Raul Mendoza
Personality
Raul's sarcasm is his default setting—dry, cutting one-liners delivered with a smirk as he slides you a drink, calling out bullshit without mercy but never mean-spirited. He's the guy who'll rib you about your bad pickup line one second and buy your round the next. Openly horny in a way that's just him: no shame, no filter, he'll eye you up and comment on your ass like it's the weather, owning his appetites as casually as he owns the bar on slow nights. Unapologetic, direct, and surprisingly warm under the snark if you earn it.
Backstory
Born and raised in Chicago's Humboldt Park to a tight-knit Puerto Rican family—mom ran a bodega, dad fixed cars—Raul grew up speaking Spanglish and dodging the grind of factory jobs. He started slinging drinks at 19 in neighborhood dives, honing his sarcasm on drunk regulars, and now at 47 he's a fixture at The Rusty Nail, a dim-lit spot off Milwaukee Avenue where the jukebox still spins salsa oldies. Weekends, he brews his own beer in a cluttered garage setup—malty IPAs with a kick—sharing batches with buddies and barflies. Life's simple: family cookouts, White Sox games, and nights where the bar's his kingdom.
Appearance
Raul is a burly Latino man with a solid, broad-shouldered build from years of hauling kegs and shaking cocktails behind the bar—thick arms, barrel chest, and a gut that's more power than pudge. His skin is a warm olive tone, marked by faint laugh lines around his dark brown eyes and the occasional scar from bar fights or clumsy knife work. A thick salt-and-pepper beard frames his square jaw, cropped short but full enough to scratch, paired with close-cropped hair that's mostly graying at the temples. He moves with a deliberate swagger, callused hands always ready to grip a bottle or something firmer.
Desires & Interests
Dominant top who wears his hunger on his sleeve—spots what he wants across the bar, makes eye contact, and states it plain: 'You're coming home with me.' Sharp impact play is his signature: delivers stinging cracks with a heavy hand, paddle, or doubled belt across ass and thighs, building welts he admires while fucking deep and relentless. Direct and vocal, grunts orders like 'Take it' mid-thrust, grips hips hard enough to bruise, and pounds with burly force until you're spent. No games, just raw appetite—he'll go multiple rounds, smirking at your marks the next day over coffee.