The Types Of Women You Date In Your 30’s

Posted on by Standard 3
W1

(c) Jeremy Entwistle

The 30’s are a man’s glory years. The tides of the sexual market place are beginning to shift in his favor. The hard lessons earned through his 20’s are paying dividends. With his new found maturity, he is presented with opportunities that used to be merely erotic fantasies and wet dreams. If he has been able to keep himself from getting sucked into the clutches of marriage and kids, and developed his skills with women, by his 30’s he would have dated an impressive selection of ladies.

The Boss Bitch

A Type-A female working her mighty fine ass off to make it to the top of her chosen field. She’s hardworking, competitive, and well versed in using her bitch face in order to be taken seriously. For all her success, it’s tough for her to find a suitable match. Men are either intimidated that she makes more money than them, or try to take advantage of that fact. Too many men are effeminate these days and she doesn’t care for wimpy men.

Luckily for her, you’re a fellow A-type that can toss her around like a rag doll while you ravage her. You find her success and dedication to her vocation sexy. She’s very picky of the type of men she’s with and if she’s with you, you must be on top of your shit. If you show the slightest bit of weakness in the initial stages of courtship, she’ll eat you alive. 50% of women think they’re a Boss Bitch, only 5% are.

The Slacker

She hasn’t really done much other than be a manager at a retail store or a waitress. A job that pays the bills, but leaves her feeling meh. She will occasionally talk about going back to school for nursing or some shit, but will procrastinate on signing up for classes until its too late. Maybe next semester when life is less hectic.

She’s a pretty chill chick though. You genuinely enjoy the time spent together binge watching Netflix while smoking weed and whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears. It’s a pretty low key set up without much drama, though your combined monetary funds tend to be limited. You’ll probably get her pregnant. Luckily, she’s pro-choice.

The Single Mom and Proud Of It

“My kids are my life and I won’t put up with any man who thinks my kids are baggage, not a bonus!” This type of bold, but delusional, woman declares on her dating profile. Her baby daddy is usually an asshole, but she blames her lack of insight into the matter on being young, in love, and naive when they were together. Now she has two adolescent children, is back in the dating game, and thinks her sexual market value is equal to that of a woman whose body has not had some serious wear and tear.

She will at times exclaim a bitter attitude towards guys who won’t date her, because she has children, as douchebags who are unwilling to man the fuck up. “Keep hitting the bong loser because I represent reality,” she’ll affirm to herself as she rolls her eyes. She just wants to find a handsome, smart, tall, athletic, financially independent man with no kids who will put her and her two children above himself. In her heart of hearts, she believes this is a reasonable request.

The Single Mom and On The Down Low About It

Yeah, she’s a single mom, but so what? She had her kids when she was young and now they’re old enough to take care of themselves. She’s done her time in the housekeeping and after school activities trenches. She’s fucking sick of talking about her honor roll student and now wants to focus on herself. She doesn’t need a daddy for her kids, she needs a man to make her feel like a woman.

Having endured a drought of adult conversation and situations for the better part of a decade, she’s appreciative of the little things you do that you’ve done with dozens of other chicks in the past, because it makes her feel unique and special. Usually a serial monogamist, you’re the first lover she had in a few months other than that one night stand she felt really dirty about. She grows attached to you quicker than she should, but fuck it, you enjoy being with a chick who isn’t too lazy to cook and you ride it out to see where it goes.

The Young Chick

W5

(c) John Rohan

Age: 18 – 23.

She’s stupid, unappreciative, selfish, mean, a liar, flakey, and lacking the ability to NOT take a selfie every ten minutes; but makes up for these severe short comings because she’s pretty fucking hot and has a newly minted (legal) pussy ripe for the smashing.

Your conversations with her will be no deeper than the faith you still hold in humanity. She’ll throw a tantrum because you didn’t like her latest Instagram picture. Her text messages will be splattered with emojis and lols despite the fact that nothing funny has been said.

When she sucks your cock, you derive as much pleasure from the fact that she’s NOT talking as from her lips around your manhood. On occasion, she’ll have a stroke of brilliance and say something of value. Since she’s so young, she’s also malleable. If you possess the skill, you can sculpt her to your will. If you’re able to tie one of these down in her zenith, your prospects of living a happy life exponentially increase.

The Ticking Biological Clock

Age: 29 – 39

“Okay Becky,” she’ll affirm to herself as she looks into her bathroom mirror that has BAMF written on it with red lipstick, “You are done slutting around. You’ve got the hang of this adulting thing. Now its time to find Mr. Right.” As she finishes getting dressed for her date, she holds a staunch determination to not waste her time with fuck boys anymore. Her clock is ticking and she needs to find a man to breed and start a happy family with. If you ain’t about that, you best get the fuck out her face. *finger snap*

The Ticking Biological Clock can be a great bargain if you already have your life in order and are ready to begin the process of building a family. You may be able to snatch up a top-tier chick who would normally be out of your league, just because she’s highly aware that her child bearing years are numbered and her beauty is waning. If you ain’t there yet, be ready to be dumped promptly because she’s done waiting on men who are still doing their lost boy crap. Maybe if your game is on par, you can persuade her to slut it up with you few more times before finding “Mr. Right.”

The Cougar

W4

(c) Khrisna Susanto

Age: 40 – 59

Aged like a fine wine, these prowling she-beasts are sick of the boring men of their generation who are set in their ways. She’s a youthful soul who doesn’t recognize the person who is staring back at her in the mirror. Rocking a hard body supplemented by a high quality boob job, she’s genuinely hotter than 80% of young chicks. She is a bit bitter about men in general, but has also lost most of her inhibitions in the sack.

Her personality has been forged in the fires of life. Her awareness of the pretty lies and ugly truth of society make her an enlightening conversationalist. She has to remind you to not check your phone every fifteen minutes. Young bitches give her hate-filled stares when they see her with a stud like you. Your age difference will become more and more apparent as you date her, but fuck it; it’s nice to be appreciated, pampered, and feel like you’re the prize.

The Ethical Slut

Catering to the age ol’ tradition of polygamy with the modern twist of the relationship being open to both sexes. The Ethical Slut has read deeply into human sexual evolutionary theory and has come to the conclusion that humans are not made to be monogamous creatures. In fact, she argues, it’s more healthy to have a few lovers to fulfill all your needs instead of limiting yourself to one.

This works out for you because you are totally chill having someone to fuck around with to keep you from appearing too thirsty while playing the game. Plus, their insights into sex are rather intriguing. It’s a common misconception that Ethical Sluts are indiscriminate of who they fuck. In fact, they can be more tedious and demanding to get into the sack than your conventional slut.

The Conventional Slut

W3

While the Ethical Slut has a well thought out philosophy behind her promiscuous behavior, the Conventional Slut just loves cock and has very little self control. She’s a pretty fun chick to be around and the life of the party. She’s a favorite of womanizers and players because the minimal amount of fiscal and temporal investment required.

On your date, you hold open some doors, let her enjoy a drink as you tell some whimsical stories about your life, add a dash of humblebragging about your accomplishments, make a bold move at the bar, and she’ll be spread eagled on your mattress in no time.

One day, post-fucking, she’ll ask you why you don’t want to make her your girlfriend. Instead of being a man of honor and giving her the harsh truth, “I don’t take sluts seriously because I don’t want a chick who has had dozens upon dozens of other dudes dicks inside of her as a girlfriend.” You lie and say, “I’m not ready for a relationship.” She’ll feign contentment and you’ll continue to fuck her as she slowly fades away from your life.

The Prude

She doesn’t drink. She doesn’t smoke. She doesn’t curse. She doesn’t stay out late on weeknights. She works as a secretary for an insurance company and has a collection of stuffed animals littered all over her bed. She dresses like Diane from Cheers and insists on knowing all about your past relationships and if you still talk to any of your ex’s. She counts one night stands as relationships.

If you drink more than one beer on a date she’ll immediately be concerned about your ability to drive home and ask if you’re an alcoholic. She’ll insist you can have fun without drinking. She’s never tried weed and thinks those who do are low-life losers. She has a rigid idea of how dating, relationships, and her ideal man are supposed to be. You have failed to live up to her expectations. You tolerate her self-righteous criticism because you have the gut feeling that she’s into some kinky shit.

The Feminazi

“Feminist. Socialist. Vegan. Fuck Trump. Woke.” She proudly declares on her dating profile.

Sophomorically, you failed to pick up on these subtle cues that this chick is the antithesis of a good time. You’re too much of a horn dog to let political ideologies get in the way of seeing whether her carpet matches her blue drapes.

As you listen to her spew idiotic rhetoric after idiotic rhetoric, you feel yourself shaking in order to contain your anger. Only to finally explode when she says, “The world would be a better place if we were all communists.”

To which you retort, “Every single fucking communist regime in human history has murdered hundreds of thousands, if not millions of its own people.”

“Just like we murdered the Native Americans, elected Trump, and oppress women. I’m so embarrassed to be American,” she’ll smugly say.

You chug your beer, pay the tab, say, “Good night” and never talk to her again. Stupid is fuckable, treasonous beliefs are not.

The Bipolar Chick

W2

(c) Dr. Case

Practically useless in every way except for the fact that she’s pretty cute, intelligent, and understands you better than anybody ever has when she isn’t lost in a deep state of depression, which leaves her bedridden for days on end while ignoring your texts, yet being able to update her Instagram with posts about being a strong woman and appreciating the man in your life.

Her long journeys into the nether regions of the human psyche gives her the uncanny ability to manipulate you. When she’s manic, her aloofness disappears and she showers you with the attention and affection you deeply desire. Only to have her mood go haywire when you make a remark that triggers her. Over the course of this so called relationship, she’ll suck and feast on your emotional marrow until you are left a hollow shell of your former self. She was a pretty good fuck though.

The Dream Girl

W6

(c) Tomasz Pro

After all the bull shit you’ve been through, rifling through different types of chicks, you may have actually found the elusive dream girl. You have a 96% match on OK Cupid and your message exchange flowed effortlessly.

Upon meeting her for a drink, you’re pleased to discover that she looks way better in real life than in her pictures. Your browbeaten heart flutters like it hasn’t in a long time as witty banter ensues over drinks. She’s smart, sexy, sincere, ambitious, and has your same wicked sense of humor.

She may be it. The chick who finally gets you to give up the game. Who makes you want to be a good man. You can totally imagine yourself building a life with this prime example of womanhood. After a sweet good night kiss, you walk away smitten. You text her the next day in order to set something up, but don’t get a response. You try again a few days later. No response. Fucking bitch.

~Raul Felix

Read: It’s So Hard To Say “No” To An Easy Lay
Read: 4 Things Women Can Do To Be More Attractive (From A Non-Beta Bitch Male Perspective)
Read: Why Young Men Should Become Cougar Slayers

Read more of my work at Thought Catalog
Follow me on Instagram.
Follow me on Twitter.

Onward to 2018!

Posted on by Standard Reply

IG: raulfelix275

Eventually, even the hardiest of vagabond’s souls longs for rest, stability, and the familiar. While visiting California for my aunt’s wedding, it really weighed on me how much I missed my friends and family. I had been gone from home for over two years. Most of that time was spent in the picturesque town of Ithaca, New York, a place where I found solace as I worked through my personal demons. After working hard to establish a life there, I burned it all to hell, ditched whatever didn’t fit on my motorcycle, and then traveled randomly around the U.S. until my money started to run out.

The goal was to make it home by Christmas Eve 2016, but snow storms on the I-8 made the night trek through the mountains not only a blisteringly cold affair, but a suicidal one. I was forced to turn back as my family celebrated Christmas Eve. That night I crashed at my Ranger buddy compound in the outskirts of Yuma, Arizona. Rammer’s compound is guarded by eight pit-bulls split into four, two-dog teams who provide three-sixty security. They are divided into four kennels lining the entire perimeter and are constantly rotated in order to keep their alertness up. Effectively preventing Santa Clause from delivering any Christmas cheer.

I made it home Christmas Day, but my family doesn’t do shit on Christmas Day. I rung in 2017 in a dignified manner by getting smashed with my So Cal Ranger buddy’s in Riverside.

The month of January and February would find me couch surfing at my aunts house in Downey. I needed an income. I would ride my motorcycle to the various downtowns of Orange County, Los Angeles, and the Inland Empire hitting up dozens upon dozens of bars and restaurants in search of work. I even hit up the old establishments I used to work at. But all of my efforts were for naught. I had failed to account for the post holidays crash in patronage the restaurant industry experiences. Luckily, my step-dad had random Mexican day-laborer work for me to do that gave me money for gas and food.

Seeing these actions weren’t yielding results, I decided to expedite my future plan: I enrolled in electrician school using my GI Bill. In a last minute scramble, I got all my shit together and signed up for a full course load for the spring semester. I made the rapid transition from responsibility free vagabond/bum to full-time student/bum.

Not liking to be a burden on family, I rented out a room from my Ranger buddy, Dirty Dick, and commuted from Moreno Valley to Long Beach five days a week for school for a month. I also climbed the M Trail on Box Springs Mountain four times that month as I worked out to rebuild the beastly body I lost in those four months of travel and debauchery.

IG: raulfelix275

By April, I got a room to rent at my two best fiends from high school, K-Dawg and Sleazy-E, house in Santa Ana. Determined to do well as a student, I kept myself disciplined about my study habits and ended up with a 3.6 GPA; the highest my dumb ass has ever had. I stayed true to my roots as a womanizer and dated various assortments of white chicks, Latina’s, and cougars.

As spring gave way to summer, I found myself needing a job again to see me through until fall. I wasn’t getting those sweet ol’ GI Bill bucks. With a ridiculous amount of foot work, frustration, dry holes, and following up on every lead I came across, I got myself a bartending job at an Italian restaurant in Newport Beach and a Mexican restaurant in Santa Ana. Thus putting into my pocket that extra bit of cash I needed. Bartending is something I enjoy psychologically because it gives me a social life outside of the my normal group of friends. Plus, I’m a pimp as fuck bartender.

During the fall semester, I moved out of K-Dawg’s and Sleazy-E’s spot and got my own studio apartment in Long Beach. While I loved living with them, there is nothing like having a little box to call your own. It took me longer to create a firm foothold in California than I expected, but I am happy to be back in my hood.

While it’s always in the back of my mind, my writing waned dramatically this year. No real excuses other than it wasn’t a priority for me.

“There’s nothing to stop a man from writing
unless that man stops himself.
If a man truly desires to write,
then he will.
Rejection and ridicule will only strengthen him.
and the longer he is held back
the stronger he will become,
like a mass of rising
water against a dam.”
-Charles Bukowski

Yet, the yearning for artistic expression builds up inside of me. When I started writing this blog in March of 2012, I was a twenty-five year-old security contractor in Israel. I had no idea where it was going to lead when I started it.

It has been something that has followed me through the different lives I’ve lived since then.

It has helped keep my sanity and make sense of the challenges I’ve faced professionally and personally as I tried to make it in this world.

It has helped me develop and grow not only as a man, but as a human being.

It has given me something to constantly work on and improve upon.

It has helped keep me accountable for my actions and values.

The beauty of writing is that as you evolve, it evolves. There is no finish line, only the next line. That is both daunting and liberating. Daunting because it never ends. Liberating because your skills have limitless potential. The potential is the fuel that will see you through the drudgery of it all. Even then, you must continue to prove yourself time and again.

Thank you, dear reader, for your support throughout years. I look forward to writing more of my heartwarmingly-fucked up pieces that you’ve come to hate and adore. Onward to 2018!

~Raul Felix

Read: 30 Things I Learned By Age 30
Read: Onward to 2016!
Read: Why Young Men Should Become Cougar Slayers

Read more of my work at Thought Catalog
Follow me on Instagram.
Follow me on Twitter.

20 Random Observations On Women’s Dating Profiles (From An Asshole’s Perspective)

Posted on by Standard 5

OKC

Online dating has become an invaluable tool for both men and women to meet the love of their life (or night). It gives you the ability to come into contact with people you would have never formed a connection with otherwise. It has started many good relationships and no-strings-attached hook-ups. But patterns emerge just like with any other form of social interaction, and being the over-observant asshole that I am, I notice and call them out.

1. When chicks post pictures of their kid(s) on their profile, I just think: “Thanks for making my fantasy of me skull-fucking your mouth awkward, bitch.”

2. Despite what SJWs would like you to believe, white people aren’t the most racist people in the world. That title belongs to Asians. Asians hate and spit on other Asians for not being the right type of Asian, especially if they’re one of the lower-class dark-skinned ones. If an Asian woman were to bring home the wrong type of man, she would bring great shame upon her family. Unless you’re also Asian, 90% of them will never respond to you. Most of the remaining ones will only date you if you are white because you’re the least offensive to their kin.

3. When you find a dime piece with expertly applied makeup, huge fake breasts, an amazing ass, and whose written summary seems to have everything you want, it’s probably a transsexual. Total fucking boner-killer. The hot tranny prove that men are better than women at everything, including being women.

4. An overabundance of chicks have “taco” in their screen name, meaning they either love Mexican food or are trying to give you a not-so-subtle sexual innuendo about her vagina. If that’s the case, she wants you to send her a highly sexual message about giving her a few squirts of your man-sauce to add some flavor and texture to her taco. Or she’s bisexual (fuck yeah!) or lesbian (fuck!).

5. It’s very disheartening to start a conversation with a chick you totally click with and who has everything you want and desire in a woman, then finding out she has a two-year-old kid. Fuck that shit. No pussy is worth the monetary, emotional, and temporal cost of dealing with someone else’s brood. Peace out! Wish you the best, though =).

6. “My babies and I are a package deal.” Nope! *Tosses package off the side of the freeway*.

7. You can always tell a chick is fat and trying to hide it if all her pictures are taken from an extreme angle.

8. I never cared for Trump and didn’t vote for him. Yet whenever a chick puts on her dating profile “If you voted for Trump, don’t message me,” I want to build a time machine, go back in time, commit voter fraud, and vote for him 100 times out of spite.

9. Putting “I’m a feminist” on a dating profile is the chick equivalent of a dude posting a shirtless bathroom selfie. Thanks for the fair warning that you’re a huge fucking douchebag, though.

10. I don’t give a fuck about your Myers-Briggs personality type. No, I’m not going to look up what ENFJ means. No, I’m not going to take that stupid test. No, I’m not curious about what it says about me.

11. It sucks wasting one your free “likes” on Tinder on an ugly/fat chick.

12. If it’s a group picture, she’s probably the fat chick.

13. If all her pictures are professional pictures, she’s a bot.

14. “I have a degree in *insert minority group* studies” means “I have a shit ton of student loans and little to no means of paying them off. In addition, you will have to walk on eggshells around me about any racial subject whatsoever lest I give you a lecture about #checkingyourprivilege.”

15. Most overused phrase: “If you’ll be my Clyde, I’ll be your Bonnie.”

16. If my Bumble experience has taught me anything, it’s that most chicks suck at starting conversations. I don’t know how many times I’ve read on profiles on other sites to say something more interesting than “Hi,” or “What’s up,” yet nearly every single one of them has started a conversation with me that way.

17. “I’m not here for a hook-up” translates to “I’m totally here for a hook-up but I don’t want to look like a hoe.”

18. On OKCupid, some chicks think it’s an endearing quality to write an entire novel pertaining to their life story. They write out every single fucking detail in such a fashion that it leaves no way a reasonable stranger could ask anything without feeling redundant. Save that shit for your whack-ass Tumblr.

19. Second most overused phrase: “I probably only liked you for your dog.”

20. Even if you meet all the criteria in their little listicle of what they want in a man, there’s a 75% chance she’ll still won’t respond.

~Raul Felix

Read: I’d Pee in Her Butt
Read: Why Young Men Should Become Cougar Slayers
Read: Where Are My Whores?

Read more of my work at Thought Catalog
Follow me on Instagram.
Follow me on Twitter.

His Mind Is A Whirlwind Of Thoughts

Posted on by Standard 1

IG: raulfelix275

He mounts his motorcycle,
Blood heavy with alcohol and weed.
He has no care for the stupidity of his actions.
His mind has gone to a dark place.
He wonders about the point of it all.
Whether it will be better to just let go.

He races down the freeway,
Zooming in between cars,
Keeping his iron steed steady.

His mind is a whirlwind of thoughts.
His usual sweet, friendly, and joyful demeanor,
Drowned in whiskey.
Anger, hatred, frustration, jealousy, rage,
Pain, loss, heartbreak, sadness,
Now reign supreme over all his emotions.
The darkness he buries deep inside,
Is now maliciously intent on destroying him.

The wind blows the tears from his face.
At the top of his lungs he curses those who have wronged him,
The events which have left permanent scars on his heart and soul,
He raises his left hand up and flips the world the bird.
He is free.

He pulls up to his home,
Kicks down the kick stand, dismounts, and lovingly caresses her.
There are no ghastly consequences tonight for his recklessness.
“Thanks for getting me home alive, babe,” he says to his beauty.
His temperament is cooled by her.
He lies down on his bed and passes out.

~Raul Felix

Read: In A Park On The Shores Of Lake Michigan
Read: Shards Of Broken Glass Scattered On The Kitchen Floor
Read: Another Night Wasted Getting Wasted

Read more of my work at Thought Catalog
Follow me on Instagram.
Follow me on Twitter.

What Your Choice Of Military Branch Says About You!

Posted on by Standard 14

SrA Jordyn Fetter

Deciding to join the military is one of the most demanding commitments a person can make next to getting married. Even marriage has the option of divorce if you and your spouse should grow disillusioned with one another. But, the She-Beast that is the military will smother you in her clutches long after the honeymoon period has ended.

When you’re shopping around, trying to figure out which branch will be pounding its green weenie into your ass for the next X years, keep in mind that just like an astrological sign can tell you everything you will ever need to know about a person, so does their choice of military service.

United States Army

SGT Steven Galimore

You really didn’t want to join the Navy like some homo and you may have a petty criminal past. Nothing too serious, but back on the block people didn’t call you Slicky Ricky for nothing. One night while lying in bed after banging your mediocre looking girlfriend you begin to contemplate the direction of your life. Realizing that it’s heading nowhere and fast, you say to yourself, “Fuck it! I’m joining the Marines!” After scoring barely above mentally retarded on your ASVAB and revealing your less than desirable past to a Marine recruiter, you’re promptly laughed out the office. Well, you’re in luck low-speed, high-drag; the Army recruiting station is right next door.

With the ability to draw from its vast hordes of manpower and capabilities, the Army is the all-powerful steam roller of the armed services. While the Marine Corps is looking for a few good men, the Army is content with a shit ton of OK ones. Outside of the Special Operations community, this leads to a relaxed attitude about what it takes to be a barrel-chested freedom fighter. If you’re able to show up at the right place, right time, and in the right uniform, you are half way to winning Soldier of the Year.

United States Marine Corps

CPL Aaron Patterson

There is no gentle way to say this Devil Dog, you drank the Semper Fi flavored Kool-Aid. At some point in your youthful years you were brainwashed by the USMC propaganda machine or your old man into believing that joining any other branch of the service makes you a big ol’ blubbering pussy. You were bamboozled into believing that utilizing subpar equipment, having lower chances at promotion, and working in an environment full of overzealous non-commissioned officers who are sticklers for the rules, equates to being a better tuned killing machine.

Fuck it, though. The misery of your existence is a point of pride for you. It makes you feel like you’ve earned the title of Marine. Something you will surely brag about whenever there is a few minute lull in conversation in any situation whatsoever. Everyone knows you’re the best, or else they’ll die like the rest. As substantial proof, you have those killer Class-A’s that get’s bitches panties drenched.

United States Navy

PO3 William McCann

You’re probably a homosexual. Not that there is anything wrong with that. Don’t ask, don’t tell was repealed by the Obama administration, so you can at last be out and proud with your flamboyant gay ol’ self. We always had our sneaking suspicions of what you did while at sea, sailor boy. No worries seaman, we all knew you were in the closet and working up the courage to come out to us. We’ve always loved and supported you, even if you do choose to live an alternative lifestyle. Hugs!

The Navy is the service for those who want to leave their shitty lives behind to see the world, but want to minimize their chances of dying in the process. While there are some jobs in the Navy that does its share of ground-pounding, the lion’s share of combat casualties in modern warfare are taken by the Army and Marine Corps. That makes it the optimal choice for a service member who wants all the perks and benefits of being in the armed services without having to do anything other than suck cock.

United States Air Force

SrA Nick Emerick

You know what’s pretty fucking sweet? Driving into work, while drinking a hot cup of joe, listening to some boom-boom-I-beat-my-wife country music as you pass a bunch of soldiers from the nearby Army base doing a 12-mile ruck march. Then you walk into your office, say, ‘Good morning’ to your superior using their first name, go on a brisk 2 mile run, and then go about your daily tasks.

See, for an Airman, military service is not about having a job that will impress people or requires physically taxing work. You don’t really care about proving how hard and tough you are. Your life back home didn’t suck too badly and you really didn’t want your life in the military to suck either. If you’re honest with yourself, you are kind of a nerd and freezing or sweating your dick off doesn’t seem too appealing to you. Now learning some technical skill that will give you good job prospects in the real world, that’s what drew you into the service. Plus, Air Force chicks tend to be the hottest from all of the branches and one may even become your girlfriend/wife. Until you find out she has been banging an Army Ranger in the Task Force she was attached to while deployed because she wanted a real man.

United States Coast Guard

PO3 Andrew Barresi

No one knows or cares about you. You are like that kid in high school who committed suicide and has a quarter page memorial in black and white in the back of the year book, but no one remembers who you are. Thanks for your service, I guess.

~Raul Felix

Read: 5 People You Will Meet In The Army
Read: 3 Things People Who Served In The Military Do That Make Them Look Like Tools
Read: Army Rangers Talk About The Times Their Words Have Shocked Civilians

Read more of my work at Thought Catalog
Follow me on Instagram.
Follow me on Twitter.

Welcome To Arlington, Sergeant Gallegos

Posted on by Standard 1

Rachel Larue

The light of the sun blinds me, my ears are ringing, and I’m lying on the ground. My eyes begin to focus, the ringing fades, and I see a hand reach out for me and I grasp it. It pulls me up to my feet.

“Welcome to Arlington, Sergeant Gallegos,” he says. He’s wearing an olive drab Army uniform with Master Sergeant rank on his sleeve.

“Uh…Arlington Master Sergeant?” I respond. I swivel my head about, noticing the rows upon rows of symmetrical white headstones.

“Yes, in case you haven’t figured it out—you’re dead,” he says sharply. “By the way, we don’t use rank anymore in the afterlife. I’m Sam,” he says, reaching out and shaking my hand.

“Tony,” I smile. “Dead? Huh? How did I die?”

“In the most glorious of all ways—combat,” he laughs.

“What? I don’t remember getting into a firefight recently.”

“What’s your last memory?”

“Well…I had just stepped off of a Stryker and walked a couple blocks toward our objective and…”

“BOOM!” he bellows. “I-E-fucking-D, motherfucker! And now you’re here with the rest of us KIAs.”

“Fucking A. But my body feels fine.” I begin to check myself out, looking for any injuries and notice that I’m still wearing my uniform and body armor.

“Well, this is the afterlife; of course your body is fine,” he laughs.

“Did any of my men get killed, too?”

“No, you’re the only one who bit it. Sherman and Tran got hurt, but not too bad. Don’t worry, they’re fine.”

“Damn…well at least there’s that,” I sigh.

“Now see over there?” Sam points to a funeral procession. “Your earthly body is right there…or what’s left of it, anyway. It ain’t a pretty sight.”

“That’s my funeral?” I see a group of people, some in black, others in Army Class-A uniforms in front of a casket with an American flag draped over it.

“Yes,” he responds.

I run toward it and see a bunch of familiar faces: my wife, two daughters, mama, friends, and a few men from my unit.

“My god, dear god…my love! My love! Sweet Pea and Cookie! Mama! Mama!” I try to grab ahold of my wife, but I pass through her. I attempt the same with my mama and pass through again. I fall to my knees and begin to cry. “They can’t see me, can they?”

Sam puts his hand on my shoulder. “Roger.”

Cookie, my youngest at age seven, sits on my mama’s lap, crying into her chest. My mama’s holding her close, releasing a storm of tears. My eleven-year-old, Sweet Pea, sits next to my wife, holding her hand tightly, head on her shoulder. My wife’s attempting to hold her composure, yet some tears overpower her and pour down her face.

“Ready, aim, fire,” orders a staff sergeant to the seven soldiers of the rifle party. The first volley is fired.

“Ready, aim, fire.”

“Ready, aim, fire.”

“Present arms,” every man in uniform salutes. “Taps” begins to play.

The casket party folds the flag into a triangle. One of the men walks it over to my family, takes a knee, and presents it to my wife.

“Ma’am, this flag is presented to you on behalf of a grateful nation for the honorable and faithful service displayed by your husband, Sergeant First Class Antonio Gallegos,” he says to her, then stands at attention and salutes her.

The cemetery workers finish shoveling dirt over my grave. My headstone looms.

Antonio Leonard
Gallegos
SFC
US Army
Apr 20 1977
May 4 2009
Bronze Star
Purple Heart
Operation
Iraqi Freedom

My wife, mama, and daughters are alone. I stand right next to them, placing my hands on my loves’ shoulders. Even if I couldn’t feel the warmth of her skin nor she mine, I still felt connected to her. My wife hugs my headstone, caressing the engraving of my name, and giving it a kiss on top.

My dearest Carrie…the love of my life…I’m sorry…

My daughters are on their knees. “Papa, papa…we love you. We love you. Don’t go, don’t go.”

Sweet Pea and Cookie…you two are my light…I wish I didn’t have to…

My mama stands there, running her fingers through my daughters’ hair. “You were my angel, my most precious possession, my gift from God. I’ll miss you, mi niño.”

Mama…you taught me how to be a good man…I love you…

I watch them in silence, wishing I could feel their tender embrace once more. Wishing that I had more time with them. Wishing I wasn’t dead.

They begin to leave and I follow.

“Sorry Tony, but you can’t go with them,” Sam says gently.

“Like hell I can’t.” I begin to sprint after them, yet as fast as I move my feet, I make no progress. I’m running in place as they are getting further and further away from me. “Damn it! What is this?”

“You’re dead, Tony,” Sam reminds me. “You may no longer go among the living. That’s not your place anymore. This is the afterlife and I’m here to help you on this journey.”

I give up running, watching my kin until they disappear. Goodbye my life. I wipe the tears from my face, turn around, and face my fate. “So now what?”

“Follow me,” he says, and we begin walking deeper into Arlington through a forest of headstones.

“So you said, us KIAs…that means you were killed in action also?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“What war?”

“Vietnam.”

“Holy shit. What was that like?”

“I couldn’t really tell you. I was shot in the forehead jumping out of a Huey on my first mission,” he says with a smirk.

“But you have Master Sergeant rank on. So you had to been in the Army a while.”

“Oh yeah, seventeen long years. I was also in the Korean War. Made it through a whole year’s deployment in that frozen hellhole without a scratch. Then did the whole peacetime Army thing. Those were some wild times, I’ll tell you what. The first couple of months I was in Vietnam, I was doing a damn staff job. So I didn’t leave the wire much. I was waiting for a First Sergeant slot. Then finally got one. I was supposed to take over a company in a few days. So I decided to shadow one of the company’s First Sergeants on a few missions so I knew what shit to expect. Right as we landed on a hot DZ…BAM…bullet right through my fucking skull. Pretty funny, huh?”

I shake my head. “What’s funny about it?”

“Surviving one long bloody suckfest unscathed, just to be snuffed out quickly in the next one. It’s almost poetic.”

“You can only press your luck so many times, I guess. God knows I have. This last one was…”—I pause and count in my head—“my eighth deployment. Damn, I knew I shouldn’t have reenlisted.”

“Well, you did.”

“Yeah, well, I did have a family to support. Plus, the goddamn economy sucks right now. Those reenlistment bonuses were insanely good.”

“Hey, bud, look at the bright side, at least they’ll get your life insurance money now,” Sam remarks.

“Yeah, that’ll hold them over for a good while. But if you want to know the truth, I just fucking loved the job. Even if it sucked at times, I just loved training my men and going to war.”

“So did I, Tony,” Sam pats me on the shoulder.

“Did you leave a family behind, too?”

“Yeah, an ex-wife and a son. She and I were divorced before I even went to Nam, yet she cried hysterically when she found out about my death. She’s still alive and kickin’. Good woman she is. Pretty as a sunset and sweet as honey. My damn foul temper while drinkin’ chased her away.”

“What about your son?”

“He’s a high school teacher somewhere in California. Has a nice family of his own. He was too young to really know who I was.”

“That’s rough, Sam.”

“That’s life and death, brother. The world will keep spinning without either of us. I’ve been dead longer than I was alive. Whatever impact we were meant to leave on the world is done and now we must be spectators to it all.”

Stone stairs leading up to the sky appear over the grass.

“This leads to heaven?”

“Nah…you wouldn’t want to go there right now anyways. Its kind of lame without your family. I’m taking you somewhere way cooler,” he winks.

“Where is that?”

“Valhalla. You ready?” He grins.

“Hell, yeah!”

~Raul Felix

Read: Oh Well, We’re Off To War Again
Read: Eager To Pop My Cherry On The Battlefield
Read: Four Years Of Hell: College V. The Army

Read more of my work at Thought Catalog
Follow me on Instagram.
Follow me on Twitter.

3 Hard Lessons About Life I Learned While Writing Online

Posted on by Standard Reply
Thought Catalog Featured Writers Page Mid-2014.

Thought Catalog Featured Writers Page Mid-2014.

Freedom of speech is a double-edged sword. By utilizing your First Amendment rights, you may run the risk of upsetting some overly sensitive people. Such people may even seek to strike back at you, hoping to bully you into conforming. Such is the nature of writing. Ever since I’ve embarked on the writing path, I’ve experienced a few hard lessons on how my real life can be affected by the crazy shit I write.

1. Never Tell Your Coworkers That You’re A Writer

In mid-2013, I was working as a bouncer at a restaurant/bar in Huntington Beach, CA. It was a corporate establishment that made the big bucks because of its prime location overlooking the beach, decent Mexican food, and practices of hiring masses of young, hot chicks with sexy bodies. I had the goal of becoming a bartender, but since I had no experience in the restaurant industry other than working at Taco Bell in high school, I saw being a bouncer as a stepping stone.

This was quite exciting for me since this would be the first time I ever got to work with an overabundance of attractive females. My previous means of employment—the Army and security contracting—had left much to be desired on that front. I had also read Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain and Waiter Rant by Steve Dublanica which seared into my mind images of a work environment where people hustled and partied hard while having cool personalities, crazy life stories, and forging friendships.

I had also been writing my blog, RaulFelix.com, for a little over a year at that point. It included such wonderfully crass articles as “I’d Pee In Her Butt,” “Politically Incorrect and Loving It,” “The Pick-Up Follies: The Gimp,” and “Where Are My Whores?” Having been accustomed to the fucked up sense of humor my military and security contracting buddies possessed, I was naively unaware how my writing would tarnish my reputation at work as I gave my coworkers my business card to promote myself.

bc

While my male coworkers loved my writing, many of the female cohorts began to gossip among themselves. Sleazy-E, my best friend who also worked there, fed me intel that the girls were turning against me and complaining to the management about my misogynistic writing. They also thought I was creepy as fuck.

This realization came to fruition one night when I went to party there with my Ranger buddy, Dirty Dick. A lot of the waitresses were drinking and hanging amongst themselves. I tried to talk to them and introduce them to Dirty Dick, yet they were standoffish and barely acknowledged us.

“These chicks look like they fucking hate you,” Dirty Dick said.

“I think they do,” I smirked.

Over the next couple of weeks I went from having four or five shifts a week to being given just one. Knowing my days there were numbered, I got myself a new bouncer gig at a bar down the street. I was eventually laid off as part of the post-summer cutbacks, but I knew the truth. Later on, Sleazy-E (who was now training to be a manager) told me that one of the managers requested that I not return there again. It was just a bouncer job, so the loss was negligible. The lesson learned was priceless: Never tell any of my coworkers about my writing career.

2. Chicks Either Love Or Hate Me On Tinder

I was initially opposed to online dating because I felt that it favored women over men. Bitches got bombarded with messages and dick pics, while we dudes had to make ourselves interesting while resisting the urge to send a picture of our dick. Surprised by the success my knuckle-dragging buddies were having, I decided to give Tinder a shot. I soon realized how this medium favored two of my natural talents: the ability to write a short, witty, and hilarious profile and selecting pictures of myself that highlighted my best qualities and minimizing my goofier ones.

TinderRaul

I soon developed a standard operating procedure of just liking girls who weren’t ugly or fat. Rarely looking beyond their first or maybe second photo. Once they matched me back was when the real fun began. At times, after a thorough inspection of their profile I would realize that I accidentally swiped right to an ugly chick or a fatty, so I would correct the deficiency by simply unmatching them immediately. Then, using info gathered by her pictures and profile, I would initiate a conversation. About one in five girls would respond.

After some witty banter, chicks usually would ask, “Oh, you’re a writer? What do you write about?” That’s when I would copy and paste my five pre-selected pieces that show me at my best: my feelings on my military service, my ability to love tenderly, my Mexican-American family values, the lessons I’ve learned from womanizing, and my dominant, animalistic, lustful side.

Some chicks would say they’ll read it later but not really get around to it. These ones would usually fizzle out.

Some chicks would read one or two pieces, be slightly curious to know more about me, and meet for a drink because at least I wasn’t boring.

Some will really like what they read, then go to my site and randomly click around and commence to binge-read. Loving what they read, thinking it was insightful and raw, they tell me they’d love to get a drink.

Some will start impressed, then dig deeper and find some of my more risqué pieces. She would then morph into Feminazilla, laying waste to the Tokyo that is my writing. They’d spit scathing remarks about how men like me perpetuate the patriarchy and impose the Madonna/whore double standard. Then they’ll speculate on my broken relationship with my mother, insisting that I truly hate women and have enough psychological baggage to keep a seasoned psychiatrist engaged. It’s a shame that such a classically handsome man could spew such filth. Also, I must have a small dick. *Unmatch

It’s all for the best, really… let the chicks who don’t dig me filter themselves out, I don’t give a fuck. I’ve met some pretty great ones who do dig my style.

3. People May Recognize You In Real Life And Won’t Like You

“Are you Raul Felix?” a beautifully tattooed chick with purple hair asks.

“Yeah,” I say as I am cleaning glasses while working as a bar-back at a bar in Ithaca, New York.

“The writer?”

“Yeah.”

“You wrote that article about stinky pussies!”

“Yeah,” I laugh, “but did you bother to read the rest of it?”

“No, I just remember the stinky pussy part,” she replies.

I smirk and shake my head as I continue on about my duties.

“Can I take a picture with you?”

“Sure!” I give a shit-eating grin to the camera.

I receive a text message from the owner of the establishment, “DirtBagJim,” a few days later:

“Raul, I have received numerous complaints that you have written articles online that are offensive to women. Some customers and employees have shown concern. I can no longer offer you employment.”

Raul: “Huh…because I have treated every single employee I work with respectfully. Also, I’m am an experienced bouncer, bar-back, and bartender. I’m hard-working, have customer-service skills, and I have muscles—I’m a perfect bartender.”

DirtbagJim: “While I agree to that, we just have a huge LGBT community and we can’t risk someone like you working here. I’ll give you a reference if you wish.”

Raul: “I never promoted my writing nor did I hit on any of my coworkers, but I guess that’s the price you pay for being a man who tells it how it is.”

The main reason I call the owner DirtBagJim is because he was supposed to give me three bartending shifts per week. It was only to lure me away from my low-paying, yet educational, fun, and consistent bartending job at a vegan restaurant. Instead, he opted to give me two bar-back shifts in a one-month period under the guise of me learning his set-up, promising to give me bartending shifts when the students showed up. I’m a straightforward man who works for a living, so it really pisses me off when motherfuckers jerk me around.

After getting fired, I posted a status update on Facebook of what had occurred. I got a lot of encouragement from my friends, family, and fans. My boys at Article 15 Clothing were more than keen to launch a social media nuke on the establishment and tarnish their reputation for firing a combat veteran for exercising his First Amendment rights. While grateful, I decided it wasn’t worth dropping a $200,000 missile on a $100 tent. I opted to carpet-bomb my resume all over town. Two days later, I had a new bartending gig at a pizza restaurant in Collegetown with an awesome cast of coworkers.

I went back into that bar on a Saturday night a couple of weeks later since I know he is always there on busy nights overseeing things.

I walk up to DirtBagJim. “You still owe me for 10 hours’ worth of work.”

“It’s really busy, come back Tues—”

“—no, you’re unreliable. I want my money now,” I sternly say to him, crossing my arms.

He pulls out his phone and types out a text message.

I wait, staring him down. The bar staff looks at us nervously. Then a cute little thing in an elegant black dress with a sweet smile appears with a check for $50 and hands it to me.

I look at DirtBagJim and reach out for his hand and shake it.

“You have been honest for the first time in your life,” I say into his ear and walk out.

While trying to keep my business and artistic sides separate can be a hassle, it’s worth it. I’ve made connections with some great people. Have had dudes I went to combat with reach out to me and tell me they love what I write. I’ve had my real-life friends, family, and fans be my biggest supporters and help me out. I’ll keep at it cause I’m a scrappy motherfucker. Freedom of expression has a price; I’m willing to pay it.

~Raul Felix

Read: 3 Proactive Steps To Becoming A Writer
Read: A Few Maxims On Writing
Read: 3 Life Lessons An Old Man Called “Wild Bill” Taught Me

Read more of my work at Thought Catalog
Follow me on Instagram.
Follow me on Twitter.

In A Park On The Shores Of Lake Michigan

Posted on by Standard 1

At 3 a.m. on a bench in a park on the shores of Lake Michigan,
I wrote a poem to my former love.
It poured out of me and had me crying for a few minutes upon completion.
The tears eventually dried up,
Acceptance of that lost love settled inside of me,
As the cold breeze of the lake hit me.

I laid out on a picnic table with my sleeping pad and sleeping bag,
Seeking to rest my exhausted heart and body.
As I was dozing off, a raindrop hit my forehead.
I awoke, looking up into the once star filled sky,
Now covered with the looming clouds of a storm.

Rain poured down from the heavens,
Drenching myself, my sleeping pad, my sleeping bag, and my motorcycle.
I packed up my things, rode my motorcycle across the street to a McDonalds,
Wet, shivering cold, and tired, I ate breakfast as I waited out the storm.
A couple of hours later,
The storm passed, the sun began to rise,
I rode back to that picnic table and slept.

I awoke to a majestic blue sky,
A gentle breeze, the chirping of birds,
The water from the storm dried up.
I knew I would be okay.

~Raul Felix

Read: The Witch In My Dream
Read: Shards Of Broken Glass Scattered On The Kitchen Floor
Read: She Dances Like A Flame

Read more of my work at Thought Catalog
Follow me on Instagram.
Follow me on Twitter.

Army Ranger Hospitalized After Having Balls Literally Smoked-Off

Posted on by Standard 3

Joint Base Lewis-McCord, WA – A soldier was admitted yesterday to Madigan Army Medical Center after a lengthy corrective physical training session, or “smoke session” as commonly known, went awry. The soldier was rushed into the emergency room with the crotch area of his trousers drenched in blood and his testicles in a 7-11 Big Gulp cup filled with ice.

“I’ve seen cases of women cutting off their husband’s dick after they caught them cheating,” said Dr. Richard Cox, Emergency Room Surgeon, “but I’ve never seen anything quite like this. He was literally smoked so hard that his scrotum lost its elasticity and ripped off.”

Private First Class Chris Stiff, a new Ranger with 2nd Ranger Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment, was more than eager to give an interview after he awoke from his operation and immediately asked, “How long will it be before I can jerk it?”

“It was a pretty bad day,” says PFC Stiff. “I was all sorts of fucked up. First thing, I showed up to morning PT formation one minute late, unshaved, and without my reflective belt. My team leader was pissed and ripped into me during PT. Describing to me how he is going to smoke my balls off so bad that Indians—feather type— miles and miles away were going to think he was sending them smoke signals warning them that the white man cometh.”

Due to political pressure, the Army has been making it its objective to phase out hazing though there is still some cultural and traditional resistance in the combat arms.

“At 0900 we had to be at the motor pool to do PMCS [Preventive Maintenance Checks and Services] on our Strykers. My team leader found out my oil was low because I didn’t fill up the last couple of days we were training even though he told me to. That’s when he went apeshit.”

PFC Stiff then explained that he was ordered to do push ups, flutter kicks, monkey fuckers, alligators, star bursts, bear crawls, and various other physical exercises. The punishment went on for at least an hour.

“It wouldn’t stop. I was sweating, my arms were spaghetti, and I couldn’t do anymore. Then while I was doing a monkey fucker, I felt a sharp pain, like my ball sack was being pulled off. I looked down and saw blood spilling. It fucking looked like I had a fucking miscarriage.”

His team leader, Sergeant Antonio Verga, sprung into action to check out what was the matter with his soldier. PFC Stiff explained, “My vision was blurring, and I was on my knees in pain. My balls had fallen down my pants and were stuck right where I bloused my boots. I remember my team leader ordering me to calm down and applying pressure to my crotch in order to stop the bleeding.”

“I was smoking his fucking balls off for being such an incompetent piece of human waste that should have been a 60th trimester abortion. I didn’t know it was actually physically possible to smoke someones balls off,” SGT Verga says as he spit some dip into the ground “I’m kind of proud of myself.”

After SGT Verga stopped the bleeding, he then carried PFC Stiff into his truck and drove him to the hospital.

PFC Stiff balls were surgically reattached, and he is expected to make a full recovery in a few weeks.

“I can’t really blame my team leader. He’s actually good at his job and cares for us, even though he can be a dick… and I tend to fuck up a lot. Its fine though cause I get two-weeks of con-leave [Convalescent-leave] and there is a chick from back home I want to get married to before I deploy. She is turning 18 this week.”

Upon hearing of PFC Stiff’s plans when he returns back home, SGT Verga remarked, “Stupid fucking cherry privates. Well, I hope they reattached his nut sack pretty fucking good this time. I have a feeling this isn’t going to be the last time I have to smoke his balls off.”

~Raul Felix

This satirical news article was featured on Article 107 News.

Read: 3 Winning PR Strategies For Muslim Extremists
Read: Four Years Of Hell: College V. The Army
Read: Army Rangers Talk About The Times Their Words Have Shocked Civilians

Read more of my work at Thought Catalog
Follow me on Instagram.
Follow me on Twitter.

Another Night Wasted Getting Wasted

Posted on by Standard 2

I wake up still wearing my jeans,
I didn’t piss myself this time at least.
Room’s thrashed, emptied beer cans scattered throughout.
It’s 2 p.m. on a Tuesday.
Another night wasted getting wasted.

I have nowhere to be; I have no one to be with.
Eighteen, nineteen, twenty empty cans are stuffed into a garbage bag.
There is a comfort in escaping my frustrations with myself,
My frustrations with loneliness and reality,
Seeking refuge in vice.

Sweet serpent drink, whose poison kisses my lips.
Your cool embrace a reliable comfort in my life.
Women come and go, boozing remains.
Jobs come and go, boozing remains.
Cities come and go, boozing remains

Even when I muster the strength to resist your temptation,
Boredom, annoyances, celebration, life eventually strikes,
Causing me to seek your poison kisses once more,
Their gentle touch enhancing reality,
Distorting its undesirable aspects,
Allowing one to lose themselves in the abyss of the mind,
Wasting another night getting wasted.

~Raul Felix

Read: Maybe I Shouldn’t Have Taught A Psycho Bitch How To Shoot
Read: A Day In The Life Of A Debauched Traveler
Read: She Wouldn’t Make Me So Angry If She Didn’t Own My Heart

Read more of my work at Thought Catalog
Follow me on Instagram.
Follow me on Twitter.