Amy Clarke

She nestles her head on the little nook between your chest and your bicep. She’s beautiful when she’s comfortable. You run your fingers up and down her lower spine to the crease in between her ass cheeks. Both your bodies are still warm from the love session that just ended. Your heart rate is starting to slow down. You kiss the top of her head and take a whiff of her luscious, curly hair. You don’t know the brand of shampoo she uses, but you know the scent. It’s one of those rare moments in life when you’re completely content.

“I love how big and strong you are,” she says.

“Yeah? You think I’m strong?” you ask with tiny bit of coyness and a lot of cockiness.

“Yes. You have a big chest and arms. I love how broad your shoulders are and how secure I feel with your big body protecting my little one,” she responds.

You smile and showboat your Popeye-sized muscles by flipping on top of her and kissing her passionately. You look deeply into her eyes and then analyze her body. She’s such a fine example of femininity—her ample breasts, bountiful booty, the slight pudge on her belly that she’s insecure about (but that you love), and a freshly shaved pussy. You flex your biceps and order her to feel your weapons of mass destruction. She places both hands around one of your biceps, but it still eclipses her reach. She smiles warmly as she appreciates the years of hard work you’ve put into building yourself from a scrawny kid into a beast.

Many moons before, you were an average, slothful kid with no muscle. You were slim and weak. You had a sinkhole for a chest and biceps you could wrap your fingers around. You couldn’t run half a mile without gasping for air. You couldn’t pull up your own body weight or bench-press the 45-pound bar.

Then one day you were introduced to the weight room, the Temple to the god Brodin, he who bequeaths swoleness to those who pay tribute. It was a sanctuary that would eventually save your soul and body from the masses, whose weak minds and weak willpower keep them either gluttonous or scraggly.

The first few months are the worst. Your body is constantly sore, and you instantly pass out after you get home. You struggle to get up in the morning. Your body screams at you, ordering you to not get up, insisting that it’s unable to muster the strength to do another day in Beast Mode. Still, you get up. As shitty as it feels, there is a strange addiction to the pain. You feel your muscles being torn apart, but you also feel them rebuilding and getting stronger.

One day you pass by yourself in the mirror and in the reflection notice muscles that weren’t there before. You pause, flex, and analyze every inch of your body: a little vein there, a small rip there, a quarter-inch lost in the gut, an extra thickness in your legs, and even the hint of pecs developing.

As months and years pass, your body gets bigger and bigger. You’re growing into a man, and with that come a new source of strength and maturity not possible in your early years. One day it happens: Someone describes you as a big dude. “Am I that big?” you wonder.

No fucking way. Your childhood heroes are big: Schwarzenegger, The Rock, Batman, Stallone, Hulk Hogan, The Undertaker, Bret “The Hitman” Hart, Balrog, Wolverine, Punisher, and Duke Nukem. They’re big men; you’re just slightly above average, right?

Little did you know that throughout the months and years working out, you surpassed your peers. Their glory days are behind them, their guts formed by shitty eating and drinking habits gone unchecked while you’ve been paying tribute to Brodin.

One day she appears. She’s a petite little thing. You’re working as a bouncer while you figure out your shit. She smiles at you as she watches you work. She gazes at your biceps, blessed upon you by Preacher Curl and the Chin-Up Chorus. Your bulging chest and triceps are a gift christened to you by Saint Benchen. She slyly gazes at your firm buttocks and traps, a gift you have yet to fully earn from the Sister Angels, Squaterious and Deadliftfium.

She flirts with you. She sizes you up, and it turns her on that you’re twice as big as she is. She’s been with small, weak men before and has been disappointed. She wonders what it would be like to be with you, a big dude. In spite of your weak-ass game, you easily acquire her number.

Her clothes are on the floor. You wonder for a moment if this is really your life. Such a gorgeous being wants to sleep with you—the type of your fantasies and dreams.

She’s the type you sought to impress when you were first learning how to properly lift weights back when you were a slim, pimply teenager playing high-school football.

She’s the type you deeply thought about when you were running three miles to the gym, lifting weights, and running three miles back home while training to join the military.

The type that caused you such heartache while you were deployed. You disappeared into the gym for hours and hours, lifting heavy things and putting them down, eating 4,000 calories of food a day so when you got back, she could see what a fine specimen she allowed to escape.

The type you sorely missed on those long dry spells when you were at the gym at 1AM because you had no one who felt romantic toward you or even a solid prospect whom you could playfully text.

The type you wished would be in the little nook between your chest and arms, appreciating your hard work as you fell asleep at night.

You’re on top of her; she feels your weight pressing down on her. She loves it. You can easily pick her up and throw her around like a rag doll. She pretends to resist, but she has no chance. It makes her horny to feel so powerless. You kiss her, bite her, lick her, and smack her ass. When the moment is right, you thrust into her and show her your true power.

~Raul Felix

Read my other works featured on Thought Catalog

In my short time as a writer on Thought Catalog, I have learned how hypersensitive and rabid, to every minute detail, the all-knowing internet can be to any form of expression it doesn’t agree with. Recently, I wrote an article called The UK Border Agency Debacle: Why I Wasn’t Allowed In England detailing the frustrating experience I had at the hands of an incompetent border agent I lovingly named “McCunterson.”

In the piece, I described McCunterson as a “gorilla-looking, big, fat black woman with a mix of a Jamaican and British accent,” which sent the overzealous comment section in an uproar over how much of a racist I am because I used a negative descriptor on a person of a different race.

Later on, after being interrogated, I was sent to the holding area where, “I paced back and forth again, calling McCunterson every inflammatory racial, sexual slur I could think of to myself.” See there? Raul Felix is a fucking racist. How dare he show any signs of anger and being a human being with flaws!

People, especially, the hyper-liberal, pretentious, over-politically correct type that love to hate writers like me, tend to present themselves as better than they actually are. They like to say that they have never had a racist thought, uttered a racist slur, or thought negatively of a person even if they were pissed. Political correctness has become such a leviathan in modern society that it’s downright over-bearing and in a way, counter-productive. It lectures people, again and again, if you’re going to be civilized, you must be offended by X, Y, and especially Z.

I created the image of her looking like a gorilla, because she was a fat fuck border agent who’s dark skin and round face made her look that way. If she was a pale, obese white woman, I would have described her skin complexion and fat rolls as the result of being an illegitimate love child of the Michelin Man and manatee. If she had a been a fat, hispanic woman, I would have described her belly as being caused by pushing out one dirty spic baby after the other. If she had been a fat Asian chick, well, we all know Asian chicks never get fat, so scratch that.

I didn’t hate McCunterson because she was black, I hated McCunterson because she was a fucking cunt. When you hate someone, you look for anything to tear and rip them apart. You analyze the way they smile, the way they twitch their eyes, the way they speak, the color of their skin, and their body type. You scour for any information you can think of so you can use it against them. If a person has infuriated me to the point where I am going to get into a physical altercation, no fucking shit I am going to drop every racial slur I can think of to put them down. Maybe you’re different. Maybe you’re able to hold your composure and make damn sure you don’t say anything offensive even though you have every intent of beating the shit out of somebody and are completely enraged, I am not. But fuck me for being honest; a thing very few of you are able to be about yourself.

Let’s turn this the other away around. Let’s say McCunterson had been a gorgeous, eloquent, and charming black woman with an amazing booty. First of all, I would have been highly attracted to her because I love all types of women, and then I would get commended for being post-racial because I saw the beauty, not color. Actually, since a lot of feminist cunts read this, I would be scorned for objectifying women. Secondly, none of you would have called me a racist because I used her race in a positive context. This proclaims that racial descriptors are only okay if it portrays the racial group in a positive light, which is utter bullshit. Racial descriptor are fair-play to use in both a positive and negative connotation. I hated McCunterson and in my eyes, she wasn’t a sexy, eloquent, and charming black beauty queen; she was a fat, black piece of shit who looked like a fucking gorilla.

We are making each other walk on eggshells over the concern of race and it needs to stop. There are amazing people in every race and there are piece of shit people in every race. If we want to progress forward as a society, then we need to start treating each other as equals, both in our love and hatred. If I hate a white guy, I don’t hate him because he’s white; I hate him because he’s an asshole. If I hate a black woman, I don’t hate her cause she’s black; I hate her because she’s a fucking cunt. Or maybe I am only allowed to hate Mexican people because I am Mexican. Fuck those border-hopping, wetbacks stealing American jobs! There, happy?

~Raul Felix
Originally on Thought Catalog

My New Article on Thought Catalog: Why Getting Out Of Debt Should Be Your First Priority.

I’ve been featuring a lot of my older work on Thought Catalog and have made some small edits for readability. I felt when I first started this blog I wrote some pretty awesome pieces that a lot of you long time readers have enjoyed. I haven’t forgotten you. I know where I come from. Being featured on Thought Catalog has done wonders and I promise as I figure out shit on my personal schedule, I’ll post some exclusive content here.

Throughout the gaggle fuck of my schedule I just realized that I forgot my two year blog anniversary. I remember, slightly a year ago I wrote this post One Year and Driving On and I had one goal:

“Writing has given me an outlet to express myself. I don’t know how I went so long without fully embracing it. Because as of now, I can’t imagine living a fulfilling life without it. I made it through my first year and didn’t quit, I think that puts me in the top 20% of bloggers/writers just in itself. Now, its time to take bolder, more aggressive steps to get myself up to the 10%. Thank you for supporting me in my first year. I will continue to push myself to deliver the quality, bull shit free content you have come to expect from me and hopefully, give you a few laughs along the way.”

Becoming an employee of Thought Catalog, I’m sure in some way has put me in the 10%. Even if it hasn’t, I’m on the right track. Now, let’s see how far up in the 10% I can get this year.

~Raul Felix

IG: raulfelix275

America’s Generation Y can be divided into two distinct groups: Those who served in Iraq and/or Afghanistan, such as myself, and those who didn’t. Taking an educated guess, I assume a lion’s share of the readership of Thought Catalog are liberal arts degree bearing, student-loan debt ridden types who think those who joined the military were too stupid to go to college and were unaware cogs in the political war machine run by evil multi-national corporations with the goal of maximizing profit and exploiting the lower class. In turn, we think you’re a bunch of overly sensitive, pretentious, hyper-liberal pussies, so its even. Now, let’s begin to gain an understanding of each other’s perspective.

Our memories of our formative years are quite different. You headed out into early adulthood going to community college or university, be it full-time or part-time. You may have gotten a student loan, a scholarship, paid for it yourself, or used your parents. You may have gone to college parties, lived in the dorms, lost your virginity, and lived in an environment where you were constantly meeting new people while smoking weed. You studied with your classmates in the library and bitched about eating Ramen. The opportunities to meet members of the opposite sex were bountiful if you chose to take advantage of them. Your major causes of stress were your grades and classes. You had no idea what you wanted to do after graduation, but you’d figure it out when you had your diploma.

We headed out into early adulthood by arriving at some soul-crushing military base in the asshole region of some mid-west or southern state. We got yelled at, gave up every single bit of freedom we had, got our balls smoked off, and were taught to do things the way the military wanted us to do. After basic combat training and our job-specific school, we were assigned to our unit where we had to deal with more military bull shit on a daily basis. For men in all male units, meeting women was rare and our best shot was just walking around the local mall or using myspace because we were too young to go to bars. Our major causes of stress was the fear of pissing off our team leader or squad leader and thus getting our world destroyed. We had no idea what we wanted do to after the military, but we’d figure it out once we got out.

Your major tests were your finals, ours was going to war. You discussed the moral questions, the legality, and made pro or anti-war arguments. We were there, whether we believed in it or not. You heard and read about it from the news; we lived it. You wondered how safe it was over there. Some of us never left the wire and conducted support jobs on the base. You wondered whether those couple of people you knew who were deployed were okay. Some of us left the wire every night and conducted direct-action raids to kill or capture the key leaders of the local insurgency. Unless they were from your hometown or were a family member, you didn’t know any of those killed in action. For a lot of us, there were too many of them we personally knew. Some of you were pro-war. Some of us killed. Some of you were anti-war. Some of us never fired a single shot in combat.

You held the very important responsibility of passing all your classes and getting good grades. You strived for that internship which would help you get your dream job. You fantasized about moving to the city, being part of a vibrant social scene as you worked a well paying and fulfilling job. We held the very important responsibility of learning to be proficient at our job so we didn’t fuck up and accidentally kill our buddies. We strived for that promotion to the next rank so we would have to deal with less bull shit and be treated like human beings again. We fantasized about getting out, attending college using our GI Bill and smoking weed by the beach as we lived the college years we missed out on.

You grew up in a culture dominated by overt political correctness and thought of the opinions of some your professors as gospel. You spent your summer in your hometown working some low-paying gig and partying it up at night. Your idea of a brutal winter was when the heating system went down in the dorm rooms for a couple of days. These two wars were barely on your radar, since it didn’t directly effect you and your daily life. You even forgot we were still in Afghanistan in the mid-00’s because all the focus was on Iraq.

We grew up in a culture dominated by masculinity and thought of our Platoon Sergeants as demigods, even though they may have been only 26 or 27, we lived in total fear and awe of him. We sweated our balls off in the scorching heat of the Iraqi summer and froze our balls off in the blistering winter of Afghanistan. For us, it was not if we were going to go, but when. Our lives were dominated by deployments and training to be deployed. Some of us popped our deployment cherries in the mountains of Afghanistan and other’s in the streets of Iraq.

You made friends with your classmates; we made friends with the people in our platoons and companies. You had a terrible break-up your sophomore year in college that caused you to fail one of your classes. We had a terrible break-up while deployed, but drove-on and struggled to keep our mind on our job, fully knowing the person we loved was back home fucking someone else. You had the option of dropping out of college when it became too much to handle, we were locked in for the X number of years we signed up for.

We’re the same generation, yet, we had such a different experience of what the world was. For you, that semester you spent studying abroad meeting new people, tasting strange foods, visiting the tourist sites, and were introduced to new ideas were defining moments in your life. For us, the defining moments were those months spent in a war torn-land where any person in the population could be an insurgent, where we saw the cities through the green hue of our night vision goggles, and were introduced to new insurgent tactics and counter-insurgency tactics. Just like you, it drove us to understand the world in a deeper sense. We read books, articles, and watched documentaries about the middle east and the world in general, in turn we learned to determine our own thoughts and opinions on it.

We were both set loose on the same economic gaggle-fuck of a real world that the Baby Boomers and Generation X left us with. We were both lied to: When you got out of college and couldn’t find a job that made use of your expensive Communications degree that taught you how to comprehend the nature of human communication, the symbol systems by which it functions, and the environments in which it occurs, you went to live with the folks until you figured shit out. When we got out of the military and couldn’t find jobs that made use of our expensive training that taught us how to jump out of airplanes, fast rope out of helicopters, lead men, and conduct close-quarter combat, we went to live with our folks until we figured shit out.

Now with the Iraq War over and Afghanistan drawing to a close, we’re attempting to find our individual identities, independent of being a veteran. We’re attending your colleges, working at your jobs, and starting our own businesses. We’re a creative bunch with stories to tell and are working our asses off to become writers, film makers, actors, photographers, and artists. We’re seeking to become professionals and thus attending your medical, law, and business schools. We may have had a later start in life on our formal education, but our real world knowledge runs deep. We don’t think we’re better than you and don’t want your sympathy. We know we volunteered for the job and did it to the best of our ability. In essence, we know there is one key difference between us: we’ve already been through the hardest time in our lives, whatever else the world throws at us, we can handle it.

~Raul Felix