Strip Club Blues

Posted on by Standard 9

(c) Dandy Danny

Oh, the wonders of the strip club. The raping that is the entrance fee, the overpriced drinks, and the black lights exposing every little bit of white lint on your black t-shirt. Lets not forget the stickiness of the floors, the aura of pity surrounding the geezers and obese men, and the distinctive smell of a strippers skin, covered in coconut milk lotion, perfume, and glitter in an effort to mask their dead souls. A true wonderland of silicone breasts, C-Section scars, big badonkadonks, and athletic to fat figures.

Recalling the old elementary school rhyme, “There’s a place in France where the naked women dance.” One used to wonder what was so special about France that made naked women dance? Then we learn that there are such places in America, first introduced to many of us by the legendary Al Bundy as The Nudie Bar. As an ignorant and horny youth, it’s one of the places that most young men look forward to visiting. Moms beauty magazines, stolen Hustlers, and online porn do sustain us while we wait; but what can compare to seeing a real life woman dancing and letting you see, and quite possibly touch, her boobies! It’s a young mans right to throw dollar bills at women dancing to support their cocaine habit and/or two kids by two different men.

Of course, in youthful innocence one doesn’t know the bitter reality that actually occurs at these ballrooms of nudity. Images of Al Bundy and the members of No Ma’am getting wild, dancing on the stage with a babe with Rocky Mountain breasts are soon exposed as lies! Upon entering, one is immediately surrounded with an overwhelming amount of testosterone. Businessmen, young GIs, thugs, college kids, and loners occupy some of the best seats. Which wouldn’t be so bad, if it wasn’t for the dead silence of the place other than the music. It isn’t the dungeon of nude wackiness that Married With Children lead us to believe.

As one sits drinking their watered down drink, strippers come around offering to give you and your buddies the dance of a lifetime for $15 for two songs. You do the math in your head and quickly think about how much money you have in your pocket. You pass on this one, she’s not the type of girl you’re looking for. A few more strippers offer and you promptly deny. You have some money to blow, but not that much. You said to yourself you’re not going to spend more than $70 tonight. You already spent $20 on the entry fee and $15 on the two mandatory drinks. You are only going to get one lap dance, maybe two. So you’re going to make it worth it. You’re waiting for the right one to come along that fits your taste.

As your two buddies are each getting a lap dance from a beautiful blond with an athletic build and a petite Asian girl, your eyes are focused on the stage. You’re gawking at her: A curvy, caramel colored mixed Latina/White dancer twirling around the pole upside-down, her brown hair flailing chaotically. She is wearing an American Flag patterned bikini that can barely contain her large breasts. Since you don’t have any singles, you ask your buddy to give you $2. As she finishes her set and picks up the money that is scattered throughout the stage, you walk up to her, pull her g-string back, stuff the $2 in, snap it back and say with a devilish grin,“Come to my table.” She smiles at you and nods.

As she is grinding your crotch and placing her immaculate breasts on your face to motorboat, your finger tips are rubbing her ass ever so gently as to not catch the eye of the bouncers. Your two song are up. She asks if you want another dance. You don’t want her to leave. You haven’t had enough of her. Yes, you do. Another set, another $15. Once it’s complete, she sits next you and runs her hands through your hair. “You’re pretty cute, you know,” she tells you in her soft, accented voice. You start talking to her about yourself and your silly hopes and dreams. She tells you about how she became a stripper and about how she is not like the other girls in the strip club. In fact, she can’t stand them and thinks they’re all a bunch of self-absorbed cunts. Her stage name is Candy, but since you two have formed such a true connection she tells you her real name is Jessica.

After ten minutes of discussing your lives and philosophies, Jessica asks you if you want another dance. You do, you really do. You walk over to the ATM that charges a $10 transaction fee and take out $200. “Okay, I’ll only spend $100 of this and save the rest for later.” Thirty minutes later, your $100 is gone. You continue to talk to Jessica and you realize she doesn’t fit the cocaine addict, single mother, soulless stripper stereotype. She is just a sweet, down to earth girl trying to make some good money until she makes it as an actress. You’re struggling to make something out of yourself, so you understand the pain and suffering of having to do a job you don’t really like until you make it. You two are kindred spirits. You use your second $100. You want more of Jessica and head to the ATM and pull out another $200.

After spending a good hour and a half with this enlightened soul trapped in the stripping profession, you know you have no more money in your bank account that you can blow. But you built such a deep connection with this woman in the process and you’re sure she is completely into you. “All right, I think I’ll let you go for tonight, but before you leave how about I get your number?” You ask. Jessica smiles back at you and gives you a big ol’ hug and says, “I would because you’re sweet, cute, and funny, but I have a boyfriend. I’m so sorry, but you’re going to come back and visit me sometime right?” Your heart sinks, but you lay out a big smile and say, “Of course.”

After you leave the strip club on an emotional high, it hits you. You just spent $490 in 2 hours. That’s a painful amount of money to lose for your broke ass and pay day is not for another 10 days. You got played by a world class saleswoman. You’re pissed at yourself and you’re determined to stick to your $70 budget next time, unlike the previous five times.

~Raul Felix

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

On Shit Talk

Posted on by Standard 8

“Fuck you, mother fucker.” A very simple phrase. When said to a friend, its said after he burned you and called you out on your bull shit or one of your many short comings as a human being. He zinged you and you had no clever response. You just sat there accepting defeat because of your lack of quick wits. “Fuck you, mother fucker” was the only response you could think of as you sat there pissed off at your friends ability to destroy your self-esteem. Your ego is bruised. You try to think of a verbal ruse in order to inflict the same confidence shattering damage that he caused you. Depending on the depth of your friendship, you can make jokes about his obviously inferior race or you can call him out about that time he got arrested for masturbating in public. If he’s your best friend since high school, the sky is the limit. If he is a new guy friend who you’ve known for 2 or 3 months, then you’re still testing out the water. Maybe bringing up that his girlfriend cheated on him and he is still with her is not the right move.

“Women reinforce social bonds by complimenting each other (but not really meaning it), whereas we men socialize by insulting each other (but not really meaning it).”~Tucker Max

A man truly crosses the threshold from acquaintance to true friend when he is able to thoroughly insult you without fear of physical repercussion. When you dish out a zinger and all you fear is a deeper, soul eviscerating response, instead of the blade of a knife, you know this man is your friend. If you’re able to call him a cock sucker, and he responds with “Only yours baby”, then you know he is your friend. If you’re able to get drunk together, get into a fist fight, beat the living shit out of each other because you couldn’t agree on the finer points of motorcycle history, then, the next morning say “My bad bro… lets go grab some chow.” and give each other a high-five-handshake, then he is your friend.

Shit talk is a privilege reserved for your true friends. Any serious shit talk incurred by someone who doesn’t know you should be responded to swiftly. I don’t mind being called “A fucking dirty wet-back beaner that should’ve been swallowed.”, by those who know me, but a stranger says something remotely disrespectful to me, I’m ready to get into a fight. The same protective sphere goes out to my friends. Any man worth his grit is protective of his friends. He will attempt to keep his friend out of fight because he knows his buddy is drunk and actually being his bastard self, but if it comes down to it, he will take on anybody to protect him. Then, in a few years, they’ll laugh about the time they got beat up by some cross dressers.

Life is full of people who you are nice to and respectful to that you don’t really care about nor respect. Life is full of people that you hate and don’t like, and you make those feelings be known. But there are very few people in your life that you truly can say fucked up shit to that you don’t really mean, and who you truly respect and care about. Those are friendships worth cultivating.

~Raul Felix

A Gathering of Fools

Posted on by Standard 3

You have your best friends in the world gathered around you at your favorite local bar. These grimy son of a bitches you knew since high school and the military. You love and care for them; yet, you will never say it. The simple fact that you’re still in touch enough to know each others occupation and have a semi-decent idea of what chick(s) they’re banging, whether it be a random sluts and/or trophy wives, is enough. You’re here to enjoy a long night of heavy drinking and poor decisions. Ever since you’ve all become pseudo-adults, it seems to have been impossible to get all of you together. Even tonight you’re missing your fat Jap best friend whose off in Japan doing whatever the fuck Japanese people do in Japan; math and jerking off to hentai.

No matter. You buy the first round of beers with shots. You make a witty toast to days long past and drink your whiskey. One of two things happens with that shot; it goes down smooth and you realize you’ve become a world class alcoholic, or it goes down harsh and you realize you’ve become a world class pussy. Either way, you show no emotion cause you’re still the fucking legend you used to be, in your heart at least.

The exchange of stories begins. The first tells you about a Thai hooker who turned out to be a lady boy and ended up stealing his wallet. Another tells you about the time he was double penetrating this girl with his friend and at one of the thrusts, he pulled out too far and ended up shoving his dick in the other guys nuts. One sits there in silence, realizing how boring his life has become ever since he married a JAP (Jewish American Princess.) The fourth tells you about how he got so drunk in Mexico that he got into fight with five Mexicans, managed to get away, had the police arrest him and had his mom bribe the cops with $50 from his own wallet.

Struggling to breath from laughter as you listen to these grand tales of misadventure and defiance of social norms, it’s your turn again to order round number six. Crossing the threshold from buzzed to inebriated. You slur out a tale about when you were going through Airborne School. Desperate and lacking any form of female companionship, you went on a phone dating line called Lava Life. There you talked to this black chick who claimed to be “slightly chubby and curvy, not fat.” You sent her a message and got something set up. You go to meet her in a motel. You don’t see a Georgia Peach, but rather, a Georgia Pumpkin. Her breasts are bigger than your head, not the glorious defying gravity sort, rather, nipples touching her knees type. Her definition of slightly chubby meant 300+ pounds and curvy meant looking like Jabba The Hut. You stare at her in disbelief. You were expecting to really lower your standards, but not to rock bottom. You say your hellos and start making mindless small talk. Maybe I can get a blowjob you think to yourself. You kiss her, hoping that bitter taste in her mouth is a salty sandwich and not another mans semen. You work your way down, taking her bra off and exposing nipples with the circumference of your hand. You notice her gut is over her pussy. You lift the gut up, and reveal a penile abyss. You stare blankly, the utter horror of this dawns on you. You can’t do this. Without a word, you drop her belly, put your jeans on, and run out the motel.

Your friends hung on to every word of your epic. Making sounds in disgust and laughter at the key points. They laugh at you and you laugh at yourself. The thought of that woman still disgusts you. You drink. The night wears on, more stories are exchanged, and the scouting and approaching of chicks commences. You make several attempts to hit on chicks and promptly get rejected. Oh well. It can’t get you down, you’re with your boys and you’re happy. You don’t get to have these nights with these guys like you used to. You love every moment of this; the shit talk, the laughter, the drinking, the memories, and for tonight forgetting your real-person life.

A couple of your friends are hitting it off with some chicks and wave you over. Irish Car Bombs are ordered. Maybe this will turn out to be one of those nights you talk about a few years down the line. You drop your Baileys into your Guinness and begin to chug.

~Raul Felix

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

Four Things You Didn’t Think of Before Joining the Army

Posted on by Standard 13

So you decided to join the United States Army because:

A) You are super patriotic. America!
B) Your high school sweetheart broke up with you.
C) You had nothing better to do and going to war sounds cool.

You walk into the recruiter office and eyeball those posters of soldiers with stern faces of quiet dignity and confidence, you lack both. Words like Loyalty, Duty, Respect, Selfless Service, Honor, Integrity, and Personal Courage engulf you. Your recruiter, Staff Sergeant Snuffy, a former Ranger, tells you about the Army life, benefits, and brotherhood. Then with a wink and smirk, tells your scrawny, most likely pimply faced self, that chicks love men in uniform. You want that Army groupie loving; you sign up. You come home, tell your parents you’re joining; mom cries, dad sees your wasted potential. You just got your acceptance letter from the Devry Institute! They don’t understand, “I’m going to be all I can be, an Army of one, and Army Strong! Hooah!” you protest. Later you’ll learn saying “Hooah!” makes you a total tool. You do the research and know that it’s going to be physically tough and you may be blown up by an IED in Afghanistan. But, that’s part of the job you smugly tell yourself. You’re going to be part of the brotherhood of arms! You go off to Basic Combat Training where you will get destroyed by your Drill Sergeant; little did you know there are other things you didn’t think about…

Army Bases Are in Crappy Places of the Country

Have you ever dreamed of being trapped in a small, crappy, town in the middle of nowhere with your only options to leave are: Going to Afghanistan, Iraq, or Fort Leavenworth because you went AWOL? Great! Since you’re three times as likely to end up in world famous towns like Killeen, Texas, Fayetteville, North Carolina, Columbus, Georgia, Barstow, California, and Leesville, Louisiana as opposed to a place you may have actually heard of before one-second ago. These towns are so horrifying in their lack of any social life outside of the military, that those poor souls who wasted their precious youth assigned to these wastelands are shaking their heads at this very moment, tears pending, thinking about all the drunken college girls they could have banged at their local State University.

The Army has a disproportionate amount of bases in the mid-west and dirty south. Why? Army bases require a lot of land to operate and accommodate its soldiers, equipment, buildings, and training areas. Land costs money. Uncle Sam doesn’t believe in paying premium for land in places where soldiers actually want to live and have some semblance of happiness. Being happy and content is not what the Army values in its soldiers, it values getting the most out of them at the cheapest possible price.

Most of these local communities economy are highly dependent on the their respective military base. The city of Killeen has 58,187 people(including soldiers) employed by Fort Hood, which is 68% of its total employed population. Killeen School District coming in at a pathetic second with 6,000 people. Fayetteville, a.k.a. Fayettenam, about 60,000 employed by Fort Bragg. You have to also consider all the money those soldiers are pumping into the economy with their purchases of the only things that numbs the pain, alcohol. With so much of the local economy depending on the Army base, it creates military culture and mentality that leaves little space for tree hugging, burning manning it up, and drum circles.

Sure, the Army has what have been dubbed “Dream Stations” like Germany, Italy, and Hawaii. But, like most of your dreams, they’ll never come true.

Everyone You Meet for the Rest of Your Life Will Ask You if You Ever Killed Someone

When you picture being the Army, what do you think? You think about all those World War 2 and Vietnam War movies you saw growing up. The protagonists losing his innocence in the horrors of war and in the end we all learn that war is a senseless act and that a whole generation of men are forever destroyed. Now when you see a war veteran, what is the number one question you want to ask him? If he was that young man who barely made it out of the shit? You want to know if he has ever killed anyone or been shot at. Maybe the veteran has, maybe he hasn’t; either way, its none of your business. If he wants to tell you, that’s on him to tell, not on you to ask.

Nick Palmisciano, CEO of RangerUp, has by far the best rebuttal I’ve heard:

“Really? You went there, does your wife like anal sex? Because that’s about how appropriate that question was.”

He points out that there are only three possible responses that you’ll get, which I’m paraphrasing:

1)No, they haven’t and you’ll probably thinking less of them for never having done so, because they don’t fit your idea of what a real veteran is supposed to be.
2) Yes, they have, they’re dealing with it in their own way, and don’t need to talk to you about it.
3) Yes, they have, and they’re just regretful they didn’t get that one knife kill.

You’ll Do Every Sort of Menial Labor Known to Man

I’m sure when you picture a normal day in the Army you envision: Going to the range, shooting off hundreds of rounds, practicing your closed quarter combat techniques, jumping out of airplanes, driving a Humvee around, and just being a coolest son of bitch around. That’s your life, everyday! Your gullibility is precious. You have to clean the barracks. Remember that high school job you had being a janitor at the abortion clinic? Well, cleaning up the barracks is just like that; but instead of cleaning up dead fetus blood and slutty teenage girl tears, you’re cleaning up young soldier blood, sweat, and tears caused by many a lengthy smoke session. The other shitty part, you don’t get the number of that slutty, teenage girl you know is down to fuck.

You know all rounds you shot at the range? There is brass leftover! You, as the cherry private have to police up those thousands of rounds your buddies and yourself shot. You also had to set up the range, unload the boxes of heavy ass ammo, and then break down the range again. You know that M4 you shot? Your ass better make sure that is spotless.

Jumping out of airplanes? Awesome… for the 15 seconds it lasts. Before hand you had to wait, fully harnessed, for 2+ hours and afterwards there is Parachute Shake Out detail. Thats where all the privates and a few unlucky NCO’s get to spend the night untangling and taking out all the weeds and brush that have been caught in the parachute while it dragged a soldier across the earth.

Basically, as a cherry private, you’re the detail bitch and it will stay that way until you become an NCO. You tough it out and suck it up because every single job does have its downsides. The downside to this job is doing all the shit details required to make the cool training possible.

Only took three hours to get this shot!

You’re Not Special

You become a soldier because of all the pride, honor, adventure, and to a lesser extent, because chicks dig men in uniform. The thing is, everyone you’re around, 10,000 to 50,000 people depending on which major base you’re assigned to, is also a soldier. You are not special at all. Unless you turn out to be one of those douchebags who wear their uniform with camelbak to the mall and have an Army Strong bumper sticker, you’re going to try to hide the fact that you’re a soldier. You will avoid saying what you do and some times you may flat out lie in a hopeless effort to disguise yourself. It won’t work because your hair cut and demeanor will you give away.

Why would you attempt this? Because around any Army base, soldiers are a commodity. Odds are, that voluptuous Latina you’re trying to pick up in the little black dress, is the daughter of a retired Sergeant Major or Colonel. You see that blonde over there with the amazing fake breasts? Her ex-husband is a Sergeant First Class and she now hates all Army guys because he cheated on her. That innocent looking petite asian girl? She got a train ran on her by the Mortar Platoon last night. Or that slightly chubby chick who has a decent face and can become fuckable three or four drinks from now, her boyfriend is deployed and she is down to cheat.

These are facts of life around any sort of military base. You’re are not special by any means and simply being an Army guy will not net you any quality strange. Its great you’re serving your country and many women find it sexy. But so are the other thousands of soldiers around you. You have to develop other characteristics and qualities that distinguish you from your peers. Whether it be you can play the guitar, ride motorcycles, are funny as hell, mad beer bong skills, or you can write like a mother fucker. You must have a deeper personality than just being a man in uniform.

~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

Deliberate Practice

Posted on by Standard Reply

We all suck horribly whenever we take it upon ourselves to learn a new skill. For most people, anything that requires any level of skill does not come naturally. I have taken a look at my writing from five or more years ago; it’s embarrassing to see how poor my writing was. It lacked style and it was mostly curse filled rants with no direction or purpose other than to make one laugh. I’m glad to see that my writing has evolved, even if I only just learned how to use my cursing more sparingly.

So we all suck, it doesn’t mean we have to stay sucking. We all know the saying “Practice makes perfect”, well it’s missing a key word: Deliberate. Deliberate practice makes perfect. What does that mean? It means that in each session where you practice whatever your craft, sport, or profession is, you’re actively seeking to learn, refine, and improve as opposed to going through the motions. This is perfectly explained in “The Outliers” by Malcolm Gladwell, with the 10,000-Hour Rule. Gladwell explains that in order to be a master, not just proficient or an expert, takes about 10,000 hours of deliberate practice. He uses The Beatles as one of his examples, who played live as a cover band in a strip club in Hamburg, Germany over 1,200 times for eight hours a night from 1960-1964. It takes twenty hours a week for ten years for a person to get their 10,000 hours in.

This makes me wonder where the hell I am in this spectrum. I’m sure I am very near the beginning of it. I can say that I’ve probably have put 250-300 hours of work into my writing throughout my life. When you compare it to 10,000, it seems like a very daunting task and like I’ll never get to the level of mastery. But seeing the vast improvements I’ve made with 250-300 hours, it gives me hope. While I don’t believe my writing is great by any means, I do believe its solid and I can write way better than 90% of people. I don’t compare myself to the 90% of people though, because those people aren’t doing what I want to do and don’t live the life I want to live. When I do compare my writing, I compare it to writers that I look up to.

In his book, “On Writing”, Stephen King says ”Almost everyone can remember losing his or her virginity, and most writers can remember the first book he/she put down thinking: I can do better than this, Hell, I am doing better than this!” Its true. I remember the moment when I decided to grow the balls to create this little blog and put my writing out there. One night I decided to take a look at the first entries of the writers who’s blogs I follow and writing I respect. What I found were entries dating back four to ten years ago (depending the writer) that were just plain bad. Nothing close to the level that they write at now. This was a very happy epiphany for me. I knew that I was not as good a writer that they are at their current state, but I am way better than they were when they began blogging. Cowardice was the only thing holding me back. What made me different then them? They just kept driving on until they produced pieces that people actually wanted to read.

I want to get to master status in my writing. As cocky as it sounds, I know I have what it takes to be great at this. Every letter, word, paragraph, and piece I complete, I improve. As I write these words, I’m trying to figure out how to communicate more effectively and how to say more while writing less. I’m trying to figure out and develop my style and what I bring to the table as a writer. The answer to those questions and many others will only come with time and me putting my hours of hard, deliberate practice in.

~Raul Felix