Hey, I’m fat. 50 pounds overweight. So, who am I to throw rocks? As a multi-tasking fool, I can point out that hypocrisy and throw rocks at the same time. And I’m going to. Throw rocks. I will be posting a Pura Vida 1999 memoir taken from my book. From 380 pages, I pulled 25 as a testament to my love for Costa Rica. Or, the Costa Rica I knew in ’99. Consider this 2018 report a bookend, a prelude. Then I’ll just go away, like so many of my friends have from this scene.
PREPARATIONS:
This wasn’t a mongering trip. It was a nostalgia trip. Karina died. I’m right behind her, even if that takes another 20 years. In considerably less time I’ll be on a fixed income, Social Security. Likely with nothing more than $1500 a month coming in, the days of my pissing away $160 a night on a room in Manuel Antonio are about to end. Gotta do this stuff now, while I can.
The plan was to see San Jose once more, all the places that meant something to me 15 years ago. Maybe get lucky in the massage joints by day, Del Rey and strip clubs at night. This town isn’t Angeles City, so I kept expectations real on the mongering side. 14 days of Pura Vida tranquility was the goal. Vamos…
Flight down. Chi-Pty 5 ½ hours, 2-hour layover, Pty to SJCR one hour, customs less than 10 minutes. Even with the layover, that’s a bit over 8 hours. Compared to the 26 hours it takes to go door to door for Angeles City? Piece of cake.
The Weather Channel has San Jose at 68 degrees. I’ve been dealing with 90+F/90% humidity since I left for Angeles in May.
Holy shit, I forgot to pack pants!
BACK IN SAN JOSE, ONE LAST GO
“You don’t know, you can’t see, I’m stuck in my ways”—American Thighs
Here’s a funny one. A little voice resonated inside me. Call it the Cuba Dave effect. Back in ’02 or thereabouts I wrote a play called Pura Vida that got mentioned by the New York Times. It dealt with the sex scene in Costa Rica at the turn of the century. Upon seeing this, the story was picked up by El Diario, a major San Jose newspaper. It was front page on AM Costa Rica for two days. The Minister of Culture sternly commented on my play and the notion that San Jose had nothing to offer but sex tourism. He declared that the government would fight this perception with all its power. Fast forward years to the passage of that law which—I believe, makes it a crime to portray Costa Rica as a sex tourism destination. Pretty much exactly what my play did! Then the little case of Cuba Dave. But c’mon, that was years ago. They couldn’t possibly have some file on me so that when I hit Customs a giant WANTED POSTER with my smiling face showed up on the agent’s computer, riiiiight? Touchdown at midnight. Hit the ramps toward Customs. Cool, nobody in line. Let’s do this thing. Customs agent looks me over sternly, scans my passport. Blandly says: “Beinvenido a Costa Rica” Stamps it, and I’m through!
My joy was short-lived. Fucking Copa Air. Here’s a tip. If you wait 40 minutes and your bag doesn’t emerge even as every single person on your flight gets their bag and splits, you’ll want to check the excessive baggage area Copa has in the back. They won’t tell you your bag is back there, you’re just expected to know. Low blow, Copa. Last one out of the airport.
$30 buck red cab into town. Recreating the open-window-head-out-like-a-dog days of yore. ’08 was the last trip here, split with Medellin. After seeing Medellin, I never came back. Then in ’12 I saw Angeles City and never went back to Medellin. Cest la vie…
Hit town. Holy shit, Paseo Colon. That dreamy feeling when you first arrive. Construction everywhere—aluminum rings the bandstand at Parque Central. The whole area opposite Teatro Naccional is being renovated and is behind a screen. Even the streets, construction blocks the way to Sportsman Lodge, we navigate around it.
Nobody at the front desk this late so the door guy hooks me up when I ask for the quietest room in the joint. He gives me the Alegria room. I unpacked and head down to the Del Rey. Not for pussy, for a burger. It’s 1am, I’m bushed. Order that burger and how about that, I’m in the Del Rey again! A hefty senorita sits herself at my table. “Hola!” Hmmm, I didn’t invite you to sit down but hola to you too. Haven’t used my Spanish in a decade but here goes… I tell her I’m not really looking, just here for a hamburger. She doesn’t leave. At a table next to us sits a wispy, tired-eyed flaccita. Little did I know the flaccita, Andrea, would be one of exactly three sessions I would dig out at the Del Rey in SIX DAYS. I went over to her table, gave her cab fare, got a phone number, told her I’d see her tomorrow. Walk up the hill. Crash.
Next morning. Holy shit, I’m in fucking San Jose. Do the walk I did about a hundred times, down from Sportsmans, past the Parque Morazon, past the Rey, Hit Calle Central on up to Plaza del Cultura. That’s right, that’s where the supermarket is, there’s the Universal. Working on muscle memory because I’m one of the 4% still without a cellphone. I like discovery, improvisation.
Mentioned that I didn’t bring pants, right? That is actually a problem. Everywhere I go will now scream gringo. What can I say, who the fuck wears pants in Angeles when it’s 102 real feel every day?
I brought $4,000 cash for two weeks. No to the ATMs because of my bank’s 3+% vig on every withdrawal plus local charges. I had read that the casinos at the Rey and Club Colonial do money exchanges with good rates. Let me say that’s true, but be prepared at the Rey for “can only do $100 now, try at 2-7-11pm” or at the Colonial “are you going to spend any of this money here gambling?” I don’t want to be lectured to and I want $500 out when I want it. Took about 5 days before I found the booth along Calle Central near the Mercado Central where you can change a thousand bucks if you want, and no lectures. Go there, far better.
THE STUFF THAT’S JUST…GONE
“You should have seen the Atlantic Ocean then…” –Atlantic City
Where did the mamones go? Prickly red fruit. My fav. Found them in only one stand the whole trip. Multiple fruit guys explained it, but I couldn’t understand them.
And what’s up with that aluminum ring around the Central Park bandstand? Used to be Sunday concerts there by classically trained musicians from the National Orchestra. On their Sunday off day they would give back to the people. Amazing experience, gone.
Did not see a single drop dead gorgeous female who stopped me in my tracks. In 6 days, not one. How is that possible?
The lion died last year. The zoo cage was open almost as a memorial. I loved to watch it piss in front of the humans, a hot yellow stinking stream of fuck you. Used to watch it eat, primordial. It would look at me as it chewed like “The fuck you lookin’ at? You’re lucky those bars are between us, cuz, and you know what I’m talking about.” He was a star and he’s gone.
The Apartamentos Ferso. My old home. Tried several times to get in. Only one bell to ring, for a lawyer. I tried but no answer. Last day I did get in, miraculously. Some chick who lived there took pity and opened up for me. I went upstairs. There’s Room 7 where Big Al used to have naked chicks clean his pad. Room 8, Dick the Banker, who was a first-time father at 71, long time hustler and sex maniac, and my good friend, now dead. Room 13, Karina’s place. She used to have the guy she lived with, 40 years younger than her, dress in her pajamas, showing me pics of her during WW2. She used to check out every girl I brought in and her approval was mandatory. There’s my old room, #14. Well what do you know, that’s the lawyer’s office! If only he knew what went on in there 15 years ago, what a once-in-a-lifetimes whorehouse this place was! A chick came up who lived on the 3rd floor. She would have run screaming with her hair on fire if she had seen what went on in ‘99. Now she just inquires what I’m doing there. Don’t know if she bought the nostalgia bit. We paid 200 a month then. She’s paying 500 per and looks at me with suspicion. I had seen enough. Good thing she came along, I forgot you needed a key to get out. Too bad my book didn’t get picked up—I SANG this place, Kerouac/be-bop style. Like the song sez, only the ruins remain.
Calle Dos has been sterilized, cauterized, cleansed, boiled down, business-uped, but without style. The pedestrian walkway that is Avenida 4– yeah, I was around when they tore up the road and made it pedestrian—is choked with vendors laying their stuff on blankets—cheap Chinese import stuff—battery operated cars and dogs, socks, “leather” wallets, designer knockoff handbags, knockoff hats, plastic shoes for kids.
The Flamingo Club is a meat store now. Park Hotel is Jerusalem De Costa Rica, a department store. The eternally marvelous Pollos Sabrosa is now a dollar store. Que lastima.
STUFF THAT’S HERE NOW THAT…. WASN’T BEFORE
CAFÉ MIEL just down the street. The town is full of these chichi cafes now. Cute, catering to the backpack eco-tourists and upscale locals. SJ never did offer much to the backpack crowd. They used to have to fly in, back before there was a Liberia airport. You had to come through this grimy shithole whose major in-town destination was the Gold Museum. Now San Jose been Starbucksized. Trendy restuarants all over. It’s less a drag to stay here, easier to spend money—and THAT is what it’s all about.
Key Largo is now a buffet restaurant. When they said they were remodeling I thought they meant they were upgrading the whorehouse. Now I’m not sure. Same deal, over and over and over. Business over the scummy. Clean up the image. DEVELOP. Great 4-egg omlette, but I can get a 4-egg omlette anywhere, in any city. Key Largo of 1999? That was Cocal before Cocal. So many crazy stories…
Walking around the old neighborhood. The Principe Hotel is still there, and the Bar Margoth. How many bar brawls and knifing did I see start there? If you’re on these streets at 2am, even today, you can still get your skull caved in, no doubt. Calle 2, Avenida 6 y 8. Still plenty of scuzzy characters down here, rail-thin chapulin. Don’t turn your back on them. Not to mention all the homeless in boxes. The music doesn’t come from mariachis now. It’s upstairs, 2nd floor at “La Teraza,” a shussy restaurant where you can drink a Pina Colada and look out over Parque Central. It’s sits directly across from what was the Park Hotel. Too many ghosts down here. Ya me voy.
THE DEL REY
Remarkable.
Was at the Rey for six solid days. Hit it at 3pm, at 7pm, at 9pm, at midnight. Hit it every part of the day, every day for six days. I found a fat farm. Silicone puffed gorditas. Vacas, heffers, other zoo animals you care to name. Pigmy hippos but boy, can they accessorize! Great knock off handbags, great hair, great shoes, skin tight jeans you’d need margarine to peel away. Only difference is, in the old days the size of those jeans would be 4, a 2. Today, it’s a 12, or 14.
Que lastima.
Blubbery thighs, blubbery ass, blubbery tits. Played out pro faces, lines like a map Descartes might have charted.
Who pays to fuck asses like these? My dick would disappear into that valley between her tits and never emerge.
Didn’t session once at Sportsman’s. Not even close. The emobodiment of the fat “Hey Baby!” pro resides here. Two pounds of bologna in a one-pound bag.
Where did the hot chicks go? It’s mathematically impossible they could have ALL ceased to exist. Can’t really venture into the realm of physics, but I’m sure it’s impossible there too. San Jose has one major joint. Compare that with Bangkok’s Nana, where in any of the clubs on the three floors you’d find 8’s. If Billboard has no one who appeals, you move to one of 20 other joints in the complex. That’s another world. That’s pro mongering. This place is what, A-ball?
6 days. I booked into San Jose for 6 days! Guess I can shift into eco-tourist mode. Volcano Poas, anyone?
MISCELLANEOUS
MACHU PICCHU:
What’s there to say? Best seafood ceviche this side of Soda Peru. Mussels, squid in the seafood soup., garlic octopus, stuffed mashed potatoes, fish soup and ceviche mariscos. Mmmmm!
THE TRANNY IN THE PARK EXPERIENCE:
I make the walk all the time between Sportsmans and the Rey. Folks have said watch for trannies, people get mugged. So, it’s midnight and I’m heading back to Sportsmans when I hear “Hey! Pssssst! Baby! Hey!” I see the world’s ugliest tranny start to head my way. There’s enough space between us that I’m not worried and I ignore her. I hear heels moving and the voice continues “Hey! PSSSSSSST!” She’s not taking no for an answer. I pick up my pace. Hearing the clickity-clack of heels. I don’t even look back. She’s gonna have to haul to keep up with me in those heels. “HEY! PSSSSSSSST!” I pick up the pace again. A part of me wanted to stop and confront her. In my 30’s I might have. In my 60’s, what’s the upside? I split the park and head up the incline. She finally stopped the pursuit and I headed up to Sportsman’s safety.
THE CAB RIDE EFFECT
Cabbies come in two types in SJCR: The ones who turn on the “maria”, and the ones who don’t. Those who don’t congregate in front of the Rey and Sportsmans. They charge 2000c for what should be what, 500 to go to Sportsmans? They also have the “Everything” mantra: “Que necesita, amigo? Viagra, Cialis, Rolex, Chicas, Drogas, Everything!” They actually don’t say drogas but if you asked for cocaine or fucking ketamine, believe me, for a propina they will point you to somebody whose got it 20 feet away. Shit, one of my cabbies snorted coke off his cellphone during a traffic tie-up. Well that’s something you don’t see in Logan Square!
I used cabbies this trip WAY more than I ever did back in the day. This was very reminiscent of Medellin two years ago when I did that nostalgia tour. I noted that mongering had become the domain of the WhatsAppers. The guys who dealt in digital apps. Chicks had disappeared into the cellphone. I call them Lawnmower Men because they don’t bother actually mongering in the physical realm any longer. They just break out their big ass cellphones, point and click. I can’t explain what happened to the Rey, but it felt like that’s likely what happened. The chicks were physically in Jaco, or they were doing business online. Mongers had their networks. The Whatappers ruled. You got a network, you’re set. You ain’t got a network, you get to pick from the overripe melons at the market called the Del Rey.
I took multiple cab rides because it was cheap, and I just couldn’t navigate multiple clubs on foot at night (not in shorts!).
But I didn’t come here for fat sex. I just came from Angeles, Manila, Bangkok and Pattaya. I’m used to being up to my eyeballs in 40-kilo chicks. Hot, young, fresh, tiny spinners for 30-40$ bucks. Not going to make a general statement and say they don’t exist in San Jose but…ah, what the fuck—in 2018, spinners don’t exist in San Jose. You are greeted by the same body type, over and over and over. Doesn’t matter what club you’re in, it’s like every whore was born of one mother. Mucho cuerpo, dig?
CAB RIDE 1: DAY TRIP 1. Started at Argentina where I discovered this was a night joint. On to Monicas-- Gringo behind the counter was pleasant enough. “I’m looking for a flaccita, young and fresh”. He brings me a chick who weighs 130 pounds. She passes for skinny here. A 5 at best. Pass. Takes 30 minutes with traffic to get to Oasis (and that’s ANOTHER new development- what’s with all cars and buses? Taxista says it’s Uber. Another improvement through the internet!) So many great memories at Oasis. Young Pamela, a sister combo, trying to fuck on those clumsy massage tables. Upstairs I go to find 5 very nice ladies all for me. Combined weight, about 900 pounds. I make an excuse and split. Hit Zona Blue (er, 506 and… Little Havana?) 4 heffers up front with the mannequin. It seems the fatter they get, the louder they get. And more aggressive. “HEEEY BAAAAABY!”
We double back and hit Krysis. Identical bodies as in 506. Cabbie recommends 360 but I leave it for another day. Summary: 90 minutes—no session.
CAB RIDE 2: NIGHT RIDE 1
Low hanging fruit first: Margaritas, Argentina, Arcardas, Molino Rojo.
MONICA:
Old-school Molino Rojo lay. I never had a cabbie wait for me to finish a fuck. I’m in fucking shorts or I’d walk it like the old days. But this guy is moving me around town fast so screw it. Went into my old fav club with zero expectation. Found this skanky longlean. No more than a 4, but my dick was hard. Just hadda. That’s right, I pay at the cashier and am walking to the back. Sheets haven’t been changed in the ten years I’ve been gone. Kissing her, so fucking nasty. Go about 2 positions before I call it off. Just wanted to do it, not cum. Journey, not the destination. Terrible great lay.
Driver said he had a fresh 20-year-old he was hooking me up, but it never happened. All the cabbies front of the Del Rey have chick photos and information on their phones.
Down to Margaritas. Met a dancer, only about 120, tried to negotiate a take-out (sneak out?) It’s 30$ per in the Margaritas back room. I offer her $50 to come to Sportsmans, which is what, 3X what she makes normally? She wants 100$. I’m not doing Settle Lays for $100, I don’t care what you’re used to getting. In Angeles I get hot 19-year-olds SIN FUCKING CONDOM for $30, that’s what I’m used to! Ciaoooo….
So many great joints nuked: Flamingo Club, Dollhouse, Park Hotel, Happy Days, Tentaciones, New York Bar. Of course, Parque Morazon before the trannies took over was streetwalker heaven. All cleaned up now. The politicians approve. Pauly Vegas just mumbles, and the taxicab rolls on by.
CAB RIDE 3, NIGHT RIDE 2:
8:30, Del Rey. Muerto. 50 women, exactly 1 whose doable. Approach her. Instantly know, too professional. Mercenary. Pasadina. Walk to Alcazar. They don’t open ‘til 9 so I have 5 minutes to kill. Go across the street to the former Lipstick Club, now Olympus. 4 women, all fat. I mean F-A-T. In San Jose you do have a variety to pick from: Fat and sloppy fat. One drink and I cut back across the street. Up to Alcazar. Glitzy as ever. Only one “nina” out, I starting talking with the hustler door guy (in Spanish). I tell him what I’m looking for and he says he’s got somebody. Out she comes with 4 others. She’s OK, a 6, maybe a sneaky 7. Then I get “the pitch” like I’m a fucking first time doofus (damn these shorts!) For just $200 I can get the upstairs penthouse complete with girl and bottle of their best wine. Espectacular! Yep, $200. A bit more than the $80 I’m supposed to pay here. Even at $80 it’s questionable I’d go with this one. She’s distant. I smile and say sure, yeah, sure, be right back.
Pick up a random cab outside. This will turn into a looooong $20 buck ride. Hit Pantara Rosa at 10. Oh, they don’t open ‘til 10:30? Well that’s stupid. Cabbie sez what about Tango India? I’d been out there once, it’s a long way, but fuck it, let’s go. Cabbie sez the quality of chica is superior to other clubs, they even have Venezuelans. Well, wow! Vamos. Long way out, glitzy neon lighting, my cabbie will wait—even if it takes an hour. It took considerably less.
Big club, ritzy lay out. Big chairs with girls in a semi-circle, about 7 on each side. I figure I’ll get a drink and scope the scene. The waiter sez sit here sir, $15 drink minimum. I say you know what, I’m just walk around for now. He’s not pleased as I check out the muchachas. These are top chicks? I’m seeing nothing over a 6 and guess what—Venezuelans are FAT too! I only need one pass to know I’m not fucking anyone here. Right out the front door. Door guys and taxi driver seem surprised. “Nada, vamos.”
My expectations are zero as I walk back into the Rey, and see
CINDY, THE PSE:
Sitting at a slot machine quietly playing. Thin, holy shit. I move right in. “Any luck?” Tell her I used to work in a casino, she has no shot winning at slots. She once won $150 she says. Yeah, then you gave it back and $150 more. She laughs. I give her 2000C for more spins. I say I really don’t fuck anyone over 45 Kilos and she says she’s 41. High five! I say $100 is ok but I want kissing, carinoso sex, and photos of her. She says OK and we split. Back to the Alegria room.
I was thinking GFE but boy, was I wrong. Jacking me with baby oil, I threw out the fantasy words and she goes with it! Well suck my dick! I write dialogue for a living so when I give you the words and you improvise, count me as impressed! This one went all the way. Around the horn—missionary, spooning in two positions, her riding and doggie both upright and on her belly. Una buena experiencia! See, it can still happen in this country!
TAXI TRIP 4: NIGHT 3:
With the Rey nuked, it’s time to improvise again. The one strip club I missed the night before was Pantara Rosa. It’s 11pm, they’re open, vamos. We pass a skinny street chick one block up from Morazon and I have him stop. Holy shit, a street chick, they exist! We talk, her price is obviously right but her face is too trashed. Split to Pantara Rosa. The driver agrees to wait an hour for me if necessary for 10K (that’s 20 bucks, no biggie). Door entrance is 6K. Step inside and right at the door is
SAMY:
Hottest chica in town—that includes the 6 strips clubs, 12 massage parlors and the Rey that I’ve visited. Young and fresh, 21. Her first fucking night! Nerd glasses work in this light babe. Buy her a beer and we’re talking world affairs, Trumpism, immigration and global warming trends. I say “I’m well aware this is a clip joint. So how much, for everything.” I thought it was part of the act that she asked the bartender how much, but it wasn’t, I was her first barfine. Well, not barfine, we’d be fucking in a club back rooms. I was expecting the 200$ bit again but he came back with $95 all in—a no-brainer. I run outside and tell the driver he’ll be waiting for 30 minutes, then back in, pay up front and head to the back. I know it was no mentira it was her first time because the guy running the back rooms didn’t even know her name. Then I saw the rooms-whoa….in purple neon, there were no beds at all. More like ½ a bed, no sheets, no pillows, massage table wide. Samy was new but that didn’t mean she was virginal. She took charge right off, telling me there would be no baby oil, no BBBJ, no eating her, and no open mouth on the kissing. This should have decimated the fuck but she was hot enough and fun enough that my hard-on prevailed. Laying hands on her, oh my fucking god... Covered BJ doesn’t matter to me, I want kisses and your hand, babe. Rock and up she goes, riding me like crazy. Something about a skanky room and hot chick. Eventually we went side by side and she jacked me with baby oil, then I put another rubber on and she rode. Now I’m feeling this fuck, like actually FEELING it, and I know what that means. Rubber slipped off. Three cheers for baby oil! She came a couple times riding. In 25 minutes, not a bad night!
MP LAYS:
I have exactly two to share with you:
MILENA:
Can’t believe I sessioned at an MP. She wasn’t ugly--by day 4 that was the rationale for fucking. I remember this place 10 years ago. Complete local joint. The rooms were adventures. Upstairs now, really not bad at all. Nice sheets and bed. Hey, I like nice sheets and a nice bed. I also like ADVENTURA. I remember fucking in a broom closet. This session was OK. Pussy was a 4-lane highway from getting reamed 4X a day, no problems getting into this one. Just as I’d read, “extras” are now the thing. Yeah, downstairs it’s 15K for 30 minutes, but that gets you no kissing, full rubber everything. Uneventful, like San Jose itself. I paid up to 25K. Decent but not memorable. I’d do one more upsold MP lay that was better…
SCARLETT:
Reminded me of the infamous Pamela… The older, Zona Blue Pamela. Powerful. Same great attitude. Loves sex. She upsold me without asking, or maybe it got lost in translation. Was paying 25K (though I read online it should be 14?) I could give a shit about 20 bucks if it buys me a good experience. This did. “Trained” means the chick goes with my fantasy, and holy shit, did she! Yeah, she’s 20 pounds heavier than I’d like, but that old Pamela flame is alive. Get over to Flores and check her out.
NIGHT LAYS:
ANDREA:
Sweetheart. Sleepy-eyed blonde. Bags under the eyes. Ketamine will do that to you. Ketamine! Isn’t that what killed Michael Jackson?! “Todas las flaccitas lo usa.” The fuck? Platinum-dyed blonde, about 100 pounds—for the Del Rey, a rarity. Something about her voice reminded me of one of my fav women of all time. That would be all that was all-time about this one. When it comes to rubbers there are checkers and forgetters. Sadly, she was a checker (as has been almost every lay here in SJCR). When your focus is looking down at the rubber every two minutes and not at me it becomes all about the rubber. Is it on? Is it covering every inch? When that happens my dick in very short order goes Shriiiiiiiiinky Dick, because what the fuck is the point? It was very hard even getting inside her. I just lay back (and seriously, almost feel asleep) as she took a good while to put the rubber on. Then, starfish sex. I comforted myself by licking every inch of her beautiful body. She got off 2X, lots of kissing. For $100 bucks plus taxi fare? I’m a sick enough sucker to say I’d repeat. This is the quality of lay I’d come to expect from San Jose, 2018.
PATTY, THE GFE:
Always, always, always had luck with the Nicas. Couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw her in the Rey. The fat parade of perfectly manicured size 12 vacas, great accessorizing, great hair, great shoes and fake designer bags. Then I see Patty. She’s got librarian glasses on and weighs 110 pounds. A Nica nerd is just what the doctor ordered. The cien doesn’t matter. If it’s right, the cien doesn’t matter. This girl is a sweetheart, not a druggie. Vamos, back to Sportsmans. I didn’t bring Jack Shit compared to Angeles, but I had my repeating-voice monkey which she loves, plus Willie the Pee Pee Boy, the snuffed snake, fart pillow-she was into everything. Then the few clothes I brought. Jumped right into the leopard heels and without urging put on the black body stocking. No bitching on photos-imaginate! One of the very best moments of the trip was SLOWLY peeling that body stocking off her. Then she said, “just tell me what you like.” Can you imagine one of the Cocal harpies saying that? This was the epitome of GFE, best spooning, best riding, beat eating her out. Best of the trip.
CINDY, PART 2
I’m lucky she showed up at all, let alone on time. Role-play ala Angeles, love it. Too bad she’s a “checker”. It’s all about the rubber, especially when baby oil wipes it off the dick so often. Around the horn, kissing, PSE to the max. Too bad she started that “cum pappi, cum now” stuff, which basically means “you’re taking too long, can we wrap it up?” $100 bucks is a bargain these days. That experience couldn’t come close to the $20 buck no-rubber piedra-head street chick lays of the past, let alone 5 of them. But this is where we are in 2018.
INTERBUS TO MANUEL ANTONIO
Decent option. $44 bucks. Cab is $80. Just don’t be in a hurry. They were late every time, the last bus back to San Jose, late by 40 minutes.
Could have gone the standard bus, but with 3 bags and 100+ pounds of shit, not an option. Christ, I never travelled this heavy in the old days. I never used to pack PILLOWS from home! Didn’t have to take sleep medication either. Pauly V got soft. This van functions exactly like Blue Van in New York. Pick up at your hotel in San Jose, delivery to the next hotel in Manuel Antonio. Five others in the van plus 3 stops by the driver meant this trip took 4 ½ hours, not the 3 I remember.
Of course, that trip of yore has been nuked too.
They were building the new highway the last time I was here. In the old days for the dozen or more times I’d been to Manuel Antonio I’d do the bus. This ride was an adventure. You would wind around treacherous hairpin mountain passes with zero visibility on cars coming in the opposite direction. If you were heading back. you’d be on the outside with no guardrail and a thousand-foot drop if your bus driver was boracho or just took one wrong turn. Your life was in his hands. I puked on more than one occasion with motion sickness. When you wind down out of the mountains you hit a series of dilapidated bridges. Traffic could only go through one way at a time. Many times. I saw a single bicyclist hold up traffic in both directions. When you got on the bridge you’d see SPACE BETWEEN THE PLANKS! You could see the river below. The bridge was shaky, man! It was impossible to think THIS was the main route to the country’s greatest beach—but it was.
WAS.
The trip down in 2018 didn’t come down off any mountain pass. It was a straight line out to Jaco. Efficient, faster, and BORING. The trip has been optimized. The country has gone from RAW to DEVELOPED. Who could argue against development?
Well, me.
I loved this place raw. I loved the adventure it brought.
Ya, no mas.
MANUEL ANTONIO
Spiritual.
This place always meant more. It can’t be explained. I was down on that beach Millennium Eve. 365 sunsets a year, 1000 years, 365,000 sunsets, and the last of 1999 I witnessed.
I never could afford the Hotel Costa Verde. In the old days I’d stay in Quepos at Cabinas Sanchez for $10 a night or splurge on the Cabinas Alicia for $30. Last time I was in the Alicia there was an “aqua cero” and I had water inside the room up to the knee. Remarkable. I would then take the bus up the hill to Manuel Antonio and get off the Costa Verde, then bluff my way down to the pool (easy, just be as obnoxiously American as possible, talk loud, dress loud) to hit the pool and that view.
THE view. The full awesome expanse of MA (see my 1999 notes).
No slumming this trip. I booked into the Costa Verde for 5 nights. The cost of that after all taxes (13% VAT, happy to contribute to the development CR!) was $830, so 160+$ a night. Stayed in A8. He told me I was near the pool but didn’t tell me they had 3 pools, and this wasn’t the one of my memories. I was a 10-minute walk down the incline from “THE view”. Not happy until I saw the room. Holy shit…. The first room, the “cooking area”, was twice the size of the Alegria Room at Sportsmans. Full sized fridge, stove, dining area, 4 hand carved chairs and full sofa. Then we went into the “sleeping area”. Vaulted cedar ceilings, hand carved chandelier, 2 double beds with towels shaped in hearts and lights fashioned inside bottles. Out on the porch were 4 rocking chairs and large wood table, all hand-carved, plus a VIEW of the ocean below.
Greatest room I’ve ever stayed in.
Unpack and hit the restaurant next door. Still here. I sit in the caboose, now part of the restaurant. This used to be the office, the place where I checked the internet to see my internet stock portfolio explode on a daily basis. Best seafood on the menu, yes please. “Expensive,” he says. “Dude, no me importa. It’s just dirty paper, ok. Quiero EXPERIENCIA.” He laughs and sez sure. “And while you’re at it, with that mahi mahi, bring a 20-year old non-pro young and fresh to sit here on my lap, feed me fried octopus and tell me I fuck her better than James Bond.” Now he’s really laughing (though probably thinking I’m unhinged). I remember we brought Kimberly here. Paid her a couple hundred for a couple days down here. She danced for a living so when she broke out dancing after her 15th tequila sunrise it caused quite the commotion. We got naked at 2am and swam in the big pool with THE VIEW. I ate her out right there poolside, which couldn’t happen now. Prostitution es prohibido. The hotel caters to families now and we can all agree that’s an improvement, yes?
Distant lightning. Nature’s 4th of July on the 9th. Come out to the veranda, sit in the rocker, and witness the spectacle.
THE CROCODILE STORY
Haven’t been here in 15 years, man. Walked all the way down from the Costa Verde to Beach 1. Widest magnificent sweep of beach in the world other than Rio. But I’m not here for beach 1. From muscle memory I keep walking to the rocks. It’s noon so high tide. The water has flooded the channel but so what. Many was the time I had to wad through chest high water to get to the entrance to the park and the back beaches. Nobody is out here so I dip in and start to wad across, you know, like the old days.
I’m about halfway there, up to my waist in lagoon water when I see a sign across the way:
NO BANARSE, COCODRILOS!
There’s a cute picture of a crocodile on the sign. Oh, wait… that means there are crocodiles in these waters.
I turn back with rather a good pace. RA-ther! I make it to the other side and there’s a coconut vendor. He’s like, yeah, don’t go in, there were small crocodiles right here two days ago. Thanks man, where the fuck were you BEFORE I went into crocodile infested waters?!
So how do you get into the park now? He points to a new entrance. I walk over there. This is not new, the old guard station has been closed for 8 years, but it’s new to me. There are rows of bead and trinket sellers, cold coconut vendors and a half-dozen guides who for a mere 40 per head will show you all the nature in the park. There’s two hotels and a line for tickets to get in. $20 per. In the old days this was a dirt path but that is gone. They have built a lovely cement path that cuts right through—just like the highway that brings you down here—cuts right through. Guard rails make sure you don’t fall off the path. Signs everywhere so you don’t lose your way. Salida here. Also bench stops. I counted 8 before I turned for beach 2. Who could bemoan this new simplicity? Who would want to walk a dirt path where you could easily get lost if you strayed? That didn’t point you to exactly where the beaches were?
DEVELOPMENT OVER THE RAW.
Many more people here now, many “groupos”, many families, but it’s not Coney Island. About 100X better than Jomtien. I find my place of yore amidst “las tetas”, the two rocks that jut out and create a sort of cove where the waves don’t pound you. The sand is perfect and golden, no Jaco rocks.
All kinds of animals to be seen, from your basic lizard to howler monkeys that let forth sounds like orangutans who ate 20 Nathan’s hot dogs belching.
I stayed and reveled a couple hours (no sun til the last day, but no matter), then when the tide pulled out I made my play for the rocks—had to touch las tetas! Made it out there all 3 days. Dangerous because the tide would pull you away and yank your hand off, then if you held on it would push you to crash into the razor-sharp rock. Might be why no other folks went out that far. Pauly’s at 60 is soft but stubborn.
Roll of waves, omnipresent cricket chirp, the roots of this cicada trees in sand, right down to the ocean’s mouth. Is that a…coatimundi or whatever, coming down to eat some of those crab apples that have fallen. Drown out the humanity. Like the great poet said, “I don’t hate people. I just feel better when they’re not around.” Here’s a tip: If you’re at Las Tetas, find a rooted tree and walk ten paces. No rocks if you follow a straight line, you can walk right to the rocks.
CARABLANCAS:
2nd night I saw two carablanca monkeys leap off my roof onto nearby foliage, one of those leaves that looks like it’s out of JURASSIC PARK, monkey fight! That got me thinking… Bought a half dozen bananas.
I peeled a couple and left them up on the deck. 4pm seems to be feeding time and sure enough, 20 minutes later my porch was ascended and descended upon, from nearby trees they FLEW in (ok jumped, but those were 4-foot jumps), up and down the drain pipe. I like how they put the banana in mouth to use both hands. Huge leaves supported their full weight. They don’t howl like howlers (duh) but have cute white faces (duh…hey, is that racist? Can never be too sure in today’s PC era!) I watched from about 5 feet away but when they started coming in behind me I backed up into the sleeping area. I didn’t think they’d bite the hand that fed them but don’t want any monkey fungus trailing me home to Chicago. Quite a rumble on the deck!
Next day at the supermarket I bought double the bananas, about 15. Didn’t expect them in the morning but sure enough, I saw one of them hanging out. He remembered. I tossed a banana out. Where there’s 1 there’s 8 of them and that’s what happened. Before long I had banana peels literally the deck. 8 at once, munching, hanging out in my rocker, top of the table chilling. They leave their excrement to mark their territory (heard one of the guides say that). Thanks for that gift, guys. Can’t leave that for the three senora cleaning crew, cleaned up the shit myself. Amazing scene.
TOURIST CHICKS:
Used to be I’d never look at white chicks down here, the Ticas were so superior. This trip I saw a dozen touristas who made me turn as I walked. Of course, there’s no shot at getting a sniff of that pussy unless you’re a supercool surfer kid of 19. The taxi driver takes notice of my conundrum: “Que buscabas?” “That’s easy. 20 years old female. 40 kilos in weight, no fat anywhere on her body, no kids, no stretch marks, no tattoo mutilation, no silicone, not a professional at all. Young and sweet and fresh. No rubber during sex, as many photos of her as I want, kissing and muy carinhosa pero tambien un machina de sexo. Facil, si?” He shakes his head si and starts thumbing through his cellphone contacts. All MA taxistas had local chicas available. Too bad none of them rocked my boat. What is it with taxi drivers in this country, like one stop shops.
Last day in MA. Rained about 10 hours straight. Majestic, magical, mythical… being in a rainforest during a rainstorm. Came in with distant lightning and went out the same way. Mist rolling in. Leaves dripping, quaking from the water of life (hey, got a DUNE reference in!) The beachhead illuminated in and out with lightning, like flashbulbs pop pop pop, then rainforest eclipsed back into darkness. Jerusalem in sand. Spiritual.
JACO: SURPRISINGLY, EVERYTHING IS YES
Jaco is not spiritual. My expectations couldn’t have been lower. Jaco, fucking generic beach town, ramped up tourist crap and crowd, overpriced everything including pussy. Let me put in my two days, say I did it, and split.
But guess what? I was going to choose the Mango Mar because it’s steps from Cocal but ended up choosing the Poseidon. Good move! I was given a room in back far from the pool and busy bar next door. Two nice beds, privacy and quiet, and 30 steps from the beach. I’m a walker and it’s a joy not to have to hike 20 minutes down a steep hill, then 15 minutes more for a back beach. 30 steps, nice.
The air conditioner works, there’s a writing table, a safe, a shower that works fine. It’s not a majestic palace like the Costa Verde but I wasn’t expecting that for a mere $100 a day.
First day in we got late day sun. I’ve spent maybe one day here before, so this was all new. Pulled into town via Interbus at 2:30. Got the room set up, then down to the beach. Wow, tons of people. THIS looks more like Coney Island—less that monster palm vegetation on either beach end. The beach, famously, is rocky. I jumped into shorts and hit the beach. Lasted about 20 minutes. Hard current (rip tides do kill people here) plus that damn rocky bottom made it near impossible to hang in. Just too much work, I was going to split when a hustler offered me a chair for just 8000. I laughed and moved on. “Mai, how about 5?” What a hustler! I said now find a 20-year-old blah blah blah and he said OK! Not 20 minutes later there were 3 chicks smiling at me from 20 feet away. All fat, que lastima. But thanks for the effort, kid.
Stayed on the beach ‘til sunset. That was magical. Faded over the right bank of trees, deep golden behind TEN COMMANDMENTS style Cecille B. DeMille clouds. An impromptu soccer game broke out, guys and girls, just silhouettes against that sky. Nice life. “You do this every day. Nice job, my friend. Some of us don’t get to see this every day.” He smiled. He’s 20 and hasn’t a clue, but I’m guessing he’s sharp enough not to have to pay $150 a pop for pussy.
Hit the town. Actually, very cool. I love beach culture and by the look of it, so do the fixed-income gringos. Tons of them here. Great bakery for baguettes. Great gelato that ain’t Florence gelato, but just 4 bucks for three massive scoops. Pauly Vegas won’t be losing weight here.
Found the Cocal, about three streets away. Hit the Frogs Bar at 5pm. Couple chicks, tasty scene out on the deck. Looking forward to 8pm for sure.
WHAT HAPPENS WHEN BUYER AND SELLER BOTH DON’T GIVE A SHIT?
That’s what’s gonna happen tonight. Because I’m 50-female laid in the last 6 weeks. So, I WILL leave this place unlaid if it’s not perfect for $150. For $50, of course not, non-perfection is fine. Even at 150$, I’ll accept it’s highly unlikely I’m gonna fuck anyone without a rubber. But I will get some yes’s on my interview questions, or I’ll split, no problem.
For them, it’s a seller’s market. I’m guessing the visiting fishermen don’t ask too many standard mongering questions. They’ve got wives in Albuquerque or Boise or Houston, down here for an innocent fishing trip. What the little wife doesn’t know won’t hurt. 150$ for them is nothing. And the Cocal chicks are used that paradigm. Why the fuck you think they’re in Jaco in the first place?
MY FIRST NIGHT AT COCAL: A TALE OF THREE HOTTIES
I got there early. 8pm. 10pm is rush hour. I wanted to get the lay of the land so set up right on the front corner of the bar where they come in. Frog(s?) bar has a cool green/blue lighting scheme, it extends from front of house to the casino, to the frog bar poolside, even to the restaurant oceanside where I saw no less than 25 chicks at 5 tables all crowded around chewing on fried calamari or papas fritas. Back to the bar, I ordered a drink and let it play out. There were 40 women at this time. Talent was so-so, perhaps a notch above the Rey, nothing I’d bite on yet, certainly nothing I’d spend $150 on.
That changed at 8:30 or so. Smoking hottie #1, a verifiable 8, showed up. Long lean, showing belly, 22 or so. Hottest pro I’d seen in the country so far. I got hit on by a gordita who became my pal and associate on the night. No, I don’t want to fuck you but why don’t you fill me in on the scene. She asked what I was looking for—flaccita, machita—and she started looking out for me. I bought her a fish dinner for $8 and two beers. We became pals for the two hours I sat there.
I made a move at 9 over to Hottie #1. Tats up and down her right arm. That was the nasty arm she said. How about a trio with her friend? “She’s cute but I’m thinking just you.” “Ok, $150.” They don’t waste time with small talk here. They approach you without being asked. If you approach it’s no more than 5 minutes of small talk before you get down to brass tacks. “150, huh? How about 100$” She shakes no. “125$” Shakes no. “Ok, so you’re not coming off your price. Kissing, carinoso.” She nods yes. “Photos?” No. “Blowjob without condom?” “Con condom.” Wow, really? “So, no photos and covered everything for the maximum price?” You got it, Charley. I thank her and tell her maybe later, go back and decide to see who appears.
An hour goes by. 9:45 now. About 100 women. The joint is liquefied with chicks. Kinda surprised at how few dudes. About 6 to 1 female to male ratio. That would be awe-inspiring if they all were 8’s.
They are SO not.
75% are fat, flat out. Fat asses, fat tits and bellies (well concealed). That was an insight by a good CRT trip report—they have learned how to conceal their deficiencies with great clothes. Then I saw the second woman I would pay 100+ for approach- Smoking Hottie #2: blonde, long hair, good legs and face, an 8 by any count. I approach her.
“Hola.” “Hola.” “De donde eres?” “Chicago.” “Aqui mucho tiempo?” “Nope, just today and tomorrow.” “Donde queda?” “Poseidon hotel.” “Le gusta Jaco?” “Of course, now that you’re here.” She smiles. We’ve now got the mandatory 4 bullshit small talk questions out of the way. I follow up with the endearing and charmingly subtle: “How much?” “150” “How about 100?” “130$” OK, she gave in 20 bucks, a modest win. “Besos?” “Not on the mouth.” “Say what? No besos…for $130 dollars, for one hour? “No en la boca” “Ciaoooo, baby” Fucking cold, mechanical, pro sex. Not 15 minutes later I saw her split with another dude. Enjoy those no besos, dude….
10pm now. 100+ chicks. Prime time. They are stacked up, standing two or three deep in the pool area. More dudes but still vastly outnumbered by chicks. Slimmer chicks have come in. I’d say out of 100+, I would have happily fucked a half dozen. The other 95% are clever thieves who mask their negatives well and are fat, in frog bar green neon or by any other light.
I told my gordita friend: “I’m now about to burn 150 bucks, watch me,” as I walked back to Hottie #1. She recognizes me. “Ok, you win, your price. No photos, but kisses, muy carinosa, and no staring at the clock or always on the cellphone, ok?” She looks at me pensively, and says “no.” “No que?” No, she didn’t want to go with me. “Wow, really? I’m interested. Why not?” Couldn’t make out exactly what she said, but it was something like “you ask too many questions”. She was going to turn her back on $150, just like that.
Here’s the core of it: There is no DESPERATION in these Cocal women. Of course she could say no—there would be a “stupido pescador” who would come along in 60 minutes or less and she’d get her price without all these qualifying questions (known to mongers as a standard interview). No desperation. Unlike in Angeles, where they fuck you for $30 because they need medicine for their kids, or need books for school, or to pay for rent, or food.
These fucking cows aren’t missing any meals any time soon.
Jaco is the worst of all worlds. Maximum cost, maximum professional attitude, overrated looks. $150 is the new cien. Well, new to Pauly Vegas, whose been on the other side of the world for a decade.
And so to Hottie #1 I say: Ciaooo!
Went into the Cocal restaurant and took out my frustration with food (as usual). All due respect to Machu Picchu, had the best seafood dinner of the trip at Cocal. With tip, 100$ bucks. That’s right, I fucked a plate of fish. Left smelling of garlic butter, split some on my shirt and now sweating like a pig—always the Sinatra charm, Pauly! Walked through the Frogs bar one more time and saw Hottie #3. Sneaky 8 or very solid 7. Morena, young, great face and legs. Oh, hello! A dude was talking to her and I thought he’d bite but he didn’t. I went up to her right after. Learned she’d been at Cocal for THREE YEARS. Hey ladies, never tell a guy that. That’s telling me you’re an ultimate pro, meaning mercenary. She lives here and said she’d be in the bar Sunday, which was great as I smelled of garlic and sweat and was now bloated with fish, blood going to the food not the dick = see ya tomorrow. Got her phone number and split the bar at 11:30. Thus, how Pauly Vegas went unlaid on a Jaco Saturday night.
COCAL, NIGHT TWO
Almost surprised to report that I did get laid on the second night. Here’s how it went…
THE hottest bitch in my 14 days strolled in this night.
The key, as I found out in my two nights here at the Frog(s) Bar, is patience. They filter in gradually. You have to sit back and let it unfold. It’s not like every damn chick who walks in is a 7 or 8. Not even close. So, when the rare 7 or 8 does walk in, you have to be ready.
So in walks a perfect spinner, the chick who just ain’t at the Rey any longer—and frankly, ain’t here either. In two nights there were a grand total of 6 chicks who were undeniable 8’s. The rest, and that’s 90% of ‘em, are either one notch above the Rey’s (terrible) standards or AT Rey terrible standards.
So, it’s 9pm and I see her. Kinky long hair, perfect body. I’m up to her in seconds. “Hey, how ya doing, blah blah blah…” I brought my fetus keychain which is always a conversation starter on Walking Street. She dug it, cool. Maybe we’ll have luck here. So, more smiles and that awkward 10-minute get to know you BS. Let’s get down to it. “Cuanto?” “Dos cientos,” she says casually.
200? Wow, congrats, that’s the all-time high, for any mongering venue I’ve ever been to, ever. Two evers in one sentence, serious stuff. “How about 125$” shakes no. “Fine, $150 then”. Shakes no. Second time in two nights I’ve offered 150 and got turned down. “Tell you what, babe, I’ll be sitting over there, if you change your mind…” She smiles and goes on her way. I saw her later, still no bites, made eye contact but she didn’t bite.
Refusing to pay that extra $50 would mean I’d never know what it was to touch that flesh. But there is a mongering point of no return and a mongering hate-myself-in-the-morning. To give in, no matter how hot, is a sort of betrayal, a surrender. Bad enough that the playing field has shifted to where paying $150 under SOME circumstances is OK. I’m not paying $200. Ever. I can do better, I just need to be in a different hemisphere, and that’s where I’m heading.
Back to my chair and another soda water. Wait some more. The inevitable tap on the shoulder and turn to see another fattie: “Hola baby, de donde eres?” Always fat. “Hey babe, I’m waiting for a chica, you no interesante, ok?” Quick smile and she’s gone. Another tap and…holy shit, it’s Rachel…
Rachel was a flaccita from last night. I was chasing another hottie and had to cut it short with her last night but she had good legs, good attitude, agreed to take a couple pictures if I masked her face and was willing to take 100$. It’s almost like—ok, what’s wrong with this picture, yes to everything? It’s now past 10pm and there’s nothing coming through that door, looks like Rachel is the bird in hand. “Vamos”.
Low key security at the Hotel Poseidon, befitting the laid-back surfer mentality. One dude in darkness, did take a gander at her ID, then we just let ourselves in. Upstairs, she modeled a couple dresses and I gave one to her. Then off with the clothes (the Thai mandatory showers before sex are not mandatory here). And, as Jackie Gleason would say, away we go…
Kinky from the start, saying those nasty things, propina for you! Not a rubber checker either, 2 for 2, baby! Somewhere in the middle she heated up and started fucking me back, great riding while I jammed the vibrator in her mouth, loved her nipples sucked, we took a break then went back at it again. Hot.
Had hundreds of better lays in my life, but for my Jaco expectations, not bad a-tall.
SAN JOSE- THE LAST DAY
Fucking Interbus. 45 minutes late on the pickup. That’s OK, guys, it’s my last day in this country and obviously my time has no value, so just show up when you like. Timed it to hit max San Jose traffic too, plus next to last off the bus of 5 people so it took almost 4 hours to get off the bus.
5pm drop at the Rey. In all my time in CR, I have never stayed there. I’m paying $1-fucking-30 for one night and it takes about an hour to discover this is the worst room I’ve had this stay. Front desk clerk was a douche-bag (beef about the fridge being locked-- can you clear out the mini-bar, so I can put my stuff in there? Something EVERY hotel would or has done, was an issue.) Dirty old rugs and beat up shitty room (bathroom single already clogged, crappy AC, blah blah). One elevator that reaches the sixth floor and it’s no better than a service elevator, grim, grey, grungy. Whatever, outta here in 18 hours.
Went back to my old neighborhood at Calle 2, Avenida 6. Walked around in a nostalgic haze, won’t be back this way again. Then something cool happened. The one and only person who remembered me from years ago, the Chinese duena at the restaurant Quiang. The place has doubled in size and somehow she was like, “hey, you’re Jose’s friend!! “Yeah, the old waiter at Pollo Sabrosa! How the hell are ya?!”
Then went around the corner to Pollo Nuevo Millenia for a pollo entero, appropriately my last meal in town. Chinese catering to the Tico lower classes, smart as ever. Too late to call the Pantara Rosa hottie, and Patty, the NICA GFE, is outta town, I did manage to get hold of Cindy. She’s a PSE with a hard body and even though it’ll be 3 times with her, beggars can’t be choosers. We make a date for 10.
9pm on a Friday night, prime time, I head down to explore. To quote Casablanca, I was shocked, shocked, to find nothing but pork pies roaming the place. Oh my God, what this place USED to be!
Take the back way and amidst the slots, and her favorite machine…hey, Cindy! Both happy to see each other, good, don’t have to wait ‘til 10.
Looking at her post Jaco, she would be in the top 10% there, easy. Not as beat up as Rachel but has a serious kinky side, good way to go out. She’s naked in no time—because, honestly, what is there to talk about between us? Watching the rubber like a hawk, we go around the horn and she’s nasty as ever, but this is 3X through with her. Ever been with a chick 3X that you were fucking more out of necessity than lust? That was this. All well and good session but fully rubber so I’m feeling zippo and not cumming (as per all rubber fucks) so it bears no resemblance to the SAVAGE fucking of current day Angeles City or back in the day San Jose when it was 1/5th the price and 5x the lay. The Del Rey takes their pimping fee (6K on every fuck) but it’s super easy to just grab a girl and go. And that sums up the whole trip— Costa Rica, the beaten path… everything simplified, efficient, and… grandly mediocre.
But what was I going to do with the two pairs of new heels, the black latex dress, black mask, pink bunny ears and other clothes I brought? Not taking them back through customs.
I remembered, when I did my scoping run at 9, I saw a chick with hand-sewn roses on her dress. We had some laughs, I gave her a couple thousand to play a machine and told her I used to work in a casino, I knew a lucky machine when I saw one.
So, what the fuck, went back down, found her and told her I had something for her. Went back up, put the clothes and shoes in a bag and went down, handing the bag off to her. She didn’t quite know what to make of it all. “Heels are size 6 and 7” “I’m a 4” “well, give them to a good friend.” And off I go, expecting to go upstairs, heading through the Del Rey one last time…
When I see…
MONICA
Oh. 22. Red-tinted, long hair. Cute floral dress. I’m looking at her body and can’t believe she’s not fat. Like, what’s wrong with this picture? Must have just walked in, kinda surprised when I walked up to her. Intros, go to a table, both of us order bottled water. What a sweetheart! Low key, after the Cocal harpies…refreshing. I wasn’t planning on this and that is the fated part I love. If I hadn’t gone back down to hand off that bag of clothes, I never would have met her. That’s chance. That’s a non-WHATSAPP coincidence. Fucking love it. Let’s go.
Gave me photos upstairs. Just asked to protect her anonymity, a request I will honor. She had mother’s milk, new 9-month-old baby. Actually wants to shower before (that’s rare for here) and then we hide under covers and fool around. Strong body, look at that…my last CR lay, GFE style. What qualifies as GFE? Post sex she stuck around, both of us naked talking for about 20 minutes about her life and the new baby. Father ran away from his responsibilities. She’s 22 and beautiful, no reason to be down. It’s gonna work out. She smiles, showers, and goes. Nice way to close it out.
AIRPORT THOUGHTS
Next day. $30 buck red cab brings me out to the airport. By muscle memory I wheel my shit to the spot in the parking lot where I used to stand at the end of every trip. I would look to the sky and vow to return. Same birds into blue today, one every twenty minutes. That’s the number of planes leaving Juan Santamaria International Airport. So few that each takeoff is an event. Puffy cumuli, patterned and patternless. Lazy hawk floating, Bimbo bread truck in no particular hurry, horse-drawn cart hauling rusted metal sheeting, taxi drivers waiting for the next inbound flight, listening to Radio Uno under 72-degree July sun. Black Costa Rican volcanoes in black volcanic earth, red-roofed houses and in the gusts, red, white and blue, the Costa Rican flag. Hand of the painter shakes upon seeing the worthy image. The god-awful beauty of it all.
What was that old Costa Rican saying, Pauly V?
“Quedarse sin el Santo y sin la limosna”—Left with neither the Saint nor the collections box.
pp
Photos: Glasses 01 02 03
Photos: Blonde 04 05 06
Photos: Rose Dress 07 08
Photos: Blue 09 10 11
