Posted by Matiz on October 22, 2000 at 13:46:51:
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I begin this report--or pornographic tale, depending on your POV---with some misgivings: a new electronic forum, new posters, new handles, new attitudes about content. In short, changes. Time was when guys thought nothing about posting the most intimate details about chicas. Now---nada. Posting reports has always helped me “process” my experiences. In that regard, it’s more for my benefit than the reader’s. But I understand the reader has to be motivated to keep reading. Clarity is good. Humor always welcome. And, of course, some content. It’s like trying to strike a balance between your interests and mine. A little give and take. So if you’ll put up with my long-windedness and rambling asides, I’ll try to provide a couple of nuggets of information that you might be able to use. A win-win situation. Fair enough? I heard a report the other day that scientists had put a light beam through some “excited” gas and forced the beam to go faster than the speed of light. The end result: the beam exited the gas before it had entered it. Voila! Time travel. Another report talked about geologists finding a bacterium hidden in a spore inside a salt crystal in New Mexico. When revived with liquid, the bacterium began to multiply. It was estimated to be 250 million years old. That makes it the oldest known living creature. Imagine! And, more down to earth, my neurons are firing electrical impulses that I translate into packets of energy that my computer transmits to your computer that your brain converts into electrical pulses to your neurons. A sort of Vulcan mind-meld via long distance. Truly amazing changes happening. But through all this, one thing that doesn’t seem to change is sex. With only 300 generations since the advent of agriculture, evolution hasn’t had enough time to effect any substantive changes in the “standard equipment” we humans come with from the factory. In other words, we have the same basic genetics, body and mind, that our Pleistocene ancestors had. Carrying this a little further, that intense orgasmic rush you feel is probably the same pleasure, the same tingling, the same buildup and release of tension, that some Cro-Magnon hunter felt while screwing a female clan member in some European cave during the last ice age, or, more amazingly, what some barely upright bipedal carnivorous great ape felt on the African savannah 300,000 years ago boffing a receptive female in the bushes while keeping an eye out for toothsome predators. I have my own ideas about why sex hasn’t really changed. It all comes down to the common expression: if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Evolution fashioned mammalian sex over many millennia. The plan seemed to be to strip the process down to a simple, pleasurable experience that required no technology and no real conscious effort. It’s a classic design that really can’t be improved on. So it is with some Mexicanas... Thursday afternoon, 3 p.m., Adelita Bar, Tijuana, Mexico. Bright sunshine on a cool afternoon. I’d spent most of the previous evening in the Hotel Coahuila, a waning harvest moon peeking in the window, hunkered down with my favorite chica. So now my body’s thirst for panocha had been temporarily slaked, my mind had adjusted to the peculiar rhythms of urban Mexican life, and my rusty ear, four weeks out of practice, was finally beginning to catch up to the foreign sounds emanating from everyone’s mouths. I had no agenda, no goals, no plans. I was well-rested and well-fed. The afternoon and evening stretched out before me like the Great Plains, verdant with possibilities. In this jocular, almost Falstaff-like frame of mind, I could afford to be pleasant yet discriminating with the chicas. I chatted with Faviola but declined her request to buy her a drink. She pouted a bit and then left. Angela cruised, adroitly trying to read my mood: is he interested in a session with me today or not? I wasn’t. Elena, a frequent bed-companion, slid into the booth and we chatted. I admit I was tempted. She is so imaginative and raunchy in bed, a handsome, athletic woman with a truly dirty mind. I waffled momentarily and decided to pass for the time being. Many new faces among the daytime ladies. And many are gone. Karen, the Charro-like blonde, never returned from one of her vacations a couple of years ago. Candy and Tanya were nowhere to be seen. Even Elena only works about three days a week now. In their places are a small battalion of new, younger ladies hoping to grab whatever brass ring they are after: money for their kids, a better life, an education, a new house, a business back home. But I don’t know any of them anymore. Despite my good cheer, I begin to feel old, out of touch, someone from a bygone era. And then I saw a familiar face from the past. The hair was slightly darker, but the slim, firm figure, the crisply pressed jeans, and the round, full breasts are unmistakable—Alejandra. Not just one of the myriad Alejandra’s at AB, but “the original” Alejandra whose picture adorned the old JR chica reviews section, the one for whom the original Alejandra thread was started on Redsnake. Perhaps not universally acclaimed as a superstar like Tanya, but certainly one of the brightest lights at AB over the last few years. About 5 foot six, with shoulder-length hair now dyed brown, this former AB dancer has a sensuous face, and a supple figure with picture-perfect chichis, possibly 35 or 36 D. Her chichis are entirely natural and feel so squeezably soft that I sympathize with Mr. Whipple. Go ahead, squeeze the Charmin’. It’s addictive with Alejandra. Her boobs are classics that really belong in one of those older men’s magazines like Gent or Adam from the 50’s and 60’s, before models discovered breast enhancement surgery. Not quite large enough to be called pendulous, but way more than a handful. And two perfect nipples, like they were drawn on her body by an artist. Works of art, really. She is always impeccably put together: the makeup is perfect, the hair just right, the jeans clean and pressed, jewelry that accentuates without overpowering, and a calm, self-assured demeanor. And a consummate pro both in the bar and in the bedroom. In short, she represents IMO the very best that TJ's army of working chicas has to offer. She is one of those women that challenges all of the usual stereotypes about prostitutes: she’s beautiful without a spoiled attitude, very intelligent, capable of carrying on conversations in Spanish and English on a variety of subject, and then, incongruously, this aristocratic beauty will remind you of why you’re there: “Now I got to wash my pooosy, Matiz.” While she was riding me on our first encounter, and I was busy being mesmerized by her incredible body and facial features, she looked me in the eyes, smiled, and said, “We fuck good, no?” We had enjoyed four or five sessions over the years. I hadn’t made her a “regular” because, like a banana split or cherries jubilee, she’s a rich treat that I wanted to enjoy sparingly. She has no kids and has never been married, although she must be approaching thirty. For a bright, attractive Mexicana with superior sensibilities and an astute sense of judgment about men (she was the one who first introduced me to the term “carne fresca”, as in, “Ahhh, Matiz, I see you’re looking for carne fresca tonight. Well, maybe some other night, then.”), so it’s surprising she hasn’t found someone to pair off with. Anyway, I asked her about that after our second session, and her response was touching. “I still believe that a man and woman can fall in love and be faithful to each other for the rest of their lives. That’s what I’m looking for. Of course, not with my customers, not here in Tijuana. But when I retire, I will find such a man and we will have a family and raise our children. And he will be very, very happy.” Of the last, I have no doubt whatsoever. Lucky bugger. I hadn’t seen her in many months, maybe a year. Rumors were that she had gone back home, bought a business, and retired. But here she was. She sat at the bar carefully putting several limes into a glass, ignored for the most part by the male patrons. I hopped out of my booth and went over to talk to her. I looked at her quizzically, and she smiled and said, “Yes, it’s me, Alejandra. My hair is darker now.” We chatted, and she filled me in on her present situation. (She has family that cruises the internet, so I won’t give details of her situation, because it’s so unique that anyone who knew her would recognize it immediately. I’ll just say that she will only be in TJ for nine more days, and then she goes home. She works until about 10 p.m. She said she will probably be back for a month of work three or four more times over the next couple of years, and then she’ll have enough money to retire permanently. Adios, Tijuana.) I didn't need a drink with her. I didn't need any time to decide. I simply put my arm around her waist, leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Vamanos”, and she looked at me with surprise. Then happiness. “Si, si, si. Vamanos.” We walked up and got our room assignment, our extra sheet and towels, and got down to business. She is a stickler for hygiene. Always insists on a clean sheet to put over the beds, a touch I appreciate. This day, the sheet looked like someone had used it as a drop cloth to repaint a sewer, a dingy grey color with spots and smudges on it everywhere. We both laughed. So much for “clean” sheets. Her body was as great as ever. Swimming every day, she said. On the bed she crawled between my legs, situating one boob on each side of my left thigh, squatting, and began to administer a covered BJ. It was long, slow, and leisurely. She was clearly in no rush. She would nibble, lick, and then suck. Then she’d pause and look at my equipment like she was examining a banana in the produce section of Von’s. She offered a running commentary. “Mmmmmmm, Matiz, I love your dick. It’s the perfect size.” A lie, I said softly, but a very nice lie. She laughed. Well, she said, sometimes we chicas are telling the truth when we complement the men on their dicks. Sometimes, though, it’s a lie. In your case, it’s true. I could only laugh. Topping the first lie with a better one. The mark of a true pro. As the BJ progressed, her panocha, which was situated over my left foot, began to brush against my foot as she bobbed up and down. I could feel the courseness of her pubic hair, as well as the warmth, and wetness of her panocha. An additional turn-on, as if I needed one. Then she climbed on top and began the first of four variations of the female superior position, all of which she executed with great gusto and energy. Seeing her move up and down and around on top of me, I remembered that she has one of the most beautiful panochas I’ve every seen, closely trimmed, symmetrical lips, snug. Watching me move in and out of her was a visual feast. She kept making encouraging and complementary noises. “Que rico” and “me gusta mucho” and “muy buen sexo, no?” I finally got on top in missionary and took over the real work. She relaxed back on the bed and smiled. With the deeper penetration, I lasted only a couple of minutes longer and had a finish that rocked my body. More complements from Alejandra. We lay back on the bed talking about old times and new--her future, my job, all the little things that we remembered about each other. Finally, she got up to shower and I followed. After we dressed, she asked if I had enjoyed it. Of course, I said, I feel very content and happy now. A lie, she said, laughing gently, but a very nice lie, parroting my earlier remarks. Wit, humor, beauty, a patrician sensibility about life and a courtesan’s knowledge of the bedchamber. All for $50. It was a steal. We walked down the stairs and she kissed my cheek at the door. On the street I didn't feel as old, or as out of touch, as I had just a short time before. I felt rejuvenated, like I had drunk from the Fountain of Youth. I had that same happy, nostalgic rush I get from hearing a classic Beatles tune drifting out of a window, or seeing someone cruising in a '56 Corvette roadster. A classic is a classic is a classic. It hearkens you back to what we all want to remember as a simpler, happier, time. At the risk of sounding like an old fogie, they just don’t make ‘em like Alejandra any more. Buena suerte, amiga. (Note: There are two other parts to this report, one later that same night with a blonde bombshell at Chicago Club and one at the shank of the evening with a stripper at the El Pelicano. If there’s any interest, I’ll try to get around to them soon.)
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