in the future of darkness past

A man in a dark trench coat and fedora stood in a poorly lit alcove. He relentlessly scratched his dry wrist in a smoky haze. Skin flaked down to his dress shoes like drifting snow. He stepped back into the shadows; only the cherry-red tip of his cigarette could be seen…“cough”…I drunkenly wobbled out of the cantina and down into the heart of Zona Norte, cabron.

The Red Zone, for my Dear Readers who are ill informed, is a diminutive patch of streets and alleys on the north side of downtown. Walking along that district, I received a feast for the eyes: the buzzing flash of iridescent neon, putrid drunks lay on the grungy, broken sidewalk in their own waste as hawkers screamed at you to enter their bars and strip clubs. Ugly, mangy dogs ate out of rubbish piled in dark doorways as catatonic and filthy Mexicans dressed in rags glared at me as I walked by. The smell of cheap, greasy fried food mingled with the stench of sour beer, piss, and shit.

An entire block of malignant female prostitutes lined up shoulder to shoulder grabbing and goosing as I walked by.

“Psst. Psst.”

“Wanna fuck, meester?”

“Twenny dallah make you hallah.”

“Watch me fuck my brother?”

“Plo chob?”

What was next: Me so horny?

I was occasionally harassed by intimidating, tattooed covered cholos asking if I needed to score any heroin or crystal. I muttered no, smiled like the stupid gringo tourist, and moved on.

In Tijuana, female prostitution is mostly restricted to licensed brothels - like Adelita’s Bar or the Hong Kong Club. On the other hand, male prostitutes are everywhere. They assume all visitors are homosexual and solicit openly in the streets. I had been approached by boys who could not had been over ten. That aspect appalled me - I loathe pedophiles.

As I strolled past, tired and petulant prostitutes breathed smoke out of chapped lips, teeth plated in silver, “Wanna fuck me, meester?”

Preteen hookers cooed and grabbed at me as I ambled by lost in the sauce - no...no cunt for me. I am out on the prowl for some rough tattooed sex. Cause that’s the way I liked them - always been a sucker for the bad boy.

A bent over, gnarled gentleman in drab clothes approached me from the passenger side of a parked taxi cab. “Senor...one moment, senor.”

I stopped. “Yeah? What is it?” I asked, looking down on that shriveled sage.

He placed his withered hand on my arm and confided through putrefied teeth, “I got the biggest pussy in Tijuana.”

“You!?” I asked incredulously, lighting a Lucky Strike.

“Yes!” He cackled.

“Man, you’re in the wrong line of work as a taxi driver.”

“No! No!” He chuckled, realizing his mistake of words. “No, I take you to the big pussy!”

His brother sat next to him nibbling a dripping taco. A scrawny, antiquated little man in a black police uniform. With that fucking white police motorcycle helmet on his enlarged head he reminded me of Gazoo. Which I stated. Thought it was funny. He didn’t.

I proceeded over to one of my favorite dives called, Kin-kle. Thieves, deported criminals, junkies, pedophiles, cholo gangsters, fags and lezbos - a good watering spot. I entered the dark, smoked-filled den as a Spanish version of Achy-Breaky Heart warbled out of a multicolored jukebox. I took a seat in the back at a dented and rusted iron table with plastic lawn chairs. A cadaverous looking waiter in a wrinkled white shirt and black bow tie approached and I ordered a Sol beer.

The place was more or less empty for this time of the day - the bored looking bartender wiped the counter under dusty, torn soccer posters. The sole individuals at the bar were a fat cowboy groping and finger banging an old whore in a stained, yellow dress. She wiggled and giggled brown teeth at his advances. He smiled red eyed with a stunted hard on.

Nothing interesting here, so I decided to hit other bars. El Dorado? The Happy Naco? Bar Vaquero?

I entered a smelly, dark den with pink coral tiled walls. A short, chunky female in a black thong whirled and jiggled her wares in all the wrong places on a tiny stage of glittered stucco. Bar had only two others, junky cholo in white tank top and baggy khaki pants who sat on the nod like a fool on a stool against the pink wall and a flabby, sweaty American who eyed me fingering his camera so nasty.

I was about to take my business elsewhere when a tall, handsome Mexican with distinctive Aztec features and pencil moustache donning a blue mechanic’s tunic walked in and made a bee line for the men’s room. Quickly downed my beer, it was on like Donkey Kong: I am in the pissoir languidly jacking off with the guy in the mechanics uniform as the obligatory old fart with the camera looked on. The hottie had the most exquisite penis I had seen in many a moon. One hand on my soldier; the other traced black hair on toned pecs. Me and the hottie cum in spurts onto lemons and ice and left the quivering codger standing there wondering where his youth had gone.

The mechanic - Miguel he says - and I drank a couple more bottles and I asked if he cared to go back to my room for an afternoon of filthy, rotten sin. No, it’s back with the wifie and kids, he claimed. Shake hands and part. Old queen leered at me from furtive shadows. Frustrated fruit. Short cholo with shaved head and wife beater is hip to the fact and smiled with silver capped tooth, hard on a-pulsing in dirty khakis. I exit - leaving the cholo to the whims of that withered vampire.