Posted by Matiz on January 05, 2001 at 17:14:51:
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Great trip just concluded to Our Fair City, and I’m still a bit wobbly from the experiences. Don’t know how the Matiz Personal History Guide will rank this trip, but it’s safe to say it’s in the top five. A friend told me he is always stoned on grass in the ZN. I told him I’m always straight. He asked me what it looked like straight. I thought a moment and said, “Like an acid trip.” In the ZN, truth really IS stranger than fiction. I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. Unfortunately, I only have time to post a couple of thoughts. Unicornio. A nineteen year old dancer with spectacles and stringy brown hair grinds away. From the waist up, she’s pretty normal, but from the waist down, well, the old carbohydrate bomb (or in this case the carbo-thermonuclear multi-warhead device) has definitely triggered a meltdown, and she’s about thirty pounds overweight and growing fast. The G-string is dwarfed by seeming acres of flesh. She looks so homely I imagine she was the president of the Math Club in high school. But every time she comes by me, she lowers her G-string, points at her panocha, and says in a gruff voice, “Cabo San Lucas”. Kind of like Poe’s raven always saying, “Nevermore”. And I’m wondering, “What the hell does that mean?” Being an English major, and therefore knowledgeable about everything but competent at nothing, I automatically wonder if the clever lass is using a metaphor. What does a Mexican vagina and Cabo San Lucas have in common? Both are fun travel destinations that attract many American tourists annually who spend their money there and then leave. In deference to her skillful use of a literary device, I decided to name my dick “Tierra Del Fuego”, as in “she reached in my pants and when I felt the hot touch of her hand, my Tierra Del Fuego throbbed with passion.” But then, I thought, maybe it’s a geography lesson. So I point at her right tittie and say, “Tijuana?” and at her other tittie and ask, “Mexicali?”. She says, “Si.” Then she turns around, bends over, pulls open her cheeks, points at her asshole, and says something I can’t quite understand. Well, that's enough geography for the day, I think. I don’t really want to know where the culo of Baja is. I’m with my friend in El Pelicano. We are sitting in a back booth watching a brunette dancer do her thing on stage. A thirtysomething lady in a sweat shirt and jeans picks her way between the chairs to our table, displaying in her hand several Clorettes gum packages she has for sale. (Geez, I didn’t know they still made Clorettes. The packages looked pretty sad; the expiration date was probably during the Carter administration.) We politely decline to buy any gum. So she reluctantly puts the packages back in her purse. Then, trancelike, she starts swaying to the music, and the next thing we know, she starts unzipping her jeans and pulling down her cotton panties to show us her Cabo San Lucas. The locals in front of her are wide-eyed. My friend and I stuff a couple of dollars in her shorts, thinking this will satisfy her and she’ll go away, but this only encourages her. She lifts up her top and tries to insert a chichi in my friend’s mouth. Again, the offer is politely declined. Finally, she wanders off, four dollars richer and she still has all her gum. Isn’t capitalism wonderful? The next day I’m sitting in the same bar watching a tattooed cutie work the pole. Her back is covered in a tattoo so elaborate it’s like a section of the Sistine Chapel’s roof. I’m the only customer. Suddenly, the DJ starts chattering excitedly in the mike and on comes that song about “Follow the leader, follow the leader”. The other two dancers, a brunette with a great rack and an exquisite, slender blonde who looks like one of those Mexican soap opera actresses join the dancer on stage and they start parading in circles around the stage in front of me. I had given the mesero a twenty for my $2 Pacifico, and he had given me eighteen ones in change. So, obviously, either this is a strange and curious coincidence or I was the unwitting victim of a vast and pernicious conspiracy to relieve me of all my singles. But what a way to go! For the next fifteen minutes I was an equal opportunity tipper. I was stuffing ones in G-string, down bras, everywhere I could make them fit. And each time around, the “rewards” for my tips got better as each chica flaunted her best assets: the brunette unveiled her chichis and kept stuffing them in my mouth, and the blond, delectable in a microscopic dayglo orange bikini, kept riding my hand after I slid the dollars in her crotch. Each gal kept trying to “one-up” the others and get to the spot in front of me for their tip. On the last go around, the blonde hopped in my lap, started grinding away and held onto my Tierra Del Fuego for dear life. It was a Kodak moment. I had to pinch myself to make sure it wasn’t just an elaborate wet dream. Within a twelve hour time span, I had the pleasure of enjoying Alejandra (the brunette, no, blonde, no brunette) who’s back briefly from semi-retirement to moonlight at AB and fundraise for her business back home; Rosa Maria, the bespectacled Hoover queen of the Coahuilla alley; and the famous Dulce from CC. Very different ladies, with different skills and virtues, but each in her own way lived up to her well-earned reputation. The only common thread these ZN stars share is that for them customer satisfaction isn’t the most important thing, it’s the only thing. I felt like a guy that had laid down a two dollar bet on the trifecta and it came in at 1000 to one. My lucky day. In fact I was so pleased with Rosa Maria’s performance that she talked me into a longer session later in the night, but we failed to hook up. The next morning, I was heading to Sanborn’s around 8:30 a.m. I had just turned the corner onto Constitucion when I heard a small voice shouting “Matiz, Matiz, wait for me!” Rosa Maria was running toward me, out of breath. She had seen me out the window and wanted to apologize for not hooking up with me last night. Invited me for a repeat performance and I took her up on it. Once again she drained all my Vital Bodily Fluids, and probably rearranged a few internal organs in the process. Then she gave me a wonderful back and foot massage. She told me one guy had “rented her” recently for two days at the Cascadas. Just sucking and massage, sucking and massage. So I want to know, which of you knuckleheads bought her services for 48 hours? I can’t imagine having that Hoover action on my Tierra Del Fuego for two days. By the time she left, the guy’s eyes had probably rolled back into his head. You know, you CAN have too much of a good thing. I think I know now how Tiger Woods feels when he’s “in the zone”, knocking ‘em stiff from impossible lies, and rolling in 70 footers like the cup is the size of a washtub. Everything comes easily and you just think nothing can go wrong. For this one day, I was “in the zone” in the Zona. I don’t know how or why it happened on this particular day, but I rode it to the end and enjoyed every minute of it. I used to think skiing was the only thing better than sex. My “best day ever” was a Valentine’s day a long time ago when a buddy and I beat a big storm to Vail and the next morning we had blue skies, three feet of powder, and Golden Peak all to ourselves. I though it would never get better than that. But hitting the Alejandra-Rosa Maria-Dulce trifecta comes pretty damned close.
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