Even when it’s mediocre, sex in TJ is usually pretty good. But I’m always struck by the women themselves, what I learn about them, the interactions I have with them, how much fun they are as people, more than the sex. They have made an indelible impression on me that goes far beyond a few minutes of the old “in-out”. The following is an experience I had last week with a “Plan B” chica I have known for several years. I don’t know why I’m sharing it now—it’s not that unusual an experience, and most of you have probably had similar ones. It’s just that it stuck in my head and has been on my mind a lot in recent days, and so maybe writing it out will purge it or be some kind of catharsis. It probably doesn’t hold much interest for most of you, but you’re welcome to read on if you’re interested.

BTW, I’ve placed this post on the discus board to maintain some semblance of security from the chicas, and I’ve changed the name of this lady only because I reveal her age here, something I suspect she would not like. If you are genuinely interested in getting to know her, drop me a line and I would consider sharing her identity with you. I’m sure she’d appreciate the business.

For me, Plan A is “whatever happens”, usually my favorita or, occasionally, someone new (“carne fresca”, as Alejandra used to call it). When Plan A is not an option (my favorita was on vacation and I didn’t see anyone new that was wildly exciting), I fall back on my “Plan B” chicas. The hallmark of a Plan B chica is that she is attractive enough to be desirable for sex and personable enough that I enjoy spending time in the bar and upstairs with her. Usually, they are uniquely interesting women who enjoy the company of men, and I guess that’s why I’m attracted to them in the first place. I’ve usually had at least one previous session with her to verify that’s she good in the sack, but usually not so many sessions that she’s become passé. The Plan B list is always changing as new chicas rotate onto the list, and ones with whom I’ve had one session too many are scratched off it. They are “default” chicas, but very special ones.

On this particular night, I spotted Elena sitting with an older American. He had his arm casually draped around her shoulder at a table along the dance floor. Elena was wearing tight jeans and a top that revealed her bare midriff and ample cleavage. With that golden bronze skin typical of the Acapulco ladies, she always looked sexy, but particularly so tonight with full mascara and eyeliner, and tons of gold bracelets, rings and baubles that jingled and jangled and highlighted her honey-colored skin. I saw her from across the room and she looked my way, but I didn’t think she could see me across the room in Adelita’s dim light.

A few minutes later, as I sat on one of the stools near the “second” ladies’ bano, Elena spotted me. As I watched her approach, I thought of the first time I had seen her, several years ago.

I had been standing outside Adelita’s on a stifling summer night trying to find relief from the insufferable heat inside the bar. Also, I confess, I enjoy watching the parade of would-be paramours marching expectantly upstairs and then returning later, the guys either exhilarated or sated or strangely out-of-sorts, the ladies almost invariably with that self-satisfied “cat that ate the canary” look.

While I was enjoying the pageant, I saw a group of 4-5 young guys waiting at the bottom of the hotel stairs. Suddenly, down came Elena with one of their friends. She was stunning in that kind of sexy/exotic/slutty way of the Acapulcenas, and the guys chattered excitedly about who was going up next. Obviously, they all planned to fuck her. As they were debating, she looked over at me and smiled. A true entrepreneur! Then the next guy took her arm and squired her upstairs. I decided to stick around and watch. About 12 minutes later she came down again, and two more were waiting. She took another’s arm and went back up. I lit another cigar.

When the last guy came wobbling weak-kneed down the stairs and departed, I waited curiously for Elena. I estimate she had done five guys in a little over an hour. Obviously, she knew what she was doing in la cama. Finally, she sauntered down the stairs and paused in the doorway out of habit, perhaps waiting to see if some unfortunate straggler in the group had missed his turn. But there was no one left. She casually adjusted her top and bra in the doorway, fluffed her hair, and then looked over directly at me. She smiled, cocked her head to the side, put one hand on her hip, stretched out her other arm, and beckoned me with her crooked finger in a “come over here” gesture. I tried to be cool. Took a puff on my cigar, exhaled slowly, smiled, and shook my head. In truth, she was an eyeful, but I just didn’t want to follow five college students into her panocha. If number two is “sloppy seconds”, what does that make number six? She took the rebuff well, shrugged, and walked the few steps to the entrance of Adelita’s, and went inside.

When I finished my cigar, I too went back into the sauna-like mosh-pit in the bar. I wandered around for an hour or so, and was standing just behind hottie central when I smelled perfume, and then felt a tongue in my left ear, soft and wet and warm. I turned. It was Elena. “Vamos al cuarto?” We talked a little, I got her name, but tried to be diplomatic about declining. “Too tired,” I told her.

A few weeks later, on my next trip, I ran into Elena again in the bar. We talked, I bought her a drink, and she earned brownie points by nursing her drink while I practiced my Spanish. She was good company. One of her most outstanding qualities is that she is very open and genuine in saying exactly what she believes and feels. She told me about problems she was having with relatives in the U.S., difficulties with her kids, her need for more business at AB. She didn’t press me for sex, and I didn’t offer.

Somehow, I still couldn’t get the image out of my head of her being gang-banged by that group of young guys. It’s part of that strange cognitive dissonance that I experience so frequently with the chicas in TJ: the battle between my conscious experience and my unconscious upbringing. My traditional, middle-class upbringing in the U.S. tells me that a woman who would fuck a whole pack of college buddies is a “loose” woman and untrustworthy and immoral and bad and yadda, yadda, yadda. But that’s in the abstract. In real life, I see Elena in front of me as a warm, feeling person, a caring mother, an affectionate acquaintance if not friend. In other words, I see her as none of those things we were taught as youths. My conscious mind understands her and accepts and appreciates and respects her. But my superego (or is it my id? I can never keep Freud straight) rigidly keeps speaking to me in this faint voice, judging these ladies in a blind, unrealistic, unfair, and non-productive way. I’ve learned to deal with this small voice, to ignore it and reject it, but I can never completely silence it. Evidently, the childhood training was too good, the indoctrination and moral/cultural propaganda too effective to be completely eliminated, even now, years later.

Eventually—it was inevitable I suppose--I did go upstairs with her on a subsequent trip, and she did not disappoint. But by then, we had established that curious kind of customer/chica relationship in the bar that isn’t a romantic relationship, and isn’t a traditional “friendship”, but is more than just a drink hustle. I don’t have a word for it except “Plan B”. I genuinely liked her; she seemed “real” and reliable and even trustworthy, and I felt that kind of connection with her that I couldn’t really understand or explain. She seemed to feel the same about me. I gave her some advice about problems she had. Later she would tell me the advice was helpful and she really appreciated it.

That was several years ago. Subsequently, I met my favorita, with whom Elena used to work at Papagayou’s in NL. This cooled our friendship somewhat since Elena didn’t want to offend my favorita by trying to snag me right in front of her. So we would have drinks and talk, but nothing else.

This trip, however, my amiga was back home, safely out of eyesight, though, with the AB grapevine, probably not ignorant, and on this very slow Monday night, nothing prevented Elena from trying to persuade me to take her upstairs. For my part, I decided it might be fun to let her try her damnest to sell me on the idea. I had all evening and no real agenda.

She smiled at me, and held out her arms for a big hug. “Abrazame, mi amor.” She kissed me on both cheeks and we made the obligatory small-talk. She explained she was in need of help that involved my particular expertise. She already had another guy in San Diego helping her, but wasn’t entirely satisfied with him. How much is he charging you, I asked. “Nada. I don’t pay him nada.” She smiled, and continued, “That’s why I like to work with him. I just give him my pooosy, Matiz. I doesn’t cost me nada.”

I just had to laugh. I mean, it always astounds me how women in all ages and cultures, but working ladies in particular, become so quickly adept at turning a simple body part and a biological function into a going business concern. Call it pussy-envy on my part, I guess.

I waxed poetic, and told her that if she gave him her pussy, she was indeed paying a very dear price, worth far more than money or gold or jewels. I was only half-joking, as I believe that on some level, these women do pay an emotional price every time they have sex with a customer. But she took it as a joke, and chuckled and looked away. My panocha is “muy cara, verdad?” Then she looked me in the eyes and got serious. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I need a second opinion. If you help me, I give you my pooosy too, Matiz. Or, you know, sometimes maybe you pay only half.” Geez, this was the first time any woman had offered me sex on the barter system. I told her I’d think about it, but my line of “expertise” was slightly different than what she really needed. After some more chit-chat, she wandered off, realizing that, at the moment, I was still window shopping and so I probably wasn’t the best bet for a thirty minute quickie. She said she’d look for me later.

I wandered the bar looking for a particular lady I’d met on an earlier trip. After an hour of fruitless searching, I was sitting at the second bar, when Elena spotted me again and came over to hug and kiss. She has this disquieting habit of putting her mouth close to your ear and shouting in it so you can hear her over the music. But she is so loud that I worry about permanent ear damage. She shouts in my ear, asking me if I’ll buy her a drink. She says she’s not had much business tonight, and takes out a couple of fichas from her purse as proof that business was down. Well, one of the obligations I feel for my Plan B chicas is to cultivate our relationship with conversation and drinks when I see them, although I frequently don’t have sex with them. Keep your relationships and options open, in other words.

We order drinks and she tells me the latest about her problems. Her son is 22, graduated from school (high school, I assume), and has gotten a good job in the military. When I express amazement that she has a son that age, she laughs and says, “He now has two kids.” “You’re an abuela,” I ask. “Si,” she says proudly. I look over her exotic sexy face, her golden breasts spilling over her top, her small waist, the round curve of her hips tightly held on her jeans. Golden earrings dangle from her lobes and her long hair cascades down her back in brown curls. Her eyes flash with long, black eyelashes when she blinks. She doesn’t look like any grandmother I’ve ever seen before, and I tell her that. She laughs again. I also think back to those five college kids. I’ll bet they didn’t realize they were gang-banging a grandmother.

She tells me that once she had to take her son to get some papers for the military. The clerk asked the boy if Elena was her husband. When he explained this was his mother, the clerk couldn’t say enough about how beautiful she was. Elena told this to me with obvious relish. I suppose no matter what her age, a woman always loves to be complemented.

“I keep telling my hijo how important education is.” She is an earnest mother now. “I tell him, ‘You know what I do for a living, hijo. Some day, maybe (and she pretends to punch me in the mouth, indicating the danger of being battered) or maybe even (and she pretends to strangle herself). Quien sabe?’ My work is very dangerous. That’s why you need to stay in school and get a good job.” And now, she says, she is very, very proud of him. “He has a good job. But I still have to pay for my four-year old daughter, too. I don’t want her to do what I do when she grows up.”

I ask Elena her age and she hesitates, but then admits to forty. I told her, truthfully IMO, she was in excellent condition for a woman of forty, and in incredible shape for a grandmother. “I need liposuction on my tummy,” she told me, grabbing hard to find a small, hardly-noticeable roll of fat around her middle. “Too many new girls here, too much competition,” she says. “But my boobies are big, and natural.” To prove her point, she pulls out her left breast and plays with the nipple. This gets the immediate attention of several guys sitting at the bar. I smile at her. She smiles at me. “See, Matiz, natural chichis, not like _____.” She names my favorita, and smiles wickedly. I believe that when a woman shows you her breasts, she expects complements. I oblige by manually verifying that they are in fact natural, and then told her, “Marvelous chichis, Elena. Just marvelous.” She preened.

Now, are you going to fuck me tonight, Matiz, she asked. I feign shock at such an idea, and she laughs. “Do you remember the first time we fuck, Matiz? It’s been a long time, maybe two, three years”, she says. “You forget I have a very good pooosy.” No, I tell her, I remembered that we had sex and I remembered her pussy and yes, it was very nice. (I feel a little foolish sometimes when I talk to these ladies. I wonder what my old Spanish teacher would say at the purpose to which I’ve put the Spanish language: “Si, Elena. Recuerdo que tu panocha es excelente.”) I tell her that I may forget a face, but never a pussy. She laughs again. “You remember all those pussies, eh, Matiz? Que bueno.”

Then, all laughter aside, she is quite serious. “I know you since before _____ (my favorita). We are friends a long time. Why don’t you want to fuck me?” She is earnest. There is self-doubt in her voice and her expression. She is wondering if indeed she is “over the hill”. Maybe she won’t enchant the younger guys as much as she used to, but she knows she’s in trouble when even older guys like myself want women younger than her. I sense that words and complements alone won’t suffice in this situation. Action is called for. And well, frankly, at that moment, I couldn’t think of a reason not to act. The gold jewelry against her bronze skin reminded me of that Eagles song, “I like the way your sparkling earrings lay, against your skin so brown, I want to sleep with you in the desert tonight, with a million stars all around.” I told her to finish her drink and we’d give it the old college try.

Ten minutes later, we get a room. Yes, when she took off her clothes, I could see where liposuction could remove that small roll around her waist, but frankly, it was so tiny I really wouldn’t have noticed had she not grabbed it again and demonstrated exactly what she was going to have removed. Not a good sales technique, actually, but we were friends. Kind of like a car salesman saying, “Once I get these dings removed, and have her repainted, she’ll be as good as new.” Her breasts were 33-34Ds, brown and full, and they hung slightly from age and gravity, nothing surprising for a 40 year old, especially a lady with Elena’s, errrr, “mileage”.

But in bed she was a Porsche, a Lamborgini, a Jaguar. She was energetic and smooth and confident and seemed to know all the right buttons to push and when and how hard. One of the great attractions to me of women in their thirties and forties is their extensive knowledge of male anatomy and sexuality. It’s like the difference between getting a shot from a raw intern and a doctor who’s been practicing for twenty years. Experienced chicas always seem to know how to position themselves for the best angle of stimulation, the best penetration, the best friction.

When we got to doggie position, she outdid herself. The visual feast was seeing her with butt high, head low, hair fanning out over he back, my hands holding onto her tiny waist. But the real payoff was her moves. So many younger chicas just push back hard, forcing me off stride and literally onto my heels, or, worse, they arch their back so deep penetration is difficult. Elena, instead, has this kind of “windmill” motion, where her ass moves in almost a 360 motion from her waist, that constantly changed the angle, the depth, and the area of friction, so that I was always being stimulated. By her constant moans, it seemed like it worked for her too.

The other surprise was her panocha itself. It was so hot, it must have been 110 degrees. I kept stopping, withdrawing, and checking the condom, because it felt like I didn’t have one on. Usually, the condom diminishes sensation. But with her, I could feel all her heat and, it seemed, even her moisture. Surely the condom had broken. But each time, it was fine.

She kept saying, “The condom is okay, Matiz, no problem.” Afterward, she explained that often her customers think their condoms are broken because her pussy is so hot. “You just forgot how good my pooosy is, Matiz. It’s a very, very good pooosy.” I could only agree.

We took a shower together, scrubbed each other, and then got dressed and walked downstairs. A smooch at the door and she disappeared through the curtains. A classic encounter with a Plan B chica, rescuing victory from the jaws of defeat.

After a session with an amiga like Elena, though, I’m always conflicted. I guess that comes from having gotten to know her a little bit over the years. On one hand, I enjoy her company tremendously. On the other, I can’t help but wonder at the fact that she, like many of her sisters, lives such a seemingly precarious existence-—walking the razor’s edge between social ostracism and social acceptance, between a private loneliness and a public life as an object of sexual desire, between financial feasting and famine, between self-respect and self-denigration, between feeling gratitude for being able to support her kids and self-doubt at how she has to do it. It’s something we each have to go through in our own lives in our own ways. But somehow the effect seems more pronounced, more dramatic, more poignant with the ladies I meet in TJ.

Well, that’s my little story. It has as much meaning or as little meaning as you care to give it. But I do feel a little lighter having gotten it out. Maybe that’s how Catholics feel after confession. Unburdened. I can’t think of some profound meaning to give to this. It has a value all its own, I suppose, that can’t really be compared to anything else. No currency exchange rate for chica experiences. As Keats said, beauty is truth, and “that’s all you know, and all you need to know.” For today, for me, that’s enough.

Matiz, it was very enjoyable reading, as your stories always are. For me, the enjoyment is a reflection of what you say in the first paragraph.

"But I’m always struck by the women themselves, what I learn about them, the interactions I have with them, how much fun they are as people, more than the sex."

I totally agree with you and I have similar experiences, although, I'd probably say "as much as the sex". But,it is this sincere liking of the woman that comes across and makes the person real and makes you real. It's good to read real things about real people. Thanks.

Matiz:Good writing,as usual,BUT,one favor,could you please do your cigar smoking outside the bar @ AB.Some of us would like to be able to use our lungs next year.:-)..Thanks

Matiz,
Good stuff...but then again, you always seem to post good stuff. Thanks. You and Whistler could write for a living.

Matiz,

I'd like to meet Elena. You may email me at ldvee@home.com

Thanks,

ldv

Matiz

I would also like to meet Elena. Please send me her real name at: epimetheus@mediaone.net

Regards,
E

A chronicle worthy of Hemingway (or maybe Jack Webb). Spare prose, each word an integral part of the whole. What grabbed me? the NL prequel--they
train them good in NL.

Matiz, Great post and then some. If you feel like sharing the real name, let me know it at elnorteno2@yahoo.com

Matiz, me too, I'll treat her right. Thanks brentrp@prodigy.net

Hey great handle!

Matiz:

Seems you have a connection to the NL pipeline. I am trying to find a former favorita for a friend of mine. She worked at Papagayo's a few years back. Maybe 5 or more. Her name is Lizbeth. or something like that. Has a child, don't know what the age would be now. Most likely 20 something age wise. At the time my buddy tells me she did not have fake boobs, she's most likely not your favorita. Do me a favor, ask your gals if they know of a Lizbeth that worked in NL at Papagayo's that's now in TJ. That's where she's supposed to be.

Great post by the way.

rodetrip

Rodetrip, I'll ask my favorita about Lizbeth next time I see her and see if she knows anything and let you know.

Matiz,
Could you please send me Elena's name, I will send some business her way. Thanks in advance, and should I tell her you sent me?
iloveadelitas@yahoo.com

Matiz:

I found out her name is spelled "Lisbeth" and she is from Acapulco. I am betting the house they all know each other.

The one time we (my buddy and I) went to TJ we heard she worked at both AB and CC at different time periods. I think she's still around.