Intro

Here is a lengthy account of my recent visit to TJ. As with other reports I’ve written, this one goes heavy on the minute details, and may be a little light on the sex for the tastes of some. But that’s my style, and I’m not gonna change it. My aim, as an occasional visitor to TJ, is to communicate that viewpoint to those of you who are fortunate enough to have TJ practically in your backyard. So far, every time I’ve visited TJ, I’ve felt the same newbie rush I experienced as a first-timer, and I hope I never lose that rush.

And I promise there’ll be no chica-inspired song lyrics this time.


America Worst

It’s a rare occasion indeed when the word “snow” appears in a Tijuana trip report. Yet there I was, stranded in the Salt Lake City International Airport on this Halloween Sunday morning, watching big white flakes pulverize themselves into liquid water on the tarmac. My America West flight to San Diego, with a scheduled layover in Phoenix, had been expected to depart at 7:00. It was now 8:45, and the strange phenomenon of a White Halloween was not the cause of the delay.

I continued to gaze helplessly through the thick panel of glass as airport mechanics pried off the nose cone of the malfunctioning plane, in search of some unknown functional abnormality. Finally, a few minutes later, the announcement came: Aircraft has no radar. Flight canceled. Please see agent to be placed on a later flight.

I was fuming with frustration, having had a few bad experiences with America West in the past. I knew that if I couldn’t make it to TJ by 3:00, it probably wouldn’t be worth my while to even make the two-day trip. My non-guaranteed reservation at the Villa de Zaragoza would only be held until 3pm. I’d run the risk of having no hotel room waiting for me, and being forced to scour TJ in search of a lodging establishment that had a suitable room available with no advance reservation. And how much time would I lose, if that were the case? No, if I couldn’t be in TJ by three, I’d cancel the reservation, get my free flight voucher, and reschedule the trip for another time.

The agent at the check-in desk, a plain-looking, chunky girl with glasses, punched away at the computer, as I stood before her with bated breath. She informed me, “I can have you in San Diego at 2:40.”

No dice…I’d never make it in time, not with a bus ride and trolley ride to even make it as far as the border. “Go ahead and print me up a voucher,” I told her forlornly. She began to punch the keys again. I was that close to blowing off the whole trip.

“Wait a minute,” I said, as a thought leapt into my mind. “You haven’t finished putting that through, have you?”

“No, I haven’t,” she replied.

“Can you check with another airline?” I asked, thinking it was nothing more than a shot in the dark.

She got on the phone, and came back with an affirmative answer. “Delta has a nonstop with an available seat, leaving at 11:20 and arriving in San Diego at 12:10.”

“Do it,” I practically shouted. Unbelievable…I’d be in San Diego only twenty minutes later than my original arrival time. Maybe this was a sign of things to come.

But in the meantime, I had nearly three hours to kill in Salt Lake City. I made my way over toward the Delta terminal, stopping at the airport bookstore to pick up a Clive Cussler novel to tide me over, watching the snowflakes continuing to flutter down outside.

I’ll never fly America Worst again. Well, actually, that’s not entirely true. I now have enough frequent flier miles for a free round-trip ticket to San Diego.


Raider Nation

Fast-forward a few hours, and add in a healthy dose of bright yellow sunshine and thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit worth of temperature. I wandered into the America Plaza trolley station in downtown San Diego to find the entire semi-enclosure awash in a sea of silver and black. I remembered that today’s NFL schedule had the Raiders visiting the Chargers. Kickoff was in a mere thirty minutes. And I thought to myself, this is San Diego. Where the hell are all the Charger fans?

Then I realized that this throng of Raider denizens had probably taken the bus or Amtrak down from the Bay Area, and had all arrived on the scene at about the same time. Of course, their final destination was the stadium, and they were about to take the next northbound trolley by storm. They were wearing their team colors in every way imaginable… team jerseys, T-shirts, baseball caps, you name it. I’ll say this for Raider fans. They can count among their ranks a fair percentage of rather hot women, many of them Latinas. The eye candy was quite appetizing.

Unfortunately for them, the trolley ticket machine on the northbound side of the tracks was out of order. An elderly gentleman in a red sweater, who I’d guess was well on the seasoned side of eighty, stood next to the southbound tracks, attempting to instruct a few of the Raider faithful in the proper operation of the ticket apparatus. It’s not that hard, folks, I thought to myself.

Eventually, the northbound train showed up, and seemed to swallow up the Raider fans in one gulp. All that was left in the vicinity was me, the old goat in the ruddy cardigan, and a few stragglers. “Are you going to the game?” the old man asked me, just making conversation.

“No. I’m waiting for the southbound trolley.”

“Where to?”

“Tijuana,” I deadpanned.

He looked me over, saw the black duffel bag I was carrying, and gave a crusty smile of enlightenment. I liked that old codger. I think he was probably my kind of dude. Soon, the trolley arrived, and I was on my way.


101 Uses for Chewing Gum and a Napkin

It was 2:55, on the dot, when I showed up at the check-in desk at the Zaragoza. That was cutting it close. I don’t know how strictly they enforce that 3:00 cut-off, but I didn’t care to find out. Luis, the front desk clerk, handed me my key as I paid up, and I had my digs in order.

My intent on the way down had been to take a nap before proceeding onward to the Zona Norte. Yeah, right. Are you kidding? Now that I was here, five months after my last swing through TJ, I was jonesin’ big-time for my Zona fix. But the long trip had left me sweaty and grimy, and no chica would have me in that condition, so a quick shower was in order. In a flash, I was washed up, dressed and out the door.

It seems as though every time I go to TJ, there is road construction somewhere. And it wasn’t hard to find this time. Whole segments of Revolucion were ripped up. Generally speaking, Revo lacked its typical hustle and bustle on this particular afternoon, and seemed kind of drab. I assumed it was because of the torn-up road, but I would later find out it was just a lull in advance of Halloween evening.

But the Zona Norte, for once, was pretty much as I had left it last May. That is, with the exception of the new pavement in the alley, but even that wasn’t as drastic a change as I had been expecting. Finally arriving at the hallowed entrance of Adelitas, I saw plenty of evidence that it was, indeed, Halloween. Black and orange balloons adorned the entrance. A coffin stuffed with dirty blankets and rags, which roughly simulated the appearance of a corpse, lay on the sidewalk, a few yards from the main entrance. Three or four meseros wearing facial makeup appeared to be standing guard over the coffin. The garish face paint made them look like either clowns or mimes.

I entered the bar and started making my rounds, curious to see how many chicas were sporting costumes. At this point in the afternoon, there weren’t very many. But there was one conspicuous exception: Standing right smack dab in the middle of Hottie Central was a hideous-looking, witch-like brunette who resembled Wednesday from the Addams Family… after sticking her finger in an electrical outlet. After reading a post or two on the boards, I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the notorious Marvieta, who gave me my worst-ever session in TJ during my maiden Zona excursion a few years ago. At least I can say I had sex with a witch.

Looking around some more, I once again noticed a preponderance of silver and black. Some wayward members of Raider Nation, in the midst of watching their boys suffer a crushing loss to the Chargers, had apparently flocked southward to seek solace from the women of Adelita. Sporting team jerseys, they circulated about the floor, with names like Porter, Gannon, Woodson and Sapp scrawled across their backs. There were even jerseys bearing the names of past Raider greats such as Marcus Allen and Bo Jackson. And for good measure, there were a few Charger jerseys in view as well.

But I hadn’t come here to observe wearable football memorabilia; I’d come to chase chicas. My initial cursory scan of the bar uncovered nothing familiar. Soon, however, my gaze honed in on a target I recognized… Veronica de Veracruz, who’d given me a pretty decent repeat session the last time I hit TJ. She was wearing a pink spaghetti-string top and faded blue jeans. She looked cute. She always looks cute. The word “cute” defines her. I moved myself into position, as I always do when I spot a chica I know, to see if she would recognize me. But no sooner had I done so than another monger approached her and quickly whisked her upstairs. Foiled! But it was okay, because I wasn’t looking to take a girl upstairs yet. I like to soak up the atmosphere and bide my time.

My eyes turned toward the main stage, where a dancer who’d been introduced as Samantha was putting on a show. She was a tall girl, fairly large-framed but not fat, with medium-length brown hair and ample breasts. I’d seen her cavorting through the audience beforehand, and immediately taken note of the top she had on. To call it a see-through would be inadequate; she may as well have wrapped herself in transparent cellophane. Now, up on the stage, she was topless in reality, and working the audience.

As I swung around to the front of the bar to get a better view, Samantha approached a nearby booth occupied by two Caucasian gentlemen and a young white lady. One of the guys tossed a five-dollar bill in the direction of their female cohort, encouraging her to slip it into Samantha’s G-string. She did so as Samantha squealed with glee. Samantha then lowered the G-string, bringing her pubic hair into full view, and began to rub her pussy. She motioned for the gringa’s hand, beckoning her to provide the stimulation instead.

The gringa giggled and pulled away without touching the treasure. Nearby, I watched in utter fascination as Samantha drew closer to the gringa, bringing her nipple within inches of the gringa’s lips, nodding encouragement. They both stood tantalizingly frozen for several seconds. The gringa’s lips twitched with indecision, and for just a split second, those lips began to part. Then she lost her nerve, laughed and put her head down on the table in embarrassment. Her two male friends began to boo and hiss, and Samantha just smiled and shook her head as she pulled away to continue to work the crowd.

I’ve read accounts of spontaneous lesbian shows in the Zona, and I nearly had one unfold about five feet in front of me.

I went over to the bar and just hung out for a while. Shortly thereafter, I noticed a couple of chicas giggling and pointing at one of the numerous Raider fans in attendance. I soon realized what they were laughing at. There appeared to be a white defect on the guy’s Tyrone Wheatley jersey, and a closer look showed it to be nothing more than a napkin, folded up Oriental fan-style and pinched in the middle to simulate a bow or a set of wings. It had been fastened to the guy’s shirt with a spent wad of chewing gum. The Wheatley wannabe shoved off, oblivious to the fact that he’d just sprouted a minute pair of angel’s wings. And somewhere in the bar, there was a devious prankster chica who’d mistaken Halloween for April Fools’ Day.

Continuing to people-watch, I saw Veronica passing close by, back downstairs in an alarmingly short period of time. I started to take off in pursuit, but once again, another guy got there first and swept her back out through the curtains almost as fast as she appeared. I’m beginning to get the impression that the unsung Veronica actually has quite a fan club.

I’m guessing that about twenty more uneventful minutes passed, then I became conscious of a bright orange glow emanating from the back of the bar, directly under the TV. Closer inspection revealed the source of the glow to be a fluorescent orange Halloween sundress, with black tiger stripes, adorning the body of Candi, who was standing in her usual spot. I hadn’t seen Candi since before my two-year mongering hiatus, which ended earlier this year. I recalled how my attempts to go upstairs with her had been frustrated by never-ending poor timing. Thinking quickly, I decided that the best time to seek my first taste of Candi would be the following Monday afternoon, when the pickings were typically slim at AB and the pace was much less frenetic. But I wanted to communicate my intent to Candi and ensure she’d be there the following day, so I headed over in her direction.

She saw me coming, and grabbed my hand as I approached. I continue to be amazed at the memories exhibited by some of these ladies. I’ve hardly ever spoken to Candi, let alone gone to the room with her, and yet she appeared to recognize me. She assured me that she would be there the following day, and I had one important, much-awaited item on my agenda for the next day. But, oh man, that orange dress she was wearing. You have no idea how much I would have liked to peel that garment off of her upstairs.

I decided to head on out of AB and catch some shuteye back at the hotel, but the reappearance of Veronica made me reverse course. This time, she was standing off by herself, back on the rear dance floor behind the main bar. I moved in quickly, and she recognized me the instant she saw me. However, she wasn’t sure that I remembered her. “Veronica,” she said, thinking I needed to be reminded of her name. “Remember?” she asked, pointing at her head.

“I remember,” I replied.

She ran her hand down the front of my torso into my crotch. “Muy bueno,” she remarked slyly. “Let’s go.”

“Maybe later,” was my reply. “Will you be here later?”

“Si.” And that was that, as I passed back out through the curtains. I’d been in pursuit of Veronica for over an hour. And when I finally caught her, I let her go. Why?

It’s partly because I’d seen her go upstairs with two other guys already, and I couldn’t get the visuals out of my mind. It’s also partly because she’d resurfaced in the bar rather quickly on each occasion, leading me to believe that she was in high-turnover mode on that particular afternoon. But it’s more than that. It’s the thrill of the hunt, combined with the twisted yet sweet pleasure of self-denial. I seem to play that game every time I go to TJ, and this occasion was no exception. But I had a whole evening ahead of me.

Back at the hotel, the first thing I did was change shirts. And I realized that I, too, had been had. Stuck to the back of the shirt I’d worn to Adelitas, by means of a piece of gum, was another one of those infernal napkin bows. I’d taken my jacket off in the warm, stuffy bar, and some mysterious, ghostly presence had planted the AB equivalent of a “Kick Me” sign on my back. Thankfully, I’d put the jacket back on for the walk back to the hotel, but who knows how long I was roaming around AB with that stupid thing on my shirt.

All I could do was laugh, and plot revenge, should I be able to identify the perpetrator.


Sister Mary Adelita

It was 7:30 in the evening. With the switch back to Standard Time, darkness had long since fallen. I cruised up Revolucion on foot, and the laid-back, humdrum thoroughfare of the afternoon had been replaced by a festive main drag graced with orange and black, as well as throngs of trick-or-treaters. Young and old, they strolled up and down the avenue, mostly in groups, with the little ones toting plastic jack o’lanterns or paper sacks. Their costumes, unlike what you might see at a Halloween gathering in the States, were almost universally of the hand-made variety. Real Halloween costumes. From the looks of it, Halloween is as widely celebrated in TJ as it is north of the border, maybe even more so. And I was kind of bummed that I didn’t have some candy on hand to distribute to the little tykes.

The noted TJ reporter from years gone by, Drewwho, once wrote that “crossing Articulo 123 into the Zona Norte is like crossing the River Styx into Hades.” I’ve never forgotten that analogy, and it’s even more appropriate on All Hallows’ Eve, with its implications of damned souls rising up from the dead. The most disconcerting aspect of it all was that young trick-or-treaters were also making their rounds in the decidedly less wholesome environment of the Zona, although they were less numerous than over on Revo.

Back within the familiar confines of AB, I surveyed the scene visually, in search of the chica costumes that had been hinted at on the boards. I wasn’t disappointed. There were devils, vampires, witches, space aliens and the like. But right away, I saw my own nominee for best costume. Hands down, no contest. Give her the trophy.

I later found out that her name was Laura, but to me, and for the purpose of this report, she is Sister Mary Adelita. I never, ever, not in a million years, thought I’d see a nun at AB. But there she was, if only in appearance… clad in the garb of the sisterhood, the long flowing black garment reaching down almost to the floor, the black and white hood encircling her cherubic face, a white crucifix insignia emblazoned on her chest. Oh, there was one modification that rendered her costume somewhat less than authentic… a long slit running up the side of the cloak, almost up to her waist, showing off a copious amount of bare leg.

For the rest of the evening, Sister Mary and a diverse cast of male deviants wore out a path up the stairs to the room. She appeared to be the most popular girl in the bar that night. A lot of guys fulfilled what must have been a long-standing fantasy of theirs. What I’m wondering is… did she get naked, or leave the costume on? Was this one of the rare occasions in the Zona when one had to negotiate “con ropa”? Or to put it another way, and make use of the lowest form of humor… did Sister Mary service her men out of habit?

Having witnessed that spectacle, I turned my focus to other matters. It seems that no visit to Adelitas is complete without a personal greeting from Her Royal Sharkness, Angela. And she too had donned a costume. The shark had morphed into an alluring she-devil, with red horns poking out of the back of her head. I pointed at the horns. “You’re a devil tonight,” I grinned.

“Tonight I wear costume. But Angela is always a devil.” And then, of course, came the sales pitch. “We go upstairs. I give you nice blow job.” Hmm… a tempting proposition, having one of Satan’s female servants slobbing my knob. But as I continue to make chica acquaintances, it seems that Angela is falling further and further down my to-do list. I demurred, and she slinked off, pleasant as ever. She looked nice as a devil, but I think that she would have done better as a vampiress, especially given how her front teeth are slightly askew.

By now, I was in full stalk mode. I camped out near the back, next to the side entrance to the men’s room. A tiny, petite brunette in a skimpy, two-piece outfit stood nearby and smiled in my direction. I noted the location, looked at the girl once again, and a light bulb went off in my head. “That must be Malena,” I thought to myself.

I went over, introduced myself and asked her name. Malena confirmed her identity, validating my guess, and lent further credence to the notion that I spend entirely too much time on the TJ internet boards. Right away, she asked me, “Do you want to go to the room?”

Whoa… slow down. I like taking my time, savoring the experience, bringing the illusion of romance into the proceedings. I told her, “I’ll look for you later.” I didn’t want to give her a definite no, but I sensed a hurry-up vibe that I didn’t like. She’s a cute little thing though, and certainly pleasant enough.

As I drew away from Malena and moved over toward Hottie Central, I defined what it is about this hobby, and AB in particular, that so draws me in. It’s a game. A game where I make my own rules. I can chase a girl for an hour, and change my mind about taking her upstairs, just because. I can take three girls upstairs in three hours, or spend the whole night buying fichas. When I get tired of that, I can just hang out and people-watch. And at the end of the night, when I pass through the curtains for the final time, I’m the one who laid out the rules of the game. As a result, come what may, I win.

Halloween is a kind of game; it’s an alternate reality. No, it’s not the kind of thing we have control over, but it’s a time and place where we see what we want to see. For the reflective individual, ghosts and spirits flit about, changing what is real, casting aside inhibitions. Oh, not all of the ghosts are harmful or frightening… some reach back into the past, extract wonderful memories and permit you to relive them. Based in the past, they belong to the present, but transport you back to the past nonetheless.

The apparition materialized out of the crowd; I was scarcely aware of its presence until it drew near to me. There was something wildly exotic about it, but at the same time, it possessed an aura that was exceedingly comforting and familiar. As my awareness increased, the spirit seemed to slowly embody itself before me. Eventually, a few scant feet away, she assumed the form of a small lady in a tan-gold ruffled dress, standing there, hands on hips, with the old familiar look which said, “Where have you been, buddy?” And as “Elisa” danced into my embrace, my mindset turned on a dime.

Game over.


Re-discovering a Favorita

This time, for once, I’d played my cards perfectly. Elisa had been missing from the scene last time I was in TJ. The time prior to that, I saw her only very briefly and was unable to take her upstairs. And before that was the two-year gap in my mongering life. Consequently, it had been a very long time since I was able to spend any amount of quality time with her, let alone do a session. But now was different. I had the time, the means, and a full cache of sexual desire at my disposal. Plus, I’d caught her at the beginning of her shift. My waiting had paid off.

She pointed toward the back of the bar, behind the small dance floor in arrears of Hottie Central. She knew that was the quietest, coolest part of the building at present. It amazes me how well Elisa knows the inside of that bar. At any given point in time, she invariably selects the optimal place to hang out.

I looked her over as we sat down. She appeared as radiant as I’ve ever seen her; it looked as though she had lost weight. I always try to anticipate what her hair color will be when I catch her for the first time on each visit. I’ve seen her at various times with dark brown, light brown, and blonde hair, and there was one unforgettable occasion when she was a flaming redhead. Tonight, she had blonde hair streaked with brown.

I don’t know how long we sat there in that booth; this point in the proceedings is a blur to me. I do know that I bought her three ficha drinks, which she nursed along slowly. But to me, there is something reassuring about re-visiting the familiar. I soon became oblivious to all other occurrences around me, focusing, once again, on the chica who always seems to be at the center of whatever I do in TJ. If this is getting boring, or repetitive, I’m sorry. It’s just the way it is.

Finally, she whispered, “Let’s go to the room.”

I nodded. “One hour?”

“Si,” she replied with a smile. And we were off.

Outside on the sidewalk, hand in hand, we were almost bowled over by two young trick-or-treaters in costumes, scurrying down the street. I lifted up her hand, allowing the kids to pass under the resulting bridge as we moved to ascend the stairway. Elisa, as she always does, ensured that she procured two towels and two bars of soap.

Once inside the room, she went into the bathroom and turned on the light, then shut off the light in the room. This is the way it’s always been with Elisa, and it’s just the way I like it. She prefers the lights dimmed during sex, and so do I.

When we were fully undressed, she playfully pushed me back onto the bed, giggling as she did so. She practically jumped on top of me and thrust her nipple into my mouth. At that point, I wanted to devour her. There’s much to be said for leading a butterfly-type existence in the Zona. But familiarity… especially recently absent familiarity, is an incredible turn-on for me.

She let me suckle her for a few minutes, then pulled away. Reaching into her purse, she produced a white cloth, which she used to tie her hair back into a ponytail. Then she went to work. She sat down on the bed next to my legs, and leaned over and took me into her mouth. And I quickly found out that she’d lost none of her zeal for this particular act. Like a brand-new squeegee gliding across a wet windshield, she rode her lips up and down on my wand. She took me in deep, all the way down to the root. I had to fight to keep from erupting in her mouth, for I wanted to hold out as long as possible.

Finally, she came up for air, and slid up alongside me. “Kiss my pussy,” she practically begged. I’m fairly discriminating about chowing box in the Zona, but it’s never been a problem with Elisa. So I slid down and started to work her with my tongue. Her response to this act is always the same. She lay there, motionless and apparently unresponsive, with perhaps an occasional sigh slipping out, for a good ten minutes, as I continued to lap away. Then, all of a sudden, she erupted, pushing her bush up against my face, thrashing about on the bed. Then, with equal abruptness, she pulled away, saying, “No mas,” and instructed me to lie on my back so she could mount me.

Elisa slapped on the condom and started to ride me in Asian cowgirl position, squatting down with her legs out in front of her. I really had to concentrate to hold out longer. She got into doggy position, and we went at it for awhile longer. She moved her little tush about like a rabbit, grinding it into my crotch in time with the rhythm. Finally she flopped back on the bed in missionary, a position she always seemed reluctant to adopt during the numerous times I was with her a couple of years ago. It was in this position where I finally yielded to my own passion.

I was exhausted; with the heat in the room, sweat was pouring down my face and stinging my eyes. Elisa took note of this. As I lay back on the bed, she grabbed a towel and wiped off my face. Then she lay down next to me, facing the other direction. I spooned into her and pressed my body against hers; I buried my face in her hair. She smelled clean and fresh, despite the workout. She’d obviously showered in the not-too-distant past, and I could detect the faint, feminine essence of almond-scented shampoo still in her hair.

Eventually, she raised herself up on her elbow, facing in my direction. I gazed up at her. She was staring out into space, zoned out, apparently lost in thought. Abruptly, she looked down at me and mouthed the words, “I miss you.” This unsolicited, spontaneous remark moved me beyond words. I said nothing, instead affectionately beginning to nuzzle her nipple with my mouth.

She reached for her purse and pulled out a surprise… a bottle of oil. “Massage, baby?” she asked. I rolled over and let her rub me down from head to toe… literally. This is a talent of hers that I was completely unaware of.

Finally, it was time to wrap things up. She ran off into the bathroom and washed up quickly. I followed suit, then came back, sat down on the bed and started to get dressed. Most AB girls, at this point, will go over to the mirror and start to put their face back on, physically distancing themselves. Not Elisa. She produced a compact with a mirror and retouched her makeup in this manner, sitting beside me on the bed and chattering away as she did so.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” I told her, “but I want to buy you a few more drinks later.”

Elisa concurred, and I walked back downstairs with her, bidding her a temporary goodbye in front of the curtains. I had some roaming I wanted to do.


Engine, Engine, Number Nine, Going Down Chicago Line

If the train should jump the track, do you want your money back? That’s how the old childhood nursery rhyme goes.

But on this night, Chicago Club had definitely jumped the track. To be fair, it was about 9:30, which is a little before CC’s peak time. But even to my somewhat indiscriminate eye, the talent level was extraordinarily low. There was not a single looker in the house. From my limited exposure viewpoint, I’ve always viewed this club as kind of hit-or-miss. When it’s on, it’s unquestionably on. But tonight was decidedly an off-night. Not only that, there wasn’t one chica wearing a Halloween costume.

I made a couple of laps around the interior, then settled into a booth by myself, located between the stage and the entrance. Immediately, the sharks started closing in. I spurned a few requests for chica drinks as I watched ESPN’s Sports Center on one of the TV’s located behind the main bar.

Soon, a large, older blonde chica positioned herself roughly in front of me, at the other end of my booth. She kind of resembled the actress Terri Garr, which is not a compliment. She didn’t say a word to me, but rather just stood there, running her hands through her hair in a manner that said, “Please notice me.”

She began to move further into my line of sight, partially obstructing my view of the TV. I craned my head to one side, trying to catch today’s football scores. But it was no use; this infuriating woman continued her crusade to attract my attention. She was now standing directly in front of the TV, blocking my view.

Well, she could give a crash course on how to scare away clients. I gulped down the rest of my soda, and got up and left the bar. The most satisfying thing that happened during this brief foray into CC was learning that my Eagles had won their game earlier today, to remain the NFL’s lone unbeaten team.


Leaving Las Chavelas

LC is rapidly becoming my preferred “get out of Dodge” locale. I took a seat in the corner of the bar, a quick right-hand turn immediately as you enter. I spent over an hour inside, just soaking up the slightly different small-bar atmosphere, trying to figure out what makes it tick. The chicas at LC on that night ranged from ultra-hot to ugly, and everything in between. There’s several things I like about this bar. One is the authentic Mexican music. You hear some at AB, but they often switch over to gringo music, and of course at CC all you have is that techno-pop crap. When I’m south of the border, I want the whole experience… I want to hear Mexican music, eat Mexican food, the whole nine yards. I also like the fact that you can sit at a table and remain relatively undisturbed. Up to a point, I’ll admit, I enjoy the sharks at AB and CC. It’s fun to have women casually walk up to you and offer to do various things to your genitalia, and that novelty hasn’t worn off yet. But once in a while, particularly after I’ve done a session, I want to get away from that.

This is only my personal observation, based on a few quickie visits, but the chicas at LC seem to be of two types. You have the fresher, more ingenuous types that don’t appear to be jaded or bitter about the nature of work they do, which is a nice switch from the AB/CC circuit. And then you have the opposite… the ones who really, truly don’t seem to want to be there. I saw a couple of chicas, up on the stage dancing with customers, who looked as if they couldn’t wait to escape as a lecherous dance partner attempted to grope every square inch of their bodies.

My sexual desire was spent at this point, so I made no pursuit of any chicas at LC. One tall, cute morena caught me visually checking her out and smiled in my direction. She and I remained locked in eye contact for a few seconds before she came over to me and said something in Spanish. She then walked away, joined a couple of amigas and headed out through the front exit. I have no clue what she said to me, but I suspect I may have missed out on an opportunity.

Finally, I realized I was starving. I hadn’t eaten anything of substance since I’d arrived in TJ. I got up, headed out into the crisp evening air, and hit the food carts across from CC. Did I say I go to Mexico for Mexican food? Forgive me this one transgression. I had them cook me up a big, juicy cheeseburger, with tomatoes and onions and jalapeños and mayonnaise.

I was glad to see that the food stands on Coahuila had reappeared, across the street from their former location. This supports a theory of mine… that the Zona Norte is nothing if not resilient. Yes, they gave Coahuila a makeover, and kicked out the taco vendors next to AB. But a period of time passed, and lo and behold, the food carts reemerged in a new place, and everyone is happy. We don’t know what the story is in the alley, with the renovation that’s taken place in recent months, and what the ultimate fate of the street girls will be. But as a monger, one can hope that the natural resiliency of the flesh market in TJ will provide a solution that is amenable to all.


Elisa: Part II

Back at Adelitas, the night shift was in full swing. My eyes, in search of something inviting, settled on an immediately recognizable mark… the bespectacled Evelyn de Veracruz, who’d provided the highlight of my last visit with an unforgettable session, looking mighty fine as always in a white top and faded blue jeans. I wasn’t sure if I was yet up to another romp in the room, but like a lemming to the sea, I began to sidle over in Evelyn’s direction. I never made it there. Elisa appeared in front of me, having sighted me on her radar screen the instant I’d entered the bar. Off toward the back we went, settling into the same booth we’d occupied before. We passed right by Evelyn, probably number two on my favorite chicas list, but there was to be no contact with her on this visit.

The minute we sat down, Elisa could tell I’d had something to eat. I guess they tossed a few too many onions on that cheeseburger. “You need cheec-let,” she said, making a face, as she reached into her purse and pulled out a stick of gum. Before I knew it, she had unwrapped the gum and jammed it into my mouth. She grabbed my face and started moving my jaw up and down to simulate chewing. “Muy malo,” she said, then threw her head back in laughter.

Elisa was in a mellow yet chatty mood. She swung her legs up onto my lap and leaned her back against the wall. I removed her shoe, a slip-on platform heel that must have added four or five inches to her vertical stature. I don’t know how those girls spend hours walking around the bar in those things. While I gave her a foot rub, she simultaneously began to massage the back of my neck. We started to talk about old times. Once again, she exhibited an astounding memory, recalling things I’d forgotten myself. We reminisced about that all-nighter we’d done a couple of years ago. I gently ribbed her about her falling asleep, way back when; which was okay, because I’d nodded off myself. “Twelve hours,” she commented. “I remember. We spent twelve hours together.” And she was right, of course. Go look it up in the trip report.

Nearby, on the stage, an assembly of chicas in Halloween costumes had gathered in close quarters, posing for a group picture. Elisa, who seems to be friends with anyone and everyone, pointed out the ones she knew. There was an angel, another devil (besides Angela), a girl in an elaborate bridal gown, a space cadet, and a chica who was carrying a small dog. The dog was also in a costume of sorts. The photographer snapped the picture, and the party dispersed.

Every once in a while, Elisa likes to play the guilt trip card, just to see my reaction. It kind of bothered me at first, but I quickly learned how to deal with it. As we continued to chat, she interjected, “Two years. Two years you don’t come to see Elisa.” I said nothing in reply, but gave her a crooked smile in response. A smile that said, “I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s not gonna work, but I like you anyhow.” And she changed the subject.

I guess I’ve come to accept the fact that the vast majority of interactions in the Zona are of a professional nature, and expecting any more than that is not worth the risk. And it’s true there are girls at AB and elsewhere in the Zona that are nothing more than money-grubbing mercenaries. I’ve met a few of those myself. But it’s been my experience that many are not like that… they enjoy hanging out for awhile and being treated like a lady. I refuse to judge them for the lifestyle they’ve chosen, if they had a choice at all; if I were to do that, I’d have to take a good, long, hard look in the mirror over the choices I myself have made. But I’d like to think I’ve made a good impression on Elisa; I’ve certainly seen plenty of evidence to support that fact. In many ways, I see her as a partner in crime, a kindred spirit. A kindred spirit who can screw my brains out. She never gives me any crap about my chasing after other chicas, even at Adelitas, and she knows full well that I do. And in return, when the time comes for her to get back to work, I let her go. It’s a win-win situation.

Having said that, there’s no question that from time to time, she makes my heart race a little faster than it should.

Midnight was approaching as she got around to uttering those words: “I have to get back to work, baby.” I told her I’d likely see her in a couple of months, gave her a hug, then slid aside to let her out of the booth. She looked back, smiling briefly, then scurried off to join her amigas.

Saying goodbye to Elisa on any given trip always seems to be a moment filled with melancholy and poignancy. Each time, I never know if it will be the last time I see her. She’s been a presence – okay, an occasional, fleeting, secret presence, but a presence nonetheless – in my life for three and a half years. Although she seems to be as much a fixture at AB as she’s ever been, I never know if one day, she’ll decide to retire from the business to spend more time with her family. And it’s likely that in the not too distant future, I’ll be moving back to the East Coast, which will greatly curtail my ability to get back to TJ.

I got up to leave, and split the curtains, my routine intact for now. I hung out with the crowd in front of AB; the night air had gotten just a tad chilly, a slight breeze was wafting past, a gibbous moon blazed overhead. Midnight, on Halloween, in the heart of the Zona Norte. The perfect time to break with routine. I told myself, you’re getting too predictable. And I went right back into the bar.

Turning left, I ascended the stairs and approached the upper bar. Sitting on a stool was an old chica acquaintance of mine, Marissa de Acapulco, the black girl with the boobalicious hooters. I’ve exchanged pleasantries with her before, though I’ve never taken her upstairs. Her boobs looked like they were about to bust out through her shirt, exposed almost down to the nipples, with about a third of each of her areolae in view. Marissa is not a morena, but a true negra. Sitting down next to her, I held my hairy, lily-white arm up against hers, contrasting it with her soft ebony skin. I grinned at her, and she cackled in reply. Her come-on consisted of one word: “Pussy?” with the second syllable accented, making it a question. I don’t think Marissa speaks much English at all. The reviews I’ve read on the boards about her have ranged from mediocre to poor, but she’s always given me positive vibes.

I declined her request, realizing I was getting sleepy, but I sat with her until a mesero came along and demanded I buy her a drink. I said to Marissa, “I have to go,” pointing at my watch, then the curtain, and she nodded. Then, once and for all, I left AB for the final time that night, having broken with tradition and cleared a mental hurdle in the process.


Alley Musings

Before going back to the Zaragoza, I elected to make a stroll through the alley and check out the recent “improvements” close up. Yes, a small amount of the ambience is gone. But really, it’s not as bad as I expected. It’s still the same narrow, seedy passageway with its familiar earthy charm. The street girls were out in abundance, waving and hissing as I walked past. When you get right down to it, not much at all had changed since my last time in town.

I’ve never patronized a street girl, and with my want list of bar girls seeming to increase factorially every time I visit, it isn’t likely that I’ll get around to it in the near future. But collectively, I’m starting to develop a soft spot in my heart for these sirens of the sidewalk, the real troupers of the Zona, the ones who accept cut-rate pay while braving the elements for what to them must be interminable, long hours. One of the most distinctive sounds of the Zona is the street girls’ inviting “Pssst” or “Tccch”, a melodious cacophony of consonants that is music to the ears of any alley aficionado. Hopefully, that sound will not be silenced anytime soon, and the rumors of the street girls being located to the hotel lobbies, or removed altogether, will not come to pass.

With that, I decided to call it a night, and began the long trek back to the hotel.


A Jaunt to Rosarito

I got up early on Monday morning to tackle a non-mongering pursuit. I decided to catch the 9:00 Mexicoach bus down to Rosarito, just to experience yet another brief change in scenery. I checked out of my room at the Zaragoza, leaving my duffel bag in the office. I slipped Luis a few bucks to keep an eye on it for me.

I couldn’t believe how deserted the bus terminal was at that hour; the first buses from the US side had yet to pull in. There were perhaps three or four people standing around, and many of the last-chance souvenir stands were not yet open.

I got my ticket from the counter ($10 round trip) and waited for the bus to arrive; it showed up about ten minutes late. I was the only one waiting to board the bus. It was as if I had my own private chariot. I often relish taking the lone wolf approach when venturing south of the border, but this was ridiculous.

I had been to Rosarito once before. On that occasion, I’d driven a car I’d rented in San Diego, taken the toll road, and stopped off quickly in Rosarito before heading down to Ensenada. The bus I was now on utilized the inland route, so the scenery was novel for me. I have to say that the toll road is much more aesthetically pleasing, which is the opposite of what you’d expect. The inland road cuts though strange-looking, barren mountains, and the countryside along the way is dotted with the occasional barrio or junkyard.

I hopped off the bus in front of the Rosarito Beach Hotel, and immediately ducked into the lobby to check out the place. Okay, I’ll ‘fess up. Part of the reason for this quickie jaunt to Rosarito was for purposes of scoping this place out, in the event that in the future, I might want to whisk away a chica for a day trip, or even an overnighter.

The lobby is very ornate, with old-style Mexican décor. Over in the corner was some sort of exhibit, with traditional dance costumes from Michoacan on display. Ahh, a touch of culture… unlike you’d find in TJ, at least in the places I typically frequent.

Back outside, I headed off down the main drag. I traversed a few blocks, then made a left turn onto a side street. Stepping onto the sand that marked the beginning of the beach, I saw several horses, with a few folks hopping up into the saddle for a pony ride. As a result, the beach in this vicinity was a mine field of horse dung. Watching my step, I made my way down almost to the water, where thankfully the beach is much cleaner.

I went back into the town, picking up some food items to take back home with me, and other sundry items. I ended up spending more money than I would have liked in Rosarito, and that would come back to bite me in the rear later that afternoon. Heading back toward the hotel, I noticed a small building with a sign that made me do a double-take. Closer inspection revealed the place to be a hair salon, and the sign read, exactly as I’ve written it, “Estetica (Yunick) Unisex”. As if that wasn’t enough to get the imagination rolling, there was a huge, ten-foot replica of a pair of scissors right underneath the sign.

Ouch!

I boarded the 12:00 bus for the return trip; this time, it was about half full. Right at the outer edge of TJ, there was some construction work that had the traffic backed up for some distance. It was about 12:45 when we finally reached the Mexicoach terminal. I was hungry, so I headed up Revolucion to my favorite taco place, Maria Candelaria.

The waitress who took my order, a young, lithe brunette, was a real cutie who spoke decent English. I ordered a beef burrito, and shortly thereafter, was presented with the biggest burrito I’d ever seen in my life. It was steaming hot, and packed with shredded beef, peppers and avocado, and famished as I was, I managed to finish about three-quarters of it. Nearby, the pretty young waitress was standing next to a booth, and talking with two other seated restaurant employees. They appeared to be going over some financial records. The waitress leaned over to examine the paperwork, her ass protruding in my direction, her shirt rising up to reveal a swath of bare midriff, replete with smooth, honey-brown skin. Adelitas, I thought. I have to go to Adelitas, pronto.


Sweet Caroline

I have never seen AB quite like it was that Monday afternoon. Usually, Mondays are dreadfully slow. But for some reason, most of the daytime chicas had shown up for work. As a result, the female-to-male ratio was higher than I’d ever observed. Any male present was in high demand, and the sharks were in full feeding mode.

But first, I ducked into the men’s room stall to total up my remaining funds, something I do from time to time. What I saw discouraged me, and I began to curse myself for blowing all that cash in Rosarito. Plain and simple, I didn’t have enough money on my person to entertain serious thoughts of doing a session, unless I wanted to go the bargain-basement route. I didn’t care to do that, and I wandered back out into the bar, still not sure of how to handle this dilemma.

And the sharks were circling around like never before. I spurned three or four in a ten-minute period. I went around to the back of the bar, where Malena was sitting with two amigas, giggling about something. All three of them were sitting there, idle, garnering no male attention whatsoever. And then I spotted Candi… the nominal purpose for my even being there that afternoon. But on my way over to greet her, another shark accosted me, and by the time I could break free, Candi was gone. I spotted her in the back of the bar, in the same booth Elisa and I had occupied the previous evening, lying down with her head in some guy’s lap, obviously not going anywhere soon. And my first session with Candi will have to wait till next time, at the very earliest.

Veronica was standing on the rear dance stage, and I approached her, thinking perhaps I could talk her down a few bucks from her usual price. It was as if she knew what was going on. As I approached, she turned her head to one side to avoid looking at me. And as I went to greet her, she did a 180, turning away from me. What the hell?!?

Well, I think I know now why I got that reaction from Veronica. It was because (1) I’d turned her down the previous day, and (2) she’d seen me in the bar talking to, but not going upstairs with, a number of other chicas, and she figured I was about to pull the same thing on her. Despite this incident, I still recommend her, but watch out… she’s kind of ditzy, and can be unpredictable.

I went up to the upper bar, and sat down on one of the stools. I knew the sharks would continue to bug me, but I didn’t care. I’d given up fighting them. Let ‘em come.

Before I even realized it, a presence seemed to gradually come forth from the ether. She didn’t announce her arrival with the brusque flamboyance of the typical shark, but rather, she seemed to gently emerge from the woodwork and glide effortlessly into the empty space next to me. I looked at her, and she gave me a bright smile. She was about thirty years old, with a flawless, creamy fair complexion. Her unadorned, full lips just screamed “Kiss me.” Her dark brown hair, more attractive than beautiful, hung down just above her shoulders. She had a nice figure, which was evident despite the fact that she was plainly attired in a T-shirt and jeans. She looked like the kind of girl you’d bring home to Mom. If I’d left the bar with her that instant, and walked with her hand in hand down Revolucion, no one would have batted an eye. I often speak of an intangible vibe that I get when I see a girl who tickles my fancy. Over the course of several visits, that vibe has proven to be a quite reliable predictor of compatibility upstairs. At that particular moment, my Vibe-O-Meter was pinging like a Geiger counter in a vault of plutonium. Ping…ping…ping…

As I looked her over, I realized that she looked familiar. Very familiar, indeed. And then it hit me… she was Teacher Girl. I’d spotted her during my TJ visit last March, and had compared her to a school teacher. To make a long story short, I’d chased her around the bar before settling for a much more aggressive girl, who’d given me a mediocre session upstairs.

Teacher Girl, as it turns out, is Caroline de Tecate. I promised there would be no song lyrics in this report, but queue up Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline". The first thing Caroline did was apologize to me. “I no speak English well,” she told me. Actually, her English wasn’t terrible.

“It’s okay,” I told her. Pointing at myself, I said, “No habla español.” She giggled.

Her hometown, Tecate, provided me with a unique opportunity for conversation. I’d actually visited Tecate briefly, a couple of years back. This was the first time I’d run into a chica whose hometown I’d set foot in.

A mesero showed up; Caroline looked at me. “Buy me a drink?” she asked. I nodded at the waiter. Caroline told me, “Thank you,” and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek. I found her unassuming manner disarming. Ping…ping…ping…

By now, I was really, really wishing I hadn’t spent that money in Rosarito. She nursed her drink, eventually slipping her hand into mine and letting her head fall back on my shoulder. I leaned into her, my cheek resting against the top of her head. Ping…ping…ping…

And then, after a good ten minutes of cuddling, she directed the inevitable question towards me. “Do you like to go to the room?”

I didn’t know what to say; my typical, somewhat wishy-washy default line popped out of my mouth. “Later,” I told her. “I’ll look for you later.”

Caroline, refreshingly, just smiled. “Is okay. I find you later.” And just like that, we parted ways.

Frustrated, but intrigued by this enticing new acquaintance of mine, I set out to do some more roaming. I felt a hand whack me on the back, but didn’t think much of it. I looked back to see a chica grinning in my direction. Another shark looking for dinner, I thought to myself.

Over near Hottie Central, I saw yet another chica giggling at me. What the hell is wrong with me today, I wondered. But she came over to me, and peeled something from my shirt. It was another one of those napkin bows.

All I could do was laugh. The chica pointed at another guy, also sporting a specimen of napkin art. She chose not to inform him. I guess I should have been flattered.

And then it occurred to me. The girl who’d slapped me on the back… she was responsible for all this. I looked across the bar, and in fact, the guilty chica had observed the whole series of events that she’d created, and was highly amused by it all. And here she was, waving me over.

I considered ignoring her, but I decided to retain my sense of humor and went over to see her. She was a stunning brunette who, again, looked vaguely familiar. I asked her name. “Livier,” she replied. And then my memory kicked in. I’d met her before. And I recalled her absolutely abysmal reputation and her legendary poor attitude. I’ve read a few reviews, and apparently, Livier is more skilled at origami than orgasms.

But at this point in time, she didn’t seem unfriendly. And here came the sales pitch, with a twist. “We go upstairs,” she offered. “You, me…and my friend.” Her friend? She was pointing at a girl sitting nearby, who smiled seductively in my direction.

“Isn’t she pretty?” Livier continued. “Come on. We show you good time.”

I declined, and continued on my way. I would have refused that offer even if my pockets were stuffed with cash.

I looked at my watch, and realized it was almost time to skip town to catch my flight, and I still had to go back to the hotel to pick up my bag. So I made a move for the curtains… but one final unexpected occurrence awaited me on this very strange afternoon.

As I made my way along the upper bar, I practically bumped right into Caroline. Her eyes lit up, and she said, “Come on. Let’s go to the room.” I had, after all, not ruled out a session with her earlier, and she was no doubt expecting to hear me say, “Okay.”

But I couldn’t do it; I had neither the funds nor the time. “Not now,” I said, pointing at my watch. “But next time for sure.” I meant it, of course, but there was no way to convince her I wasn’t full of shit. She didn’t say anything at that point, but in my mind’s eye, I can still see the disappointed look on her face.

Later that afternoon, seated on the Mexicoach bus on the way to the border, with another visit drawing to a close, I became aware of something. Those who are keeping score may have already taken note of this. I’d been in TJ for the better part of two days, and I’d done exactly one session. One. Granted, it was a session to remember, a one-hour, get-reacquainted encounter with an old fave, but still… two days in TJ, and I’d gotten laid once.

But as I thought about it some more, I realized that it didn’t matter. Once again, I’d had a blast in TJ. Isn’t that what it’s all about? I’m not a scorekeeper, anyhow. It’s about having fun, period.

There is one thing, though. With regard to trips in the past, I’ve experienced TJ withdrawal afterwards on more than one occasion. I’ll even admit to dealing with some Elisa-inspired heartache upon returning home from a couple of earlier trips, though that wasn’t an issue this time. But I’ve never had any regrets. Never, that is, until now. I wish I had visited the ATM, or held back on the spending in Rosarito, or done something, anything, that would have enabled me to take Sweet Caroline upstairs.


And upon my return…

I scraped a couple of inches of snow from the windshield of my car in the airport parking lot. I checked the backs of every shirt I’d brought with me, both dirty and clean, in search of napkin bows. I didn’t find any, and I was actually kind of disappointed. And I could hear the voice of Sister Mary Adelita, telling me, “Remember man, that you are Monger, and unto TJ you shall return…”

Yet another Farsider grade "A" effort. Hope to meet you one of these days, my friend, and say hi to BillFrom if you still correspond!

Great Stuff!!

Farsider, I'll have you know that I actually postponed a meeting this afternoon in order to read your post. When you indicated it would be a long one, I made the call, settled in and read every word.

Again the imagary is something that someone who has never been to the zona could trust. You took us with you on this trip - excellent.

I'm glad you share your appreciation for these princesses with us. I've come to recognize the line between "sex with no love" and the benefits of being a friend to them. Makes a big difference upstairs. Not only that, some of these girls are nice people too. If you can get them out of the box they can be a lot of fun.

I heard about the gum/napkin deal and am constantly watching for reactions by people around me. Neat trick.

Nice to hear from you again.

Sandy...thanks. I still talk to BfromR pretty regularly. He's doing good, pretty much out of the mongering scene at present.

CJ...many people can separate sex and intimacy. I can't do that. That's asking for trouble in this hobby, but I've learned to set limits for myself. And as you've written, in the process, I've learned that some of these chicas are pretty neat people. Treat others the way you expect to be treated. It's really so simple.