her are favorable. You ask your buddy what he thinks of her. “Huh, not bad, I’d pee in her butt” he responds with a nod and frown. You’ve already been rejected by the hot chicks at the bar, and with a couple of more drinks this girl could become a rock solid seven. You make your move.

It comes as no surprise that most women are not bombshells. Most women (and men) are average looking, have average levels of intelligence, and have average ambitions. For a girlfriend, my high standards in all those fields are nonnegotiable. But a chick to just hook up with no emotional investment or attachment, those standards can be adjusted.

Plain looking women have their place in society just like every other person. They can be great sisters, friends, co-workers, and even wives to guys who have little game. But to men, such as myself, who are extremely narcissistic, confident, and work hard to get what they want out of life, they hold little value outside a last call, desperate hook up or a consistent fuck kept around until someone better is found.

What makes a plain woman? Simple, she is not ugly by any means, but she isn’t eye catching either. She usually has one, maybe two, very redeemable features: nice breast, cute face, plump ass, cool personality, etc. The additional or lack of features are their down fall. She may be flat-chested, okay faced, shovel butted, a bit too chubby, too skinny, or have a monstrous over bite. They are physically unoffensive, but also uninspiring. They look more like Velma Dinkley from Scooby-Doo rather than Daphne.

She is someone you wouldn’t be embarrassed have walk out of your bedroom the next morning for your roommates to see. But they aren’t going to be impressed either. You’ll get a simple congratulations for getting your dick wet. You’d invest the absolute minimum when taking her out and would never consider actually introducing her to your friends or family. You avoid any conversation about a “relationship” because she lacks a lot of physical and personal qualities you desire in a partner. Yet, she has one very important quality: a warm pussy.

You may even enjoy spending time with her sparingly, but once you finish fucking her and are laying next to her in bed, you hate that she is still there. “I should’ve just jerked off,” you think to yourself. At least that way, you can just drink alone in the dark, and Facebook stalk chicks you might actually be happy with. Being with this plain girl is hallow to your heart and soul, but, getting to fuck a mediocre girl is better than not getting laid. You know you’ll eventually get your bombshell woman if you keep on hitting on chicks and play the numbers game. Until then, you can rely on a few plain girls to penetrate, while thinking to yourself, what the song User Friendly by Marilyn Manson says:

I’m not in love, but I’m gonna fuck you
’til somebody better comes along.

~Raul Felix

Read some more: The Feminine Aficionado

Shy Girl

Posted on by Standard 2

It was quite a glorious scene if I say so myself: I’m sitting there in my work out shorts, topless, and a dozen Coke cans scattered throughout my floor and computer table. My iTunes blaring some Iron Maiden at the perfect volume where its loud enough to rock, but low enough so my mom doesn’t yell at me. I sent out text to my boys expressing my lack of nightly ambitions. They were either working or spending quality time with their “girlfriends.” Cocksuckers. As I worked my way through my phonebook hierarchy, at last reaching rock bottom with that guy who I drank a beer with once at my friends cousins friends house; it grew evident that this was to be one of those nights destined for obscurity.

In order to salvage the night, I did what most people who are in that tender age where they’re legally allowed to join the military, but not yet responsible enough buy their own alcohol do; I went online. I logged onto my myspace, pathetically hoping someone had sent me a message or left comment. To my bitter disappoint, there was one comment; left by a monstrosity of a woman I had embarrassingly befriended: “To the world you may be just be a person, to a someone, you may be the world.” People who post this sort of shit are the reason God invented anal sex.

After moments of despair, self-loathing, and finally, reinvigoration; I set out on the audacious quest to find some hot myspace pussy. The lackluster results that occurred afterwards were disheartening. I saw women with broken dreams, fat bellies, nasty dreadlocks, and kids. These offspring producing women were the worst of all. Pictures of those little dream crushers engulfed their profiles like they were the only humans in history to ever give fucking birth. Most of them were single, with that little bastard lingering, as a permanent reminder of another mans dick being in her.

Just a cunt-hair close to the onset of irreversible misogyny, I found my precious little Shy Girl. She had a black and white default profile picture. It showed a side profile of her tight, little body with well proportioned breasts and butt. I looked through more of her pictures and was pleasantly surprised to find a light skinned, emerald eyed, blonde haired, heavily bosomed woman. I analyzed every single major and minor physical feature of hers. I noticed how her nose was tiny and slightly perked up and how her eyebrows were always perfectly plucked. I even examined the insignificant mole on her right cheek and how full her lips were.

There are a lot of pretty women, I thought to myself, lets see if anything makes this one special. I read her “about me”. She only identified herself as Shy Girl because she didn’t want any creepers to know her real name. Negative point me. She is a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, majoring in psychology, and yet, doesn’t know what she want to do with her life. She loves taking care of her nieces, nephews, and dog. Thinks hip hop is stupid and loves muscle cars. This woman was tailored made for myself and my attraction, and blood flow to my cock, significantly increase.

I decide I must formulate the perfect message to her. I mustn’t appear too desperate, nor cocky, nor vague, nor specific, nor seem to care too much at all. Basically, I over think the whole concept of writing her message and sit there staring at a blank screen. I type, type, type, FUCK, delete, delete, delete. Each word, sentence, and paragraph is dissected as I attempt to assemble a perfectly casual prose. I repeat this retarded little dance for about an hour until I finally forge something worthy of being sent to my little Shy Girl. I finish correcting my grammar and spelling mistakes, give it a quick check for the quadruple time and hit Send and request her as friend; my heart sinks.

Thoughts of my little Shy Girl wrestle me in my sleep. I randomly get up and check my computer to see if she has read what I’ve wrote. She hadn’t. I start thinking about the beautiful babies, shenanigans, and inside jokes we have together. I wonder if she is the one for me and how our first interaction is going to be like. I wonder about our future first date. I wonder what her real name is. I doze off to a restless sleep full of rainbows and Shy Girl.

The whole entire next day I randomly check my computer and see if she had read what I’ve written; she hasn’t. Finally, one day, three hours, and thirty-three minutes later, she read it. At last! I would get a response! I wait. An hour, then two, then four, and then a day passes and another. No response, friend request declined.

I stare at her page and I think of what could’ve been.

What a bitch.

~Raul Felix

The Feminine Aficionado

Posted on by Standard 9

Very few things match the sight of a truly beautiful woman. I can be overlooking the Grand Canyon or Lake Garda, but if a perky breasted woman with ass hugging jeans passes by, I’m taking a break to check out that glory. Mother Natures old, wrinkled ass can’t compete with a fresh, new vixen. I will analyze her walk, composure, and the bounce of her ass. I’ll analyze her hair, skin color, and figure. If she has potential, I make an immediate plan of action to get a good look at her face. Whether my recon missions calls for me to pretend to go to the bathroom, looking for a book, or act like I’m looking for a table, I’m confirming the cute face. If that checks out; I’ll make my move to talk to her with a 95% chance of rejection.

I was able to spare time from checking out girls asses to take this pic.

I love women. The beautiful, pretty, and cute ones. I don’t give a shit about the rest. I don’t wish them ill, but a woman who is not one of the three stands zero chance of being in a relationship with me, doesn’t matter how many other great qualities she has. Though, I have fucked the occasional atrocity of a female in drunken desperation; self hatred followed.

I truly love feminine women. Those who embrace their femininity and see it as an empowerment, not as an archaism. I love women with long hair, soft skin, sexy voices, skillfully applied make-up, supple breasts, and a full ass. The ones who doll themselves up when the occasion warrants and who wear little short shorts around the house. I love a woman who compliments my masculinity and feeds my animalistic sexuality. One who loves to feel and act like a woman, in the classic sense of the word. One who lets her man be the man and lets him be in charge, like a man should.

I consider myself a very a masculine man and I’m proud of it. I don’t mean in it in the way where I think women are the lesser sex, but rather, an equal who has different and complimentary contributions to a relationship. I want a woman who is truly feminine and truly in touch with what it means to be feminine. A woman who is my Yin to my Yang. I value femininity very highly in a woman; the more masculine traits she possess, the unsexier she becomes in my eyes.

I have no shame in the fact that I do check out a woman as I pass her by. I understand my testosterone and animalistic desire to penetrate her deeply and inseminate her with my seeds. I fantasize about ripping off her pretty, pink panties with the little flower pattern on them, ravaging and fucking her better than whatever poor excuse of lover she may currently have. I love the feminine, and will continue to do so. When I’m older, wiser, and dirtier: I’ll be laying on my hospital bed checking out the nurses tits, ass, and saying all the sexually absurd shit I can’t get away with now as a sensible young man.

~Raul Felix