Everybody Plays The Fool

I had only ventured into Tropical on one prior occasion, for maybe 30 seconds. I had found it to be dead, and devoid of any reason for me to return. But that must have been during a down period. This time, the place was hopping. I took an immediate liking to the more intimate atmosphere, in contrast to the much larger Adelitas and Chicago Club. I quickly warmed up to Tropical, and it’s now a mandatory stop on any future TJ visits.

I saw Bill seated near the end of the bar, and headed over in that direction. On the way, I passed by this depraved, aging silver fox who was in the process of using his hands to corrupt the morals of some helpless young waif. The nerve of him. Feeling up some poor, innocent girl, a fraction of his age, in a crowded bar. I thought to myself, that sounds like something Ben would do.

I joined Bill at the bar, and as he related to me how Candi had once more rocked his world, the decrepit old chica groper managed to tear himself away from his prey, and came over and joined us. The grinning Bill introduced me to Ben. Ha! I might have known.

It became immediately apparent that Ben knows all of the girls at Tropical. I mean all of them. Soon, he was off, on the prowl, in search of another young, wide-eyed ingénue to paw and molest.

Meanwhile, Bill, who is always one step ahead of me when it comes to these things, was already tracking two potential targets of his own. He’d done some collaborating with the all-knowing Ben beforehand. He had his eyes on Alexandra, a tall, attractive brunette, who right that very minute was dancing on the stage. He also had another brunette on his radar: the short-haired Letti, who was strutting around in a skimpy peach-colored two-piece outfit. I would later find out that Letti is quite well-known, and has an excellent reputation. As she cavorted around the bar, I said to Bill, “There are better looking girls in here, but there’s just something about her.” Bill agreed.

We just sat there for a few minutes, taking in the scene, and watching Notre Dame run up the score on Washington on the large-screen TV. And then, we had another visitor. I was very pleased to finally meet Erip, the TJ veteran and one of my favorite posters. Erip sat down and joined us. Soon, Ben returned from whatever sort of debauchery he’d gotten himself into, and made it a foursome. We began to swap stories.

But Ben couldn’t stay; I guess an old codger like him needs his rest. He got up to leave, and Bill accompanied him out to his car. All kidding aside, it was great to finally meet the Grand Old Man of Tropical after all this time.

That left Erip and myself sitting at the table. Erip had a proposal. He offered to have a waiter hunt down Letti, and put in a good word for me. And as soon as Bill returned to our table and heard of Erip’s plan, he enthusiastically endorsed it.

Well, it was rather soon after my session with Yuri. I had already noticed that Letti was frequently occupied, and constantly on the move when she wasn’t. If a later urge to seek out her affections overtook me, it might be hard to pin her down. And so, grateful for the offer, I consented.

It took a few minutes for the waiter to find Letti, but eventually she was seated in a booth, next to me, with Bill and Erip on the other side of the table. I often speak of an intangible vibe that I use when sizing up chicas. Either it’s there, or it’s not, and it’s proven to be fairly accurate in the past. But this time, that vibe on which I’m so reliant betrayed me in a rather embarrassing fashion.

Earlier, when I had watched Letti sauntering around the bar, she just oozed with that vibe. But with her seated next to me in the booth, I got a different reading. It was like a switch had been thrown. She was certainly friendly enough, but seemed to keep her distance. I started to wonder if I’d bothered to put on deodorant that morning, or used mouthwash. Letti took a good long while to finish her drink, chatting mostly with Bill and Erip. After a while, she thanked me for the drink, and then got up and left.

Both Bill and Erip looked at me quizzically. “You aren’t gonna take her upstairs?”

“Something wasn’t right,” I replied. “The vibe… it just wasn’t there.” And both of their jaws hit the floor.

Well, we quickly figured out what had just happened. You see, I’ve always been an Adelita guy. At AB, the women practically throw themselves at you. I know that many who are reading this dislike AB for just that reason. Not me, though… most of them time, I greatly enjoy it. But I was in a different bar now, with a decidedly different culture. At Tropical, it’s more like real life. You’re expected to put a little more effort into wooing the girl before taking her upstairs. It’s not that I wasn’t willing to put forth the effort, it’s that I didn’t realize it was necessary. My vibe had led me astray; or more accurately, I’d listened to the wrong vibe. And when Letti didn’t attack me from head to toe, I misinterpreted it as disinterest.

This little screw-up was 100% my doing. It’s no reflection at all on Letti, who is a very nice lady and, from all accounts, is as can’t-miss as they come.

There wasn’t much else I could do at that point, except chalk it up to experience and move forward. We ordered another round. Bill plunked down a twenty-dollar bill, and then wandered off, forgetting about the change he was due. Most of you are thinking, “This is Tropical, right? Change? Hah!” Well, think again…

The waiter came back with the exact amount of change on his tray. When he couldn’t find Bill, he searched through the entire bar for him, even going so far as to walk out through the curtains and look up and down the sidewalk. And when Bill finally returned to our table, the waiter was right there to hand him his change. Moral of the story: not all Tropical waiters are unscrupulous crooks.

Bill needed to make a phone call, so the three of us went outside, and walked down to the northeast corner of Coahuila and Niños Heroes, where the cell phone reception is better. While we were standing there, a young, smooth-talking Latino approached us. In perfect English, he began to tout a bar or massage place called Purple Rain, even producing a business card. He probably found the card lying on the ground somewhere, or picked it out of the trash. Of course, we immediately expressed our disinterest, and next came the predictable request for money. I watched with admiration as Erip politely and convincingly persuaded the gentleman that his efforts would best be directed elsewhere.

The cell phone reception, as it turned out, was spotty; Bill elected to try again later. Both he and I wanted to head back to the hotel for a bit, so we agreed to meet Erip in front of Tropical at 7:00. That gave us about an hour and a half.

We made the long trip back to the VZ on foot. By this time, both of us were sore from all the walking. I went into my room, showered and crashed out on the bed for a few minutes. This is why I like staying at the VZ, despite the distance. The Zona Norte is complete sensory overload, and sometimes, it’s nice to be able to retreat away from all that for a short while.


Oops, I Did It Again

We were a few minutes late in getting back to the Zona, and Erip had been making the rounds looking for us. We ran into him in front of Adelitas. The first order of business was Bill’s phone call. We returned to the same street corner, and this time, Bill was able to get through. Our “friend” from Purple Rain (allegedly) made his presence known once again. He was a persistent little devil. He skipped the money request this time, but instead handed Bill a coin with Chinese characters on it, claiming it would bring him good luck. I’m sure Bill will treasure it forever.

Next on our agenda was dinner. We strolled over to Al Capone’s, another place I’d often noticed but never entered. The food was okay, although the meat was slightly overcooked. Still, it’s fun to sit there and watch the Chicago Club chicas saunter in and out.

By now, it was past 9:00. Erip had some matters of his own to attend to, so he struck out by himself for a bit, and Bill and I went into Botana 2000 to watch the floor show. Like I said previously, I really expanded my horizons on this visit. I didn’t even know this place existed. On a busy Saturday night, it’s one of many places in the Zona to escape from the crowds.

When Erip returned, he had another proposal. He offered to introduce me to a Britney Spears look-alike over at Las Chavelas. Now, what red-blooded, heterosexual male would turn down a chance to score with an imitation Britney Spears? Not this writer, that’s for sure. Las Chavelas was hopping on this Saturday evening; it was packed, Adelitas-style. I had never seen it this busy, and the chica quality was way up, as well. We fought our way into the expanded section in the back, with Erip in the lead, and then back around to the front. But alas, the Britney doppelganger was nowhere to be seen. And thus was that plan scrapped.


Invisible Touch

One of the nice things about the Zona Norte is that if your original plan doesn’t pan out, there’s always a Plan B. And a Plan C, and so on, and so on. Our Plan B turned out to be a visit to Chicago Club. In previous reports, I’ve driven home the fact that this place seemed to be in decline. Oh, I’m aware of the cyclical nature of the Zona, but the fact is that at least during the occasions when I’ve been in town, CC had been more off than on in recent history.

I’m happy to report that the situation at CC has improved drastically since my last visit, which for me, was a most satisfying development. There were hotties galore, and that ambience that is unique in the Zona had returned in full force. It was crowded, certainly, but nothing that couldn’t be dealt with. We found a vacant booth off to the side, and sat down, Bill and I on one side, Erip on the other. Standing directly behind Bill and I was a row of chicas. If I’d have rested my head back on the seat, I’d have bumped into one of their tummies. Erip told us, prophetically, “You guys are about to get molested.”

It wasn’t long before I felt a pair of soft hands resting on my shoulders. Slowly, they began to assume a gentle, repetitive squeezing motion. My tired muscles began to relax instinctively as I pushed my shoulders upward, encouraging my impromptu masseuse to continue. I was tempted to look around, to see what my new friend looked like, but I opted to continue the fantasy. At this moment, it was better not knowing. I closed my eyes, her tempo and firmness gradually increasing. I cast a sideways glance over at Bill, and saw that he was being similarly worked on by another chica.

At this point, she was just a pair of hands to me. I let her continue the rubdown, as the sights and sounds of the bar faded away into a blur. I made no move to interrupt her, drawing it out as long as I could. I had been in the right place at the right time, and I had been chosen. There is much to be said for that.

Bill had been chosen as well; out of the corner of my eye, I saw him and his girl get up and head out, to take matters upstairs. But still, I made no overtures to stop my mysterious new acquaintance. I wanted her to make the next move, and finally, she did. I felt the warmth of her cheek approaching mine, her chin resting on my shoulder. Then, and only then, did I visually behold her.

She was a brown-haired little sprite with fair skin, an exotic face and a bright smile. Her hair, somewhere between curly and frizzy, was tied back with a scrunchy. She had a petite build. All in all, not bad. This could have been much worse.

“Hola,” I said to her. “Como se llamas?”

“Nancy,” she replied.

Having pushed my knowledge of Spanish to its limits, I switched over to English. “Thirty minutes in the room?”

I told Erip that I would be back in a half hour, and then took Nancy’s hand and moved toward the exit.

It had been a long time since I’d done a session at Chicago Club. I’d forgotten about the TVs in the rooms. No sooner had we closed the door than I heard the sound of a woman in the midst of orgasmic wailing. I looked up to see the footage of a woman riding a man, cowgirl-style, flashing across the screen.

Nancy looked at me, bemused. “You like that?” she asked.

“That’s why I’m here,” I responded dryly. This elicited a polite laugh from her; I’m not sure if she understood me.

She wanted the payment up front; that never bothers me, and I never complain about getting that part of the transaction out of the way early. As soon as we got in bed, she began to kiss me. It became obvious at once that I’d found myself another enthusiastic kisser. She even, for the briefest of instants, worked her tongue into my mouth before withdrawing it. She started to kiss and suck on my neck; I had to put a stop to this, for hickeys are never on my want list.

Slapping a condom onto me, she directed her oral efforts onto my increasingly aroused member. Then, perhaps taking a cue from the porn flick, Nancy initiated some spirited cowgirl action. When that didn’t put me over the edge, she wanted to switch to missionary. She had a slow, deliberate demeanor that was quite effective downstairs with the massage. Upstairs, not so much, although her sweetness and attentiveness somewhat compensated for that. We never got past missionary, as that was where I finished.

Nancy ran off into the shower while I kicked back on the bed. I watched with curiosity while a hyper-endowed male furiously impaled some blonde bombshell on the TV screen. I don’t know about the rest of you. But watch these porn flicks while in a sexually satisfied state, and you realize just how over-the-top they are.

After I finished up in the shower, I came out to find Nancy standing by the door. “I go now,” she declared and slipped out of the room. Uh oh… a deduction in my book. I’d give that session a B-plus, and it would have been an A-minus if she hadn’t left early.


Witchy Woman

Back down in the bar, I found Erip still occupying the same booth. Bill was nowhere in sight; he’d squired away his girl for sixty minutes. He's always done one-hour sessions as a matter of routine. I’ll do extended sessions once in awhile, but I like to get to know the girl first.

Seated directly across from Erip was a mysterious, intriguing newcomer. Erip was trying to make sense of what she was all about. It was clear that she was not there to work. She had come in, sat down and ordered herself a drink. What was doubly strange was that if she had been there to work, she would have been one of the more appealing choices in CC that night, based on her looks.

She was a slender brunette with a trim figure and fair skin. But what immediately drew my attention were her cat-like, hypnotic eyes. Erip, likewise, commented that she had a feline quality about her. Catgirl just sat there, chain-smoking cigarettes, with a strange, disconcerting half-smile on her face, seeming to indicate that she was either loaded or insane.

A guy came by and offered to buy Catgirl a drink. She chatted with him for just a moment, and then sent him on his way, refusing his offer. And the mystery thickened. It appeared that she was known to many of the bar girls, for several of them dropped by to say hello. With Bill not due back downstairs for a while longer, I engaged in some speculation with Erip as to just what Catgirl’s motives might be.

Was she a lipstick lesbian, looking for some girl-on-girl action? Was she just there to get toasted? Was she some kind of a voyeur, getting off on watching others hook up for sex? Or was she merely a former working girl, back to say hi to her old friends? And if that was the case, why was she acting so strangely?

Our speculation continued even as we moved to a booth further away from Catgirl, in the middle of the elevated section along the wall, not far from the stage. And as Bill rejoined us, we noticed something. Catgirl, too, had repositioned herself, now occupying one seat two booths down from us, facing away in the other direction, also in the elevated section.

And she knew we were watching her. Every so often, she would glance around and look at us. I locked eyes with her on several occasions. Each time, she would hold the glance for a second, and then look away, an indecipherable smile flashing across her face.

We hung out in that booth for an hour or more. Erip pointed out the girls that he knew, and I was able to match a few more faces with names.

And Catgirl remained planted in that booth, downing the drinks; she paid for each one. A few more guys tried to move in on her, in turn; each was spurned in a strangely pleasant manner. Every so often, she would turn around and shoot laser beams at us with those eyes, her gaze holding either suppressed passion or raving insanity. None of us cared to find out which.

Eventually, she got up and moved elsewhere. The three of us finished our drinks, and then filed off toward the exit. Seated there in the alcove, still devoid of company, was Catgirl. She had a beer in her hand, and that same silly half-grin on her face.

Something tells me I’m better off not knowing her real story.


Fantasy

At this point, I parted company with Bill and Erip for a little while. I wanted to go and check out Adelitas; they wanted no part of the typical Saturday night sardine can environment at that particular establishment. They headed over to Tropical, and I set off to brave the expected stampede at AB.

But I was relieved to find out the conditions at Adelitas were nowhere near as inhospitable as I had expected. The crowd was actually somewhat thinner than the previous night. And the heat had been alleviated in quite a satisfactory manner. Cool air was being pumped in somehow, and the place was actually comfortable.

Near the upper bar, I was unexpectedly intercepted by my favorite shark, Angela. Not that being accosted by Angela is a strange occurrence. It was the timing, for it was now past 1:00, quite late for Angela to be there. But she informed me that she was now working the night shift.

Angela immediately pointed at some marks on my face and mouth. Apparently, some lipstick residue from Nancy had survived the post-coital shower. “You were with another lady,” she grinned. Tracing a circle on my neck with her finger, she added, “She has a big mouth.”

Well, I had nothing to add to that comment; I just laughed. Angela continued with her sales pitch. “Buy me a drink?”

I’m usually up for a ficha or two with Angela, but not right then. I declined, and Angela, chipper as ever, moved on in her never-ending quest for fresh gringo meat.

Standing near the DJ booth, displaced from her usual perch near the bathroom by the construction, was the luscious Evelyn. The second I locked eyes with her, she smiled broadly and waved me over. Now that I’ve gotten to know Evelyn a little bit, I realize that the laconic demeanor she exhibits in the bar is nothing but an attention getter. As I approached her, she slipped both of her soft hands into mine, and shot me a look from behind those glasses that could have melted a titanium rod. “Let’s go upstairs,” she said. “Fuck me.” She embellished her words with a not-so-subtle grab of my crotch.

There are few more persuasive temptresses at AB than Evelyn. The thought of nailing both bespectacled AB girls in a twelve-hour period occurred to me. But I’d just done a session over at CC, and it was getting late, so I declined. Quite reluctantly, I might add.

Evelyn persisted, and I continued to try to dissuade her, claiming that I was tired. Actually, that was no fallacy. She curled up her lower lip in a mock pout, and then turned away, pretending to be angry.

For me, the hardest part of this Zona business is saying no to a chica you genuinely like, and would gladly take upstairs at any time but the present.

Before heading back out through the curtains, I shot one final glance across the bar. My eyes, quite coincidentally, landed on Yuri, the other “girl with glasses”, and my first session earlier that day. I was surprised that she was still there; she must have been pulling a monster shift. I quickly ducked outside before she could spot me. I didn’t need a repeat of what I’d just experienced with Evelyn.

The Zona Norte is a fantasy. It’s not reality. And if you reach a point where it starts to become your reality, you’re in a heap of trouble.

And if I needed any reminder that the Zona is not reality, I only had to reflect on the fact that I’d been placed in a situation where I’d actually had to decline sex with the lovely Evelyn.


Cheeseburger in Paradise

I quickly hunted down Bill and Erip at Tropical; they were standing outside the entrance, just hanging out. Bill wanted to call it a night at that point, and I concurred; we were both still on East Coast time. Erip, however, wanted to continue roaming for awhile. We agreed to meet up the following afternoon. Before Erip shoved off, both he and Bill took note of the red marks on my face that Nancy had planted there, and wondered just what I had been up to. I merely played innocent. Who, me, kiss and tell? But I made an attempt to clean up my face; I didn’t need to be seen walking around TJ looking like a Kinkle Bar reject.

I wanted to make a quick detour before heading back to the hotel. I’d been stricken by late-night hunger pangs, as often seems to happen to me on these trips. So I suggested to Bill that we stop by the food cart over in front of the Hotel Leyva, so I could pick up a hamburger, and bring it back to the hotel for a midnight snack. Bill had no interest in partaking in the consumption of these fat-laden morsels, and warned me repeatedly about the abdominal distress that would probably result. But I had my heart set on one of those juicy burgers, and I was determined to sink my teeth into one, tummy ache be damned.

The girl working the cart set out to fix me up a nice, big, fat meat patty between two buns, packed with cheese, peppers, tomatoes and mayo. In deference to the possibility of heartburn, I passed on the onions. She put the finished product in one of those Styrofoam containers, and handed it to me. Bill had already hailed one of those cabs that wait in front of Chicago Club.

When I’m sleepy, I get very scatter-brained and forgetful. I walked away from the food cart, completely forgetting to pay the girl for my burger. I was just about to get into the cab when I heard the commotion behind me. Bill, already seated in the cab, looked on curiously.

What happened next seemed like something from an old Keystone Kops comedy flick. I realized my error and went up to pay the girl, apologizing profusely. I handed her two dollars, not knowing that during my period of absence from TJ, the price for these burgers had vaulted up to three bucks.

Meanwhile, right beside me, a uniformed cab driver was asking me for three bucks. I wondered what the hell he was talking about, and I guessed that he was asking for half of the cab fare up front, and that Bill had already anted up his half. In my state of reduced mental faculty, I handed the hack three dollars.

The cabbie proceeded to hand one dollar to the hamburger girl, stuffed one in his pocket, and then gave one dollar back to me. I was thinking to myself, “What just happened here?” And to make matters even more bizarre, the driver held out his hand and said, “Propina?”

I just gave him this look that said, “Are you nuts?” and hopped into the cab. But the joke was on me. The cab pulled out onto the street… and it was being steered by another driver. Duh! I’d been had.

As I related the story to Bill during the ride back to the hotel, and we tried to reconstruct what had happened, much mirth ensued. I don’t think Bill will ever let me hear the end of that one. The net result of that snafu was that I’d paid four dollars for the hamburger, and just for the laughs, it was worth it.

And the burger was delicious, and no, I didn’t experience the dire abdominal consequences which Bill had forecast.