Posted by Matiz on October 22, 2000 at 17:36:21:
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10 p.m., Chicago Club, Tijuana, Mexico. Let’s get something straight up front. I’ve never been a fan of CC. In fact, I’m on record many times as saying I don’t feel comfortable there. I spent many an enjoyable night with Heidi, but since La Famosa left, I’ve only had minimal luck there. I don’t know what it is; maybe I find off-putting the whisper-thin veneer of faux sophistication in what is essentially just a bordello with a dancefloor. Hookers putting on airs. Or maybe it’s just “different strokes for different folks.” But Adelita was a non-option: my favorite chica would want to spend the time with me, and if I didn’t and hit on another chica in her presence, then I’d pay for it in some fashion on the next trip, and pay dearly. So I was fishing different waters tonight. Got a beer and took a conveniently vacant stool at the entrance-end of the bar. Perfect place to squat and watch the circus. I began to notice several familiar faces from AB. Flor walked by in a short, tight white dress. We talked a bit. She is quite pleased to be at CC. I suppose she charges the standard $50 now; at AB she would go upstairs for $30 on a slow day. Different club, higher rate. For prostitution, like real estate, location is everything, I guess. I saw a stunning blonde that used to work at AB also. Five foot seven, perhaps, big hair, and huge chichis. She was wearing only a fluorescent green fishnet and a teensy white G-string the size of a tea bag. Clearly the most underdressed (or overdressed, depending on your POV) chica at CC. Several of the guys just gaped, and the chicas they were with just chuckled. An older gent (yes, even older than me), became visibly agitated when he saw her, tried to strike a deal, but she just laughed, shook her head and walked off. I nursed my beer for the better part of an hour, watching the clientele and chicas come and go in waves, sometimes clogging the entrance, sometimes clearing out like it was closing time. I was beginning to get that familiar “CC is a waste of time” feeling again, when suddenly, as if on cue, a tall, slender brunette with an elaborate tattoo on her back sat down on the next stool, brushing her knee against mine. Just as suddenly, another brunette, somewhat older but very sultry in a metallic lame skirt, stopped in front of me, smiled, and began watching the dancefloor, while swaying in front of me. At the same moment, Green Fishnet Lady takes up the spot on my right. She is so close that when I casually turn to verify that it’s her, my right eyeball is having a close encounter with her left boob. The faintest smile crosses her lips. She had positioned herself perfectly. In ten seconds, I had gone from being ready to fold my tent and slip off quietly into the night, to being literally engulfed in female flesh. I was suffocating in pulchritude. And enjoying every moment of it, I might add. I reached to my left for my beer, and felt fingers lightly rake up and down my back. I turned to see who the hand was attached to, and got a smile from Green Fishnet Lady, who tells me her name is Connie. Used to work at AB, but she’s been here a while. Leaving Tijuana for good, she says, on the 30th of October. She said it was like a close-out sale. Come and get ‘em while they last. I generally don’t go after the chicas with pornstar bodies in TJ, preferring a more subtle, understated look in a woman. But in all honesty I couldn’t take my eyes of Connie’s tits. They were awesome. And the green fishnet hid nothing. Nothing. We talked for a moment, and she got right down to brass tacks. Sixty bucks for BJ and sex. I’ll love it, she guarantees, sticking her tongue in my ear for punctuation. The older gent is now standing two barstools away watching all of this, wondering, perhaps, what Matiz has that he doesn’t. I have no earthly idea. I’m as surprised as he is. I nod and she grabs my hand and leads me out of the bar. When we stop to get her coat, she pulls my hand up and places it on her boob. Smiles all around. In the room, it takes her little time to disrobe. She drops the fishnet and the postage stamp G-string vanishes like magic. This is one of those times when, truly, just seeing the chica in the nude, alone, in a room, is probably worth the price of admission. But there’s more---much more. Before I can settle comfortably on the bed, she gets a liplock on my unprotected equipment and gives me a very nice BBBJ, always being careful to provide maximum exposure and contact to her best assets, those chichis. To say doing Connie in the de perrito position was a religious experience would be an childish overstatement. But as a visual experience, it ranks right up there with the first time I saw the Grand Canyon. Being somewhat tall, she spread her knees very far apart to keep her butt at the correct height for entry. Slender hips arched up. When I grabbed for her tits, she raised up to make sure they were accessible. I began to feel like the director of my own porn movie. And the star. The movie I was directing was about a guy directing and starring in his own movie, which is about... Well, it’s kind of an infinite regression, I guess, and I get confused thinking about it. It was kind of an out-of-body experience screwing someone that outrageously sexy. Ironically, the result was that I began to lose focus. Ahem, if you catch my drift. But Connie was not to be denied. She ripped off the condom, and commenced Round 2 of the BBBJ. Once duly fortified again, I rearmed myself with a new condom, and she lay back on the bed, spread her legs almost into the splits, and pulled her panocha lips apart. You want to fuck me in my culo, she asks. I hesitate. It’s a little more dinero, she admits. It’s a bit like gilding the lilly, I thought, so I politely answered her by entering her panocha and finishing in the missionary position. Once finished, though, any pretense of cordiality began to fade. I took a quick shower and dressed. She was fooling with her hair and made it clear she was going to stay in the room for a while. Bye, bye, she tells me, practically shooing me out the door like some houseguest that had overstayed their welcome. I took one last, long look at those chichis and wandered out into the hall. 2 a.m., Friday morning, El Pelicano Bar, Tijuana, Mexico. After my tryst with Connie, I needed some recovery time. So I walked around the block to get some fresh air, did some window shopping with the street girls, and poked my head in Las Chavelas, Miami Bar, and La Valentina. All were dead or nearly so in comparison to CC and AB. Coming round onto Coahuilla, I saw the lights of El Pelicano and, remembering some favorable posts recently, decided to check it out for myself. The interior is smaller than Peanuts and Beer, but similar. Carpeted, with a round stage, adorned only with a single pole in the middle. Around the bar are perhaps ten or twelve chairs. On the perimeter of the bar are upholstered booths. It has an intimate feel to it. This night, there were six chicas and five customers. Two chicas talked together in a booth, one was on stage, and two other sat with customers around the dance floor. One guy sat alone by the dance floor, one alone at the bar, and me. The one unattached chica comes over and sits by me. She tells me her name but I pay no attention, since I’m not planning on anything happening. I think it began with an “L”, so let’s call her Lydia. She is probably 20 years old, five foot three, about 100 pounds, very slender with boobs the size of small pears. Her short hair is dyed blonde and she’s wearing a silver miniskirt and matching halter. She wastes no time. She grabs my equipment immediately, smiles, and rubs her cheek against mine. We chit chat: where she’s from, kids, where I’m from, kids, etc. This looks like a pleasant diversion for a half-hour, so I buy her a $6 ladies’ drink that looks like Coca Cola. Her tongue has a penchant for my ear. She does this think where she rubs the tip of her nose all over my face, like an Eskimo. I tell her I’m tired and my equipment needs some rest. Two minutes of manual manipulation by Lydia puts the lie to that. She smiles and says, you don’t need rest. You’re ready. Just then a waiter comes over and asks if I want to have sex with her. Before I can figure out if this is a rhetorical question or not, he explains that I can have sex with her upstairs. I put him off and he finally leaves. We resume our mutual groping. I make sure I tip the dancers as they get up on stage. Each takes off her top, and a couple pull down their bottoms briefly. The dollar tips get inserted in the bottoms, way, way down in the bottoms. One dancer doesn’t want me to put my dollar in her crotch. I slip it in the material on her hip. Then she grabs my hand and puts it in her crotch. Dinero is sucio, she tells me (money is dirty). But your hands, your dick, here, in my pussy, that’s okay. Ahhh, the peculiar logic of TJ. Lydia finally asks me if I want to have a blow job and sex upstairs with her. I ask how much. $45. I ask for details. $35 for her and $10 to the bar. And the hotel? No, the $10 to the bar covers the room, it’s upstairs. I look upward but see only a stairway. It’s okay, she says. You’ll enjoy it. I’m unsure, but she’s done her job. The pump has been primed, and $45 for full service, room included, is not a bad deal. I agree. Okay, she says, give me the money now. All of it, I ask? Yes. I’m skeptical, but she assures me it’s okay. She takes the money to the cashier at the bar. After a couple of minutes of discussion, she returns with the waiter, who leads us upstairs to what obviously is a private lap dancing room, not a hotel room. It is a semicircular, upholstered bench/booth, with 1,500 year old indoor/outdoor carpeting on the floor. There are ashtrays on a recessed shelf where you can put your clothes. The waiter closes a sliding door to give us privacy. The other end of the “room” opens onto a kind of balcony that looks over the bar below. The only light is a black light in the ceiling, giving everything a strange, supernatural hue. The effect is interesting: The music from the bar wafts up right into the room, and you can hear the sounds from the bar below, but it’s still completely private. Lydia’s blond hair is transformed by the black light into shocking white hair, her morena skin becomes ebony black, her teeth brilliant white. Our fingernails are some iridescent color. The last time I screwed a chica under a black light was 1971, my senior year in college. Katherine. Her friends called her Kathy. Everybody else called her Boom Boom, for obvious reasons. My roommate and I had eliminated the fluorescent light in our room and installed a black light. We removed the closet doors and put in curtains that we painted with day-glo spray paint. Psychedelic posters of Hendrix, Joplin, The Sons of Champlin, and Eldridge Cleaver covered the walls. Oh, and a black vellure nude drawing of a Mexicana that we’d bought for $10 in Juarez the year before. I was less discriminating back then about whom I bedded. But then, I was also loaded. When you’re flying on six four-ways of LSD, or peyote, or magic mushrooms, you really don’t care who you’re doing it with. In fact, you don’t really care if you do it at all. But I’ve been straight for 29 years. And I was stone-cold sober tonight. Looking at Lydia, nude, eyes closed, teeth gleaming in the black light, skin dark and hair white, she looked like some kind of ghoul. It was spooky. Lydia removes her things and I’m instantly ready to go. She slips the condom on. I’m wondering exactly how this is going to work. I’m used to a bed, and I tend to use every square inch of it. All I’ve got to work with, though, is an eighteen inch wide padded bench. Well, necessity is the mother of invention. First I try kneeling with her spread-eagled on the bench. Unfortunately, either the bench is an inch too high, or yours truly is an inch too short. Anyway, my knees are killing me. She stands and bends over, swaying her hips until I pin her with a thrust. We go through position after position, trying to find something that works well in that environment. I sit and she sits on top of me, facing me, heels on the bench. She bobs up an down like she’s on a Pogo stick. She has boundless energy, it seems. She’s muttering, “yes, yes”. She turns around and faces away from me and sits down on my lap, giving me the truest, purest “lap dance” any woman can possibly give. She grinds. She moves up and down. It’s beginning to get results. She tires and we decide to try missionary. But the bench is so narrow that even with her thin frame, part of her is over the edge. I put one knee on the bench, the other leg on the floor, and she puts her outside leg over my shoulder. It’s perfect. We both have stability. We both have all the leverage we need. We start fucking like pygmy chimps. (Pygmy chimps are the most promiscuous of all monkeys and apes, BTW. When one discovers a fruit tree that will feed the entire group, they all celebrate first by having a big fuck-fest. Then they chow down. My kind of folks.) Staring down at Lydia was eerie. Her eyes were rolled up in her head, hair, skin, and teeth distorted by the black light. It was like that scene in Ghostbusters where Sigourney Weaver is taken over by Zhool and wants to fuck Bill Murray. Zhool kept smiling at me and saying, “si, si.” Zhool tried to pretend she was having an orgasm, crying out in pleasure. Zhool began cluthing at my shoulders and hips, pulling them to her. After a while, I realized that the scene was just a tad too bizarre for me to come in the usual fashion. So I withdrew and began to administer a manual finish. Zhool, not wanted to be left out of the fun, began a two-fisted kneading of my huevos, while my free hand began relentlessly working her panocha. Zhool began writhing around the narrow bench like she was possessed. The music coming from downstairs was Achy Breaky Heart. The black lights were surreal. Maybe this was an LSD flashback, I thought. Finally, I came on the floor. Ugh. Zhool looked up at me. “Tu veniste?”, she asked (did you come?). Yes, I said, beginning to wipe up the mess with some tissue. Zhool gave a Tiger Woods’ fist pump and said “Yes!” The demons were exorcised. Her eyes began to look normal again. The music from downstairs was Cumbia. She went to wash up (there was no bathroom in the booths; you had to use the bar’s banos). I decided to just dress and get the hell out while the getting was good. I could wash up at the Zaragoza. As I walked across the bar and toward the door, a sultry brunette with huge hooters spilling out of her bra was sitting at the bar. She smiled and winked at me. I made a mental note to return soon. At the corner of Coahuilla and Constitution I found an elderly cabbie and he agreed to drive me to the Zaragoza. When I got in, I noticed he seemed to be wearing pajama bottoms, instead of pants. Well, after all, this is TJ, I thought. Instead of the normal blaring Norteno music on the radio, he had tuned it to some romantic Mexican ballads. A soft guitar solo, reminiscent of Andre Segovia, led into a soft male/female harmony that was exquisite. We drove along the quiet streets, through the empty intersections, the only sound being this sweet, haunting Latin ballad. I told him I like his music a lot. Yes, he smiled, it’s beautiful. I almost wished we could drive around a bit more and listen to it, but we had just arrived at my hotel. He bid me a good night. I found my key, walked inside, closed the door to my room, and soon entered a dream sleep of soft Mexican harmonies, naked ghouls, porn stars, and sweet painted ladies.
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