Pendejo.

Was feeling rather excited – okay horny was the word and obviously was not going to get a fix in El Paso - so ‘round nine I took the last bus leaving past my trap south to the border to spend an evening of evil in good ol’ J-Town. Headed straight to the whore zone – the Zone takes care of its own, you dig?
So, crossing the International Bridge and with a sigh of relief I was sitting in a cheap cantina off Avenida Meriscal – La Cruda. The place was suffused with a dim blue light – garish and hid the fat and nasty hooker being finger banged by the ancient cowboy in the corner, her silver teeth reflecting. A moldy looking bullhead mounted on a plaque hung over the mahogany bar. Pictures of luche libre decorated the walls along with strings of Christmas lights – most burnt out. The word pendejo was etched in the frosted-glass swinging door. I found myself reading the word pendejo over and over.
I had been sitting in a vomit reeking booth with two Mexicans, drinking tequila. The Mexicans were fairly well dressed – standard hip-hop gear. One of them spoke English - they where the 'So how do you like Mexico variety'. A middle-aged, heavy set Mexican with a sad, sweaty face sang songs and played a guitar. He was sitting at the end of the booth in a chair. I was glad the singing made conversation with him impossible.
A couple of cops came in - I figured I might get a shake, so I slipped my stash of weed in my Lucky Strike cigarette package under the table. The cops had a quick conversation with the bartender and then took off..
The two hip-hop Mexicans took off promptly. When I reached under the table, my weed was gone but the cigarette package was still there.
Pendejos.
I sat there staring into my warming cerveza Sol when two guys walked into the cantina and sat next to me at the bar. I said Howdy; they said Hola; and introduced themselves - Juan was tall and thin with a shaven head, goatee, blue football jersey, and green army fatigue pants. The other guy was a little younger, about 21, with black slick back hair and wore a black t-shirt with dark cargo pants and looked vaguely oriental. After bumming a cigarro, he said his name was Ignacio. Ignacio? What kind of name is that, I asked – the flirting engine started to rev up. I knew full well of the name Ignacio – had many friends named Ignacio – but I thought I’d play the cutesy-pie gringo. And he went into this long tirade about Aztec culture and that Ignacio was a name based in Aztec tradition. Whatever. I flicked a cockroach offa the bar with indifference.
We joked and talked and the beer started to flow and we got mas burracho. Juan said he wanted to go to a bar and see strippers, so we left the little bar and hoofed it down to the Red Zone and popped into one of the hundreds of hoochie houses – the best of the best I guess, Club Hollywood. As we sat there and watched this short fat Indian jiggle in all the wrong places, I told my two new escorts that I was going to go. The last thing that I wanted to see was a bunch of old men ogling a floppy boobed dancer in a smoky cockroach infested strip joint. Drunk, Ignacio laid a hand on my shoulder and asked me, "Which one do you want?"
"What do you mean?" I asked, quite perplexed.
He pointed to himself and then to Juan, "Which one of us do you want to take to the hotel, guero?"
I sat there for a moment. Inside I was giggling like a little girl - these two guys were competing over me! What a complement. I looked at Ignacio with a serious look and said, "Come with me, Ignacio."
He agreed and we stumbled back to the ten dollar a night hotel room that I rented – a filthy trap that was no more than a coupla mattresses on the floor and a bathroom that was a biological nightmare. Once inside, Ignacio and I downed shots of Fundador and soon my head started to spin. Next thing I know, the clothes come off, I'm escorted to the raggedy bed by Ignacio and laid on my stomach. The hottie sat in front of me and I sucked that thick uncut dick like a champ as Ignacio fingered my ass. Ignacio climbs onto my back and slides up in me and I am taking Mexican like the filthy whore I am! Smack-smack-smack-smack-smack-smack! He thrusts up into me biting up the nape of my neck and I am moaning and he is grunting talking filthy to me en espanol. Ignacio whirls me around onto my back and with my feet on his shoulders he took no prisoners; the boy went at it like a madman - kissing me passionately as he pounded away that caused me to lose my cool and I came on myself, splattering all over my stomach and chest. With a groan and an Aie Caray! Ignacio pulled out and hosed me down with hot white spurts of his own.
As I laid there panting, covered in sweat, semen, and saliva, Ignacio lit a cigarette and after taking a drag, placed it between my dry lips. I stared at the ceiling fan and wondered why the fuck I ever moved out of Mexico...