I operate under the mindset that every woman wants my cock and just doesn’t know it yet. I can be walking by a cute girl sitting at a bus stop and she will briefly glance at me for no more than half a second. “Oh, yeah, you want my cock you dirty little slut,” immediately goes running through my mind. Poor little thing is just so shy that she can’t help but look away when she sees such a fine specimen of manhood. It’s OK, young lady; we weren’t all meant to handle the glory that is me.
It’s kind of sad, really, that there is only one Raul Felix and there are only so many women I can love. I am the essence of what every woman dreams about in a man: tall, dark, handsome, muscular, impeccable hair, smart, funny, witty, confident, and I fuck like a god. But alas, most of them are not worthy. Sorry, ladies, but I keep my standards high when alcohol is not running through my veins. When it is, I’m usually too much of a dickhead to care about getting laid.
Now, don’t get your adorable little red panties in a bunch. While you can’t have me, there are plenty of other men who will take you. I know, I know—it makes you cry and may bring you to the verge of slitting your wrists in despair, but please consider your friends and family; they’ll miss you and may even love you despite your homeliness. Just because you can’t have the best doesn’t mean you can’t settle for the rest.
It’s tough being as dashing as I am. Women are always staring at me, wanting me to rip off their clothes and spread their legs open for me to shove in my poon destroyer. They want me to bite down on their lip, slap their ass, and gaze in their eyes with laser focus as I render any male they have been with before obsolete.
Oh, yes, it’s a curse, for they only know me on the surface. They don’t know the depths of my mind and soul, the ambitions and dreams that I have. If they did, it would overwhelm them and make their girlie parts so dripping-wet that it would ruin their favorite pair of jeans.
OK, cute girl at the bus stop, I’ll approach you and make your dreams come true.
“Hey, I’m Raul…what’s your name?” I say coyly.
“I have a boyfriend, sorry,” she responds.
I walk away. Some women can’t appreciate greatness when it appears before them. Oh, well—it’s her loss, the poor little thing.