Out of the Mist

The trolley decelerated to a complete stop at the end of the line in San Ysidro. I impatiently pushed the yellow button near the door, and watched the sliding doors move apart slowly. I stepped out into the uncharacteristically damp late evening air. A light mist was falling, which was showing signs of wanting to intensify into a bona fide rain. This was a new experience for me; weather had rarely, if ever, been an issue on any of my prior TJ trips.

Despite the inclement weather, my flight had arrived in San Diego within a few minutes of its scheduled arrival time of 9:00. The airport was a madhouse on this Saturday night. Nonetheless, the traditional plane-bus-trolley relay went off without a hitch, and my watch read 10:30 as I looked around for a place to grab a quick late-night snack. The nearby McDonald’s was in the process of closing up. That left me one option: the all-night Jack-in-the-Box. I headed up the street towards that cholesterol haven, an oasis of grease for the night owl. With the cool night air and the fog, I thought I was in London instead of SoCal.

The usual level of pre-Zona anticipation was present, still as intense as it’s ever been. It was enhanced by the awareness that this, quite possibly, was to be my last TJ trip for a while. It’s a virtual certainty that I’ll be moving back to the East Coast within the next few months, which will mean a return to the days when my westward trips were few, far between, and never a certainty. I do hope to try to squeeze in one more trip before I move, but that is a 50-50 proposition at best. This reality would pervade everything I experienced over the next couple of days, and cast a bittersweet aura over the entire visit.

Not surprisingly, the line was long inside the Jack-in-the-Box. In a moment of foreshadowing, three pretty young Latinas, dressed in skimpy attire despite the weather, took their place in the line behind me. They chattered excitedly in Spanish about God knows what, and I had to fight the urge to keep turning around. There’ll be plenty of time for that later, I reminded myself.

I chowed down a taco and a soda and briefly contemplated my mode of transport across the border. It was too late to hop a bus. That left one option: those infernal cabs I'd been boycotting for so long. I figured it was time to give them another chance. With the rain coming down with moderate intensity now, I headed for the pedestrian gate, thinking I should have packed an umbrella, regardless of how dorky it looked.

I hadn’t crossed the border on foot since those days when I was East-Coast-based. Still, the big metal gates clanged out their familiar tune as I entered the construction-riddled walkway. The rain picked up even more as I negotiated the long corridor. I knew at that point I’d be settling for a yellow cab, rather than hunting down a Taxi Libre. Who cares about the few extra bucks.

Those predatory cabbies descended upon me like hungry vultures the instant I emerged from the second gate. Recalling a trick I used frequently in my earlier TJ adventures, I blew right past the first tier of drivers, and motioned toward one of the back-dwellers. “Where to?” he asked in English. I produced a Villa de Zaragoza business card I’d grabbed during my last visit to TJ. Several months ago, a cabbie had taken me on a grand scenic tour of TJ during a ride back to the VZ, and I wanted there to be no questions about my destination.

Given my past history with the TJ cab drivers, I held my breath as the driver put his foot to the gas and took off. But I received a pleasant surprise this time. He took the direct route, straight to the VZ, and pulled up right next to the office. “Five dollars,” he said, quoting the typical, non-inflated rate used by the yellow cabs.

I gave him six. I’ve rarely tipped TJ cabbies in the past. But if I’m treated well, I will unfailingly be generous. This strategy has served me well in TJ, whether I’m dealing with cab drivers, waiters in the bars, or chicas.

The desk clerk in the hotel office was a guy I’d never seen before. He was short, chunky and a very sharp dresser; he was sporting a blue suit, with a matching dark blue shirt and tie. I had anticipated difficulty in getting a room, despite the fact I’d reserved it ahead of time with my debit card over the Internet. But there would be no problems with the reservation, at least not tonight; a room was ready for me, and on top of that, the bill for two nights came to $96. I would get $10 back as a deposit refund for the room key and TV remote, so the overall damage came to $43 a night. This was the lowest room charge I’d ever paid at the VZ; fate seemed to be smiling upon me at this point in time.

I didn’t spend too long in the room, only long enough to shower and change. It was closing in on 11:30 as I shut the door and stepped out into the misty, sodden evening. The rain had largely stopped; I took this to be yet another good omen as I hoofed it northward on Madero, my skin tingling with the anticipation of imminent contact with soft Mexicana flesh.


I'm So Predictable

The rain had definitely left its mark on the streets and sidewalks of the Zona Norte. There were areas that were as wet and muddy as a well-trodden barnyard. It was big business for the roving shoe-shine mercenaries, and I would turn down several offers to have my shoes cleaned during the course of this visit.

My original plan had been to spend this Saturday night in places other than my usual number one hangout, the Adelita Bar, in hopes of avoiding the crowds, the heat and the humidity. But put me in the middle of the Zona at any given time, and I’m drawn to AB like a moth to a flame. And so it was; I shoved those curtains aside and entered the hallowed, jam-packed den of sin and vice. So much for my plan.

For a Saturday night, however, I must say it wasn’t half bad. Sure, it was crowded, and it was hot, and there was a decided surplus of males. But I’ve seen it worse, and I was immediately struck by the fact that many of the girls I knew were in attendance. This came as a surprise; with it being early January, the weekend after New Year’s, I expected that many of the chicas would be vacationing back in their hometowns. But to my immense relief, that wasn’t the case.

The first familiar face I encountered, up in her usual hangout near the upper bar, was Evelyn de Veracruz. She was donning rather pedestrian attire on this evening, with a simple pair of jeans, a light blue top, and her trademark glasses. But she still looked appetizing. Unfortunately for me, she was chatting with another gentleman, so I bided my time by making a long, leisurely circuit of the bar. Upon returning to the same location, I saw that Evelyn and her admirer had moved over to the bar, with the guy seated on a stool, and Evelyn on his lap, with her head on his shoulder, facing in my direction.

Moving in on another guy’s action is not my style, so I momentarily gave up the chase. I merely passed nearby and shot Evelyn a wink that said, “I’m ready whenever you are.” She smiled back, then I retreated a distance away, still keeping her in my sight lines, just in case the guy decided to let her go. But after a few minutes, the two of them got up and headed for the curtains. The guy was obviously no fool; he realized what a gem he’d corralled.

So, I just hung out and people-watched for the next half hour. And then, I caught a glimpse of Evelyn re-emerging from the ladies’ dressing room. Without wasting a split second, in full Adelita Hunter mode, I high-tailed it over in that direction.

But I was still not quick enough, for another dude had gotten to her first. Evelyn was one popular lady on this particular evening. She was sitting on his lap, on the bar stool nearest to the dressing room entrance. It sure looked as though the guy had camped out there in hopes of catching a desirable partner before she got out into general circulation. Interesting strategy, and it had paid off for him.

Being an observer as well as a participant in the Adelita scene, I’ve often enjoyed gauging the demographics of a particular chica’s clientele. Evelyn’s fans seem to be forty-plus, well-groomed white men. Both her pursuers on this night fit into that category.

A true Adelita Hunter knows when to fish and when to cut bait, and I decided to drop the pursuit of Evelyn for the time being, and engage in a little bait-cutting. I headed for the bar entrance, with the intention of getting some fresh air.

And that’s when I saw her. A tiny little sprite, emerging from the crowd, with streaked blonde hair, wearing a skimpy two-piece light blue outfit and black stiletto heels. She had spotted me first, and ran up and threw her arms around me. At that instant, I was her captive, and she took my hand and pulled me toward the back of the bar.

“Elisa”. And I’m sure by now, you guys can see which way this is headed.


The Five-Dollar Discount

I was content to just stand with Elisa for a while and chat, but even on a busy Saturday night, she was determined to find a place to sit down. There we were, standing on the rear dance floor behind Hottie Central, with nary an empty booth in sight. One of the corner booths was occupied by a lone guy, apparently sitting by himself. Elisa pointed inquisitively at the empty seat opposite him, but the guy shook his head, signifying that the vacant space was soon to be occupied by a person of unknown identity. Not to be discouraged, Elisa headed for the passageway along the back wall. I followed, wondering just what she had in mind. One of the booths against the wall contained two chicas, sitting opposite one another. Elisa, using her Mother Hen status for all it was worth, said a few words in Spanish to the two girls, then motioned for one to slide over into the other seat, alongside the other. They did so without hesitation. And thus, having managed to clear a space for us to sit, Elisa smiled up at me proudly as I slid in beside her.

I love the way she asserts herself in this manner; she seems to do it every time I see her. The bar is her space, her environment, and she has total control over it.

I bought her three ficha drinks as we sat there and chatted. I learned that she had just arrived back in town a few days ago, after going away for the holidays. Good fortune had continued to shroud me; in fact, I was on a bit of a roll. Eventually, Elisa’s hands began to wander in the usual manner as she gauged my arousal. By now, I was about to burst out of my trousers. “Let’s go,” I told her. “One hour.”

At the desk, I produced the $22 for the room, four fives and two ones. Elisa requested two towels. Pushing the cash toward the clerk, she directed a few words in Spanish towards him. Then, she took back one five-dollar bill, handed it to me and winked. I looked at her in astonishment, wondering exactly what she had just done. Did she get me some kind of a discount?

Though I made a mental note to ask her about it later, it slipped my mind and I never did bring it up. We ended up with one of the rooms up on the third floor. Elisa always gets very quiet at this point in the proceedings. It’s as if she needs to stop and catch her breath.

In seemingly an instant, we were naked and on the bed. I was raring to go at this point. During my recent visits, Elisa hadn’t made an appearance until the latter stages of my stay. Now, here she was, batting leadoff. As a result, with my tank on full, I wanted to devour her, and I would do my level best.

She produced one breast, then the other; I suckled both like a madman. After a few minutes, she pulled away. Kneeling down alongside my waist, she leaned over and took me into her mouth. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again… she is simply the best when it comes to this particular act. I had a whole hour with her, and I wanted to hold out as long as I could, so I closed my eyes and thought of Janet Reno. Before too long, she came up for air, and eagerly flopped back on the bed, encouraging me to return the favor.

Well, who was I to say no. As horny as I was at that point, I kind of got caught up in the moment. My best guess, time-wise, is that I went down on her for about twenty minutes. At that point, I needed to catch my breath, so I slid up alongside her on the bed. She was smiling broadly, and made a shivering gesture with her whole body. “You crazy,” she told me. She tore off a piece of tissue and used it to wipe my face.

But, after all, I was the one paying for this session, and she did her best to keep her end of the bargain. She straddled and rode me, cowgirl style. I gazed up at her and enjoyed the visual… her eyes closed tightly as she bore down, her mouth drawn up into a little ring, her wavy hair bouncing up and down on top of her head. A quick switch to doggy style followed, where I finally climaxed.

Elisa never fails to give me an ample amount of cuddle time afterward, and this night was no exception. I informed her that unlike my other recent visits, I had a second evening to work with this time. “So you see another lady in the afternoon,” she told me, “and then come see me tomorrow night.” I just grinned. Nice of her to try to plan my whole day for me, I chuckled inwardly. But her lack of possessiveness is one thing I like about her. With Elisa, I can have my cake and eat it too.

We cleaned up and got dressed. With the light in the room on, I had a chance to observe the coloring in her hair, which wasn’t all that evident down in the dimly lit bar. It was blonde with streaks of ruby red. I gave her a bemused smile as I ran my hands through her brightly colored locks. “It’s different every time I see you,” I said, referring to her ever-changing hair color.

“You like?” Elisa beamed. Like many of the other girls at AB, she is just a little bit vain, and has a rather flamboyant fashion sense. There is never anything about her appearance that is the least bit boring.

She stepped into her high heels, but she still had to get up on her tip-toes to offer me her full, ruby-red lips, the color of which matched the streaks in her hair. A few light, feathery kisses followed, then we headed out into the hallway. I bid her goodnight in front of the curtains, promising to look for her the following night.

It was nearing 2:00am at this point. But before heading back to the hotel, I took a detour into the alley. The rain had stopped, no doubt much to the relief of the street girls, who were lining the thoroughfare as always. Perhaps there were fewer of them than you’d find on a typical, non-rainy Saturday, but as I walked past, I heard more than my share of whistles and hisses. Life as usual in the Zona Norte.

On the corner of 2nd and Revo, a food vendor was grilling up some grub. The aroma was irresistible. I’m generally no big fan of hot dogs, but I just had to try one of those bacon-wrapped franks that everyone raves about. They’re definitely delicious. And despite my increasing tendency to patronize these streetside food hawkers, I have yet to come down with any intestinal malady as a result. Knock on wood.

At 2:00 on a weekend night in TJ, the streets are overrun with the intoxicated. Being a non-drinker myself, I have a bit of an edge in dealing with the less wholesome individuals who prey on drunken, unwary tourists, despite the frequency with which I walk the streets of TJ late at night. And I was about to encounter a situation in which my sobriety would pay off.

Further down along Revo, in the area around Bambi’s, my radar picked up a girl holding a bouquet of flowers, a short distance ahead of me. A child of about eight was standing next to her. As I approached, the girl walked up and held the flowers out in my direction. I saw the kid start to sneak around behind me. Quickly, I jumped to the right like a running back juking a defender, keeping myself out of range. The kid yelled out “Hey!” as I blew right on past them. Clearly, the girl and the child were working in tandem, and I had just managed to escape being pickpocketed.

This is the second time I’ve nearly been victimized by the flower scam. Both times, it happened late at night on the same stretch of Revo.

But all was forgotten as I dozed off to sleep back in the hotel room. Though I’d almost become the victim of a crime, I’d managed to escape. And everything else that evening had worked out perfectly. So far, so good.


When Life Hands You Lemons…

I rolled over in bed, and awoke with a start. I grabbed my watch… it was already 11:00. Oversleeping is bad enough when it makes you late for work or causes you to miss fulfilling a responsibility. But how about oversleeping during a two-day vacation designed for nothing but pure pleasure? And as I already noted, I couldn’t use overindulging in alcohol as an excuse.

My breakfast was a couple of donuts, stolen from the cache of emergency food I always throw into my travel bag in the event of such an occurrence. I ate, showered, and was out the door by 11:45. The AB afternoon shift beckoned, and I wanted to see if I could hunt down “Sweet Caroline” from my last TJ visit, and pick up where we left off.

But first, I needed to visit an ATM to procure my funds for the day. I handled my finances in a different manner on this trip. I left a good portion of my budgeted money in the bank, brought an ATM card and planned to tap into the cash as necessary. The account contained precisely the amount I intended to spend on this trip. I know that many of you discourage bringing any debit or credit card into Mexico. But carrying a lot of cash on my person makes me nervous, even though I use a money belt and spread small amounts of quick-access cash among various pockets. I spend a fair portion of my time during these visits in transit, north of the border, and I’d rather have a card handy. It’s a tradeoff, to be sure; it’s risky either way.

The nearest ATM to the VZ that I know of is the one at the nearby AM/PM, so that was my first pit stop on the way to AB. I’ve used it before, and I feel safe when I do. I inserted my card, and was surprised to get an insufficient funds message. Strange… I knew there was no possible way that could be accurate.

Figuring something was wrong with that particular machine, I proceeded over to my backup ATM… the one in the Mexicoach terminal. My anxiety increased as that machine, as well, informed me that no funds were available. It made no sense… I knew that there was something wrong. Unless someone else was tapping into my account. And that’s when the thought first occurred to me… I recalled those stories about unauthorized credit card use by employees of the VZ.

I knew that unless I got my hands on some more cash, I was seriously screwed. Never mind mongering. I barely had enough on my person to cover transportation costs back to the airport, and meals for one day, if I ate like an anorexic. My next move was to head for the Internet café, to check the recent transactions in my account. Thanks goodness for Wells Fargo’s online banking feature. It showed that, indeed, a mysterious withdrawal had been made, apparently very recently, because the only information available was the amount. The account balance was about $20 in the negative.

Well, by now I was equal parts depressed and pissed off. I headed back to the hotel. My first impulse was to chew out the guy at the front desk, but I figured I’d better get my facts straight first. Back in my room, I called the number on the back of my debit card. They couldn’t tell me a lot at that point. I needed to get my hands on some cash, now, and I recalled that many Wells Fargo ATM’s permit withdrawals against negative balances, of course subject to overdraft fees. Side note… overdraft protection, I don’t have it, and it would have helped immensely here.

I decided to write off the entire afternoon; a trip north of the border was called for. I invested $2.50 (which was a lot of money to me at that point) in a Mexicoach ticket. And of course, the wait at the border, on a Sunday afternoon, was a good 45 minutes.

I won’t go into great detail regarding the lengths I went to in an attempt to alleviate this mess. It’s outside the scope of this report. But after many phone calls, and traveling all over San Ysidro on foot, I was able to find one ATM that allowed me to pull out $100. Not nearly enough, but it was better than nothing. For those who are curious, it was the Wells Fargo branch up past the Travelodge. I continued to scout out the area, in hopes of being able to find another willing ATM, but my search proved fruitless. I finally called back the bank, and told them to cancel the card and send me a new one. They assured me that they would investigate, and that all overdraft fees I’d accumulated up to that point would be waived if the dispute was settled in my favor. I breathed just a little easier at that point, but I was well aware that my day had been ruined. By now, it was dark, nearly 6:00 and starting to rain again.

The Mexicoach bus transported me back into TJ. It was past 6:30 when I stormed into the office at the VZ and let the front desk clerk, the same well-dressed man I’d seen the previous evening, have it. He could offer nothing more than an apology and a promise to investigate. Scant help at that point, but let’s be fair here, it probably wasn’t his fault. More likely, the hired help was the crooked party.

I showered and changed in my room, and then finally headed toward the Zona, having lost the entire afternoon and early evening. I forgot completely about dinner, opting instead to visit the Internet café and post my sad story on the board.


…Make Lemonade

I’d taken stock of my finances before leaving the hotel, and the picture was grim. Realistically, I had enough for one thirty-minute session the rest of the way. Perhaps two, if I limited my meals and avoided all ficha drinks. I didn’t want to operate that way. I thought of Elisa, and realized that for almost as long as I’d known her, one hour had been our standard session time. But hanging out in the bar has always been a very important part of our interaction, and I simply didn’t want to forgo that. I hated having to prioritize along those lines, but I had to play the hand I’d been dealt.

And so, I decided to tell Elisa up front that I could only do thirty minutes. I hoped she’d understand.

It was about 8:00 when I split the curtains at AB. What I saw lifted my spirits. It was not very crowded, and the female-male ratio was quite favorable. Sunday nights are my favorite at AB, and this one was better than most, as far as ambience goes.

I made a right upon entering, taking note of the uncharacteristically empty Hottie Central. But there was one notable exception: standing right in the center was a bombshell, the undisputed focus of all male eyes. I believe I said before that one of the signs of spending too much time on the boards is when you are able to identify unfamiliar girls on sight, with no prompting. Well, I at once identified this chica as Paola de Guadalajara. Believe it or not, to the best of my knowledge I’d never seen her before. Paola’s getup was a real eye-catcher… faded blue jeans with the back pockets cut completely away, revealing square-shaped patches of bare ass. Very creative. Her blonde hair was tied back, revealing about six hoop earrings in each ear.

Paola was attracting attention left and right, and displayed a surprisingly bubbly bar personality for a girl with a reputation as somewhat of an ice queen. I got a definite too-good-to-be-true vibe though, and had my financial situation been better, I still would have passed. She isn’t really my type, anyhow… too skinny. I like girls with a little bit of meat on their bones. I do, however, understand her popularity. And it wasn’t long before some guy had her following him off toward the curtains.

I glanced at my watch; I wanted to time Paola’s stay upstairs if I had the chance. As it turned out, I didn’t get that chance; not that I regretted it one bit. For here she was, the one I was truly seeking… Elisa, wearing a tiny one-piece, off-the-shoulders blue tube dress with an elaborate design. She pressed her boobs into me. “Hi, baby,” she smiled. “How was your day?”

Talk about the perfect antidote for a lousy afternoon.

Finding an empty booth on this evening was no problem at all. We settled in back near the rear dance floor. Right away, I filled her in on my misfortune, trying my best not to sound as if I was soliciting pity. “Thirty minutes is all I can do tonight,” I told her as soon as the opportunity presented itself. “And a few drinks too. No dinero.”

Elisa just giggled, unfazed. “Okay,” she said without batting an eye.

I continued on, “Actually, I like three hours with you, or maybe four.” I laughed. “Next time, okay?” Funny how I start using fractured English myself when chatting with chicas at AB. It’s contagious.

I have never known Elisa to be anything but a trouper and a good sport. She was completely unbothered by my shortage of funds. But just the same, no thanks to the staff at the VZ for depriving me of quality time with my all-time fave on that particular evening.

We spent a good long time in the bar, reminiscing and talking about life in general. I was quite content, but even sitting there in the booth, it was apparent to me that the day’s events had taken their toll on Mr. Happy, who’d definitely had happier moments. In retrospect, it’s possible that subconsciously, I was dwelling on the likelihood that I wouldn’t be back in TJ for quite a while. All this was, of course, quite obvious to Elisa. She smiled a knowing smile, and motioned upward with her eyes. “Let’s go,” she said. “I make you feel better.”

I knew that I only had thirty minutes to work with this time. And so, apparently, did Elisa, who saw to it that this session would be only about my pleasure. Unlike last night, there would be no munchfest.

Right away, she went to work on me orally. After a few minutes of that, she decided to address my tension. “Relax, baby,” she said, pulling away for a moment. She lightly bit each of my nipples, and ran her hands over my chest. Then she resumed sucking me with all she had.

But release was proving elusive for me, so she straddled me and squatted down on my rather reluctant member. I closed my eyes and tried to bear down and concentrate. I’m sure many of you know that in situations like this, that’s often the worst thing you can do. I tried to think about having sex with her on a secluded beach, a corny, idyllic romantic fantasy to be sure. That almost did the trick… but not quite.

She rolled over on her back, commanding me to mount her, missionary style. This is a position that, for some reason, she does not appear to relish. But I enjoy those rare moments when she permits it, for it allows me to either gaze down on her face, or press my cheek against hers. After a few more minutes of that, with no apparent orgasm in sight for me, I decided to hoist the white flag. Pulling away, I mouthed to her that I was content to spend the rest of the session cuddling and talking.

“No,” she replied, somewhat tersely. “No. You can do.” She got down on her knees, doggy style, grabbed the root of my penis and proceeded to impale herself with it. Before I could utter any reply, she was bouncing her little bottom into me. Who was I to complain. I quickly picked up the rhythm, and met her thrusts with equal intensity. But a few minutes later, the well remained dry.

Still, Elisa refused to concede defeat. Flopping over on her back, she demonstrated a new position, the likes of which I’ve never tried or even seen. It’s hard for me to describe, but I’ll do my best. With me laying head to foot on the bed, she positioned herself at a ninety-degree angle, with her head hanging off the side of the bed. She put one leg between mine, and her other leg over my top leg. Despite the seemingly awkward contortions, getting ourselves coupled was quite easy. I squeezed her leg between mine, enjoying the flesh to flesh contact, as whatever mental barrier I might have had began to erode away. And lo and behold, my release came in stunningly rapid fashion. All it took was a little persistence and creativity on her part.

We lay there for several more minutes, not saying very much. The knock on the door came, and we washed up and got dressed. I glanced at my watch, as I always do… I’d gotten about forty minutes. As I’d done the previous night, I took note of the red streaks in her hair. She smiled back at me. “Next time you see me,” she said, “it looks different again.”

Will there be a next time? That’s highly questionable at this point.


A Little White Lie

I squeezed Elisa’s hand in front of the AB curtains, promising to return later and buy her a couple more fichas. A slight drizzle was falling, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t deal with. It was time to roam around the Zona, an activity that for me, requires much less in the way of thought, and is always a welcome interlude.

I passed through the alcove into Chicago Club. Oh, man. Whatever happened to this place? There used to be beautiful women galore. This was Sunday night, around 10:30, and the talent level was as low as I’d ever seen it. I’m not a guy who dwells too heavily on looks, but even for my less-than-discriminating tastes, the pickings were slim. The actual number of women seemed lower than usual, as well.

Still, I sat down in one of the elevated booths up against the far wall and ordered my usual Coca-Cola. With all the cola I consume in TJ, it’s a wonder I don’t OD on caffeine. Sitting alone in a booth invites company, however. And it didn’t take long for the empty space beside me to become occupied.

She introduced herself as Myra, offering me a handshake. “From Cancun,” she quickly added. “Cancun is very beautiful.” Her English was excellent, for all intents and purposes conversational-quality.

She was average height, and slightly built. She had on a plain black pants suit. Her long brown hair flowed down past her shoulders, and she looked up at me with deep, expressive brown eyes, and full, pouty lips. She probably wasn’t the youngest lady in the bar, but I didn’t mind. She was quite easy on the eyes. An intriguing newcomer, she definitely was. And a ficha was certainly in order.

Myra initiated her sales pitch, as the waiter brought her drink. “I come here ten days ago,” she told me.

“You’ve only been working here ten days?” I smiled, with a hint of skepticism.

“Yes,” she grinned. “I am new here.”

Somehow, I doubt that. She seemed far too much at ease, and far too polished, to be a newcomer at CC. But, hey, if she wanted to be a newbie, I was more than willing to go along with it.

Myra was not overly affectionate, but she radiated a warmth that I liked. As she nursed along her drink, she laid out a scenario for me. “We go upstairs. Fucky-sucky. You kiss my pussy. We shower together. And you come in my mouth,” Myra asserted. That last item grabbed my attention. Two problems, though… I’d just finished a session, and the source of the other problem was the staff at the VZ. Therefore, I had to decline, though I’d love to have taken her up on her offer.

“It’s okay,” Myra replied pleasantly, as she moved to get up. “Maybe I see you again?”

I nodded in assent. “You’re very nice.”

“Me too,” was her response. Okay, so her English comprehension wasn’t perfect. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

As Myra slinked off, I got up as well, and strode out into the damp late evening.

Still making my rounds, I walked up the hill on Constitucion. I felt a pang of hunger, and realized that I hadn’t had a substantial meal since breakfast. I contemplated visiting one of the eateries in the alley, but familiarity won out. I opted to consume one of those juicy cartburgers from a vendor on the corner near Azteca Massage.

My appetite for both sex and food quenched at this point, I slowly made my way back to the Zona Norte. The rains had left their mark on the streets and sidewalks. Mud and water everywhere. I continually looked downward to avoid the nasty brown mud puddles, and despite my vigilance, my shoes were dirt-splattered.

The nighttime Tijuana is far different from the daytime version. Despite it being Sunday night, I passed many revelers as I walked northward on Constitucion. They intermingled with the usual street vendors and anonymous pedestrians. Along the sidewalk lay the occasional down-on-their-luck street person, with no apparent home, asleep against the building, covered with a tattered old blanket, oblivious to the dank weather conditions. I briefly considered what life must be like for these people, and had no desire to contemplate it any further.

As one crosses the intersection with 1st Street, the environment changes somewhat. Passing between the Bar Taurino and Bar Zacazonapan (two places I can never see myself entering, for different reasons), street girls enter into the populace mix, along with an increase in hawkers of all sorts. One shoe-shine dude walked right up at me and pointed down at my dirty shoes. “You need a shine, sir,” he blurted out rudely. I continued right on past, ignoring him. He failed to get the hint, and followed me all the way down to the alley, shouting at me as he finally dropped pursuit.

At the intersection with Coahuila, I was accosted by a young, short guy with a mustache. “Massage? I know a place,” he said in good English. Ignoring him as well, I moved away toward Adelitas. I imagine he was either a mercenary employed by one of the less reputable bars, or the padrote of some street girl. And he, too, pursued me all the way to the curtains at AB, before shouting out in frustration as I slipped from his clutches, and into the familiar sanctuary that is my home in the Zona.

The night shift was now in full swing; all the familiar late-hour ladies were in attendance. Evelyn, of course, was in her usual spot. Over the past few visits, her status has been transformed from unfulfilled obsession to nighttime Plan B in the event Elisa is not around.

I sat down at the upper bar, the corner nearest the DJ booth, and immediately beheld a breathtaking sight. The two blonde bombshell sisters, Caoba/Fernanda and Ariel, were standing a scant few feet in front of me, right next to each other, facing toward the main stage.

Mesmerized by the amazing rear view, I saw a rare opportunity to do a side-by-side sibling comparison. I’d comment on fortuitous genetics, but I’m well aware that both of them are largely man-made creations. Still, they have few rivals at AB in terms of sheer physical beauty.

Caoba, the shorter, more compact of the two, has a fuller, rounder body type that’s more to my liking, and strong, unusual facial features. What I find very striking is the way her copper-colored skin contrasts with that white-blonde hair. Ariel, meanwhile, has a taller, more athletic build; she gives me somewhat of an Anna Kournikova vibe.

They both look quite different now than they did a few years ago. Way back when, I stated that Ariel was much the better looking of the two. But if I had been inclined to do a session at that particular instant, with them both standing right in front of me, there’s no doubt that Caoba would have been the sister that I grabbed. Of course, I might have tried to snag both of them for an incestuous threesome, but never mind.

It was Ariel, supposedly the less friendly of the two, who turned around, saw me checking her out and flashed a smile. I smiled back, but didn’t pursue the matter any further; my attention was in the process of being diverted.

There was Elisa, standing back behind the center stage, chatting with her amiga Angela. Usually, she spots me before I see her. But this time was different; I was partially out of her view, and her radar hadn’t picked me up yet.

I decided to sit and watch her for just a little bit. Eventually, Angela moved on and Elisa stood there by herself, swaying back and forth. I continued to watch her, oblivious to the fact that the blonde sister duo had abandoned their nearby stations in search of other pursuits. Elisa may not be the prettiest, nor the youngest lady in the bar. But she commands my attention whenever she is around. A tiny little dynamo with a queen-size aura that, for me, outshines every other girl in the bar.

Elisa is a roamer; when she’s unoccupied, she never sticks to one location. She started over toward the main bar, stopping ever so briefly to greet a guy seated there, then moving on. Realizing that I had to grab her before someone else did, I put an end to my brief tenure as an Elisa observer, and hastily sped over in that direction. She greeted me with the usual pleasant smile, and we once again settled into a booth way in the back.

Two ficha drinks was all I could spare at this point in time. I watched the drink level in her glass decrease, and had flashbacks to earlier visits, with clocks ticking in my mind, and sand running through hourglasses. Time is money at AB, and I didn’t have enough of either. She interrupted my daydreaming by putting forth the question I didn’t want to hear: “When are you coming back?”

I hesitated before answering. I hadn’t told her that I’d be heading back east, and that there was a good chance it would be quite a long while before I made it back to TJ. I’m not one for long, mushy goodbyes. I’ve gotten to know Elisa pretty well, and I suspect that she isn’t either. And, in this particular setting, commercial in nature, despite attempts by us both to pretend otherwise…

I guess my long immersion in this scene has jaded me just a little. There’s no question that Elisa has a bit of a spell over me, and the intensity with which I write about her is ample evidence of that. But in spite of that, there is one thing that I freely acknowledge. It took me some time to get to this point, but I’ve arrived there. I’m not sure that I’m comfortable with this eventuality, however, because it flies in the face of everything that I believe about human interactions.

Elisa is not “mine”. When she is working, she belongs to everyone. I do believe that she likes me, and sincerely enjoys my company. I treat her well, and she responds in kind, many times over. But the bottom line is, it’s a commercial transaction, as are nearly all similar interactions in the Zona. I say that without any trace of condemnation of what Elisa does for a living, or what I practice as a hobby. Indeed, I have a great deal of respect for Elisa as a person; she’s been an important part of my life for four years now. But it’s simply the way things are in the Zona.

I weighed over my answer to her question, not sure exactly what to say. Had this happened a few years ago, I would have blurted out the entire story in as dramatic a fashion as possible. But what would be gained by that? Why make this harder than it has to be?

Elisa looked up at me inquisitively, awaiting my reply. When I opened my mouth, the words spilled out almost without my even realizing it. “March,” I replied. “I’ll be back in March. Or maybe April.” I’m scouring my memory right now, and to the best of my recollection, that was the first time I was ever less than 100% honest with Elisa.

“Okay, baby,” she chirped brightly. “I see you then.” She held up each cheek for me to kiss, then got up to re-enter the world she knew. As I had so often before, I watched her vanish into the crowd, catching one final glimpse of her long, wavy multicolor hair cascading down onto the fabric of that gaudy blue dress. I tried not to dwell on the fact that there was a higher-than-normal probability that I’d just set eyes on her for the final time.

Something tells me that if I don’t show up in a couple of months, she’ll get over it.

Outside, the wind had picked up just a little, which drove the fine drizzle into my face like tiny needles. I looked at my watch; both hands were pointed straight up. Midnight. I took a quick stroll through the alley to clear my mind, then began the long walk back to the VZ.


Veronica and the Final Afternoon

Given that I usually end my TJ visits with an evening flight out of San Diego, I have typically concluded the mongering portion of each trip with a “final afternoon” at AB. With Elisa out of the picture, these quick afternoon sojourns are often anti-climactic. However, they have also included some memorable experiences. There was the time when the famous Tania demonstrated to me her lack of undergarments, by thrusting my hand up underneath her skirt. And there was the more recent occasion when an overweight, older, unattractive lady plopped herself down next to me in a booth, practically sat on me to prevent me from leaving, and then proceeded to deliver a pretty decent session upstairs, at the basement bargain rate of $20.

As was the case on my last trip, my cash reserves had dwindled down to almost zilch. Last time, however, poor money management on my part was the culprit. This time? Well, I’ve already fingered the perpetrators, and there’s no sense beating a dead horse.

I checked out of the VZ at 10:30. The guy at the front desk, Luis, did hand me back the aforementioned $10 deposit refund. As a result, I now had enough for a couple of meals, transit costs, a few incidentals, a couple of drinks at AB and one chica drink. Pretty pathetic, I know. But there was nothing I could do about it.

From there, it was off to the Internet café where I invested $1 of my incidental reserves, and believe me, I used up almost the full hour. I had lunch at the taco joint on the east side of Revo near 3rd Street, not far from the Gigante supermarket. I forget the name of this place, but it’s recently been remodeled and expanded. The food here is pretty good, a notch above and a little cheaper than Maria Candelaria across the street. Although it has the touristy feel that you get from all establishments along Revo, the customers on this particular day, except for me, were all locals.

It was closing in on 12:30 when I re-entered AB. I’m telling you guys, if you can manage to hit AB on a Monday afternoon, it isn’t half bad. All the usual daytime chicas were in attendance, and the bar was practically devoid of men. I noticed the same thing on my last visit, which also concluded on a Monday afternoon.

Circling through the back, I passed Malena, who was chatting and giggling with a friend. I immediately decided to make her the beneficiary of my one allotted ficha, but chose to wait a few minutes until I could make one more circuit. The ever-present and always delectable Candi was in her usual spot, and not a soul within twenty feet of her.

As I neared the end of my circuit and passed along the upper bar, with Malena firmly in my sights, I glanced off to the left. Sitting on one of the stools, also chatting with an amiga on this slow Monday, was my old acquaintance, Veronica de Veracruz. Her sudden appearance stopped me in my tracks.

It seems that Veronica turns up, in some form, in nearly every report I write. She and I have a long and somewhat checkered history. To summarize, I first met her way back on my second-ever visit to TJ. I hit it off with her immediately, but once up in the room, she tried to extract $20 from me for a BJ. When I saw her again, a couple of years later, I gave her a second chance, and she gave me a wonderful session. Then, on my last TJ visit up till now, I turned her down for some inexplicable reason, and the next day, she blew me off when I approached her.

I looked at Veronica and smiled, hoping she wouldn’t remember what happened last time. If she did, she certainly didn’t show it. She ditched her friend, and came up and threw her arms around me. It’s funny how at AB, your plans can change in an instant. For me, familiarity always wins out, and I knew that I wanted to award Veronica my one ficha drink.

We dropped into a nearby booth, and Veronica crawled into my lap, chattering in Spanish, batting her eyelashes and running her hands all over me. Since I planned to head for the airport right after leaving AB, I’d dressed for cold weather. I had on a long-sleeve sweatshirt under my jacket. It was stuffy as usual inside AB, and I began to sweat profusely.

That didn’t faze Veronica, who took the napkin from my drink, and began to wipe off my face. She pressed her cheek against mine and wrapped her arms around me like a python squeezing its prey. She kissed me repeatedly on the neck. The waiter brought her drink, a beer, but she scarcely noticed it. And I thought to myself, this girl is just full of surprises.

Veronica sat there in my lap for at least ten minutes, still chattering away. I wish I understood Spanish better than I do, because I’d love to have known what she was talking about.

There is something about Veronica that absolutely gives me a first-class woody every time I see her. She reminds me of a college frat girl, even more so as she sat there with a beer in her hand. Her skin is soft and smooth, and the sight of her small, firm body never fails to rev my engine.

Eventually, she slid down alongside of me in the booth, maintaining an ample amount of body contact. I was still sweating heavily. She finally started to nurse her beer. I didn’t mind, for it afforded me the opportunity to kiss her neck, reveling in the feel of her soft, young flesh. My hand looped around and clamped on her breast, and I teasingly slid one finger across her nipple, eliciting a squeal. Her hands wandered between my legs; and as one might assume, I was ready to go. But, for once again obvious reasons, it wasn’t to be. “Not now,” I said, hoping she would understand.

“Is okay,” she smiled, mustering up some English.

“Next time…arriba,” I replied, which elicited more grabbing, smooching, and lip-licking on her part.

She sat with me for a few more minutes, then moved to get up. Veronica, a very polite young lady, pointed at the empty beer and said, “Thank you.” I love it when girls thank me for their drinks… it shows that you are not being taken for granted. She offered up both cheeks for me to kiss, then got up and sauntered off toward the dressing room, probably to wipe my sweat off her face.

And so, that was Veronica, unpredictable and fascinating as ever. At her best, she’s an absolute doll. I seem to find a new number two fave every trip, or more correctly, it revolves among several girls. But right now, it’s Veronica sitting in the number two spot for me. In fact, the highest compliment I can pay her is that with her tiny stature, her affectionate nature, and her bubbly, happy demeanor, she’s almost like a younger version of Elisa. It’s unfortunate that there has to be such a language barrier with Veronica, however.

Oh, and I really feel compelled to say this once again. No thanks to the staff at the Villa de Zaragoza, for depriving me the pleasure of Veronica’s soft young body, not to mention sexual favors, up in the room on that particular afternoon.


Could This Be the End?

I left AB shortly after bidding farewell to Veronica. I was at the bus terminal at 2:30, in plenty of time to catch my 5:15 flight. The TJ withdrawal normally doesn’t hit me until I reach the San Diego airport. At that point, I’m officially in transit, on my way back to real life. And there would be further complications on my home-bound trip… a flight delay caused me to miss my connection, and I was stranded in the Las Vegas airport for over four hours. I didn’t make it back home until after 3:00am.

I don’t know what the future holds, as far as my move back east. If this was, in fact, the last chapter of the TJ part of my life, all I can say is, it’s been one helluva four-year ride.

Viva la Zona!

You'll be back someday. I can't see you not continuing to appreciate the finer things in life at any cost.

The hotel did the wrong thing. I can feel your pain. I could handle being stranded ANYWHERE without funds except in the Zona.

Back East eh? Well Farsider, you sure gave us all one helluva treat with your posts and many of us will refuse to believe that it's over.

Jeez. Felt like I looked at the Zona for the last time with you. It ain't over.

Country John

What a great Trip Report! Well written, detailed, all the good bits. I hereby nominate this as the first of the best of k5.

I'm sure you'll be back. I'm pretty sure you'll find some way, subconsciously, to make it back around March/April. Maybe your tax refund...

I'll make a suggestion you may or may not take: consider getting some Visa gift cards. They transact via the Visa network, but they're just loaded with preconfigured amounts of money. Using them, instead of a credit/debit card, means you can carry your debit card in "safe mode" and give out a bunch of basically worthless numbers to the scammers.

Of course, identifying the "infrastructure" (hotel, ticket agents, etc) as the scammers does kind of turn the world on its head. But now we know.

Thanks for the explicit heads up about hotel credit card fraud. Please follow up when your bank lets you know what has happened.

Dem Fascignated Gnomes

Farsider great report as always. Next time I will hold your credit cards for you

Farsider,

Great report. I loved the Janet Reno tactic.

From back East, fly South next time to South America. You will find ample opportuntities there as well.

Thanks again for the report.

Moondog