The randy old chomo Father Flanagan – he being the originator of Boy's Town – once infamously stated, "There is no such thing as a bad boy." Well, obviously the daffy bitch never set foot in Tijuana. Myself feeling rather excited – okay horny was the word - so ‘round nine I slinked out my trap and head straight toward Zona Norte – the Zone takes care of its own, you dig?
Walls of street and plaza are perforated by crumbling dwelling cubicles and neon drenched cafés, some a few feet deep, others extending out of sight in a network of rooms and corridors, hidden by mist and steam - smells of beans, seared meat, mota, and shit. Catatonic emaciated whores stand gray and withered in doorless diseased cubicles of Death – beckoning with glints of silver teeth. Salsa music wails – cops stand with ominous sneer and truckload of them rumbles by kicking up dust with the screams of the prey wailing in anguish – drunk loud Americans stumble groped by transsexual deviants of all sorts - Americans need it special. Oh there’s tequila and vomiting in the streets and the whimpers under heaven – angels in hell we, our sooty wings huge in the dark.
With a sigh of relief I am sitting in a cheap cantina off Avenida Constitution – La Cruda. The place was suffused in a dim blue light – insidiously lurid and hid the fat and nasty hooker being finger banged by the ancient cowboy in the murky corner, her silver teeth reflecting. A moldy looking bullhead mounted on a plaque hung over the mahogany bar. Pictures of lucha libre decorated the smudged walls along with strings of red Christmas lights – most burnt out. The word pendejo etched in the frosted-glass swinging door. I found myself reading the word pendejo over and over.
I had been sitting in a red leather booth that reeked of vomit with two Mexicans, drinking tequila. The Mexicans were fairly well dressed – standard hip-hop gear or an attempt at it. One of them spoke English - they were the 'So how do you like Mexico variety'. A middle-aged, heavy set Mexican with a sad, sweaty face sang ditties of melancholia and strummed a guitar. He was sitting at the end of the booth in a chair. I was grateful the singing made conversation with the two Mexicans nearly impossible.
Three cops stomped in; faces blank as a mannequin, eyes boiling in hate - I figured I might get a shake, so I slipped my stash of weed in my Lucky Strike cigarette package underneath the table. The cops had a quick conversation with the bartender and then left. 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.
I sat staring into my warming cerveza Sol when two guys strolled into the cantina and sat at the bar. The better looking one glanced at me. Then again. Finally smiling and raising a bottle at me, mouthing “Salud.” (cheers)
I said Howdy; they said Hola; and introduced themselves - Cristobal was tall and thin with a shaven head, goatee, blue football jersey, and green army fatigue pants. The other guy was slightly younger, about 21, with black slick back hair and wore a black t-shirt with dark cargo pants and gave the impression of being vaguely oriental. After bumming a cigarro, he said his name was Ignacio. Ignacio? What kind of name is that, I asked – the flirting engine began to rev up. I realized full well the name Ignacio – had several friends named Ignacio – just thought I’d play the cutesy-pie ignorant gringo. And he then dove into this long tirade regarding Aztec culture and how Ignacio was a name based in Aztec tradition. Whatever. I flicked a cockroach offa the bar with indifference.
Nevertheless, we three joked and talked and the beer began to flow and we got mas borracho. Cristobal stated he wanted to go to a bar and see strippers, so we left the little cantina and hoofed it to Zona Norte proper and popped into one of the hundreds of hoochie houses – the best of the best I guess, Bar La Nueva Pachanga. As I sat there in both boredom and disgust and watched this short fat female jiggle in all the wrong places up on the small stage, I explained to my two new escorts I was going to go. The last thing I wanted to witness was a bunch of old men ogling a floppy boobed dancer in a smoky cockroach infested strip joint.
Inebriated, Ignacio laid a hand on my shoulder and asked me, "Which one do you want?"
"What do you mean?" I asked, quite perplexed.
With crimson eyes, he pointed to himself and then to Cristobal, "Which one of us do you want to take to the hotel, guero?"
I sat there for a moment. Cristobal looked sick and dirty - though I guess he was clean enough actually - with a suggestion of yellow teeth, unwashed underwear and psychosomatic liver trouble. Utterly inebriated, Cristobal exhibited the expression of a masturbating idiot.
I looked at Ignacio with a serious look and said, "Come with me, Ignacio."
He agreed and we stumbled to a ten dollar a night hotel room I rented – a filthy trap 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 cheap Fundador and soon my head began to spin. Next thing I realized, the clothes come off, I'm escorted to the raggedy bed by Ignacio and laid on my stomach. He sat in front of me and I sucked his thick uncut dick like a champ as Ignacio fingered my ass. He climbs onto my back and slides up in me and I am taking this alleged Aztec decedent like the filthy whore I am. Smack-smack-smack-smack-smack-smack! He lunges up into me biting the nape of my neck and I am moaning and he is grunting uttering filthy words 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 he pounded away causing me to lose my cool and I came on myself, splattering all over my stomach and chest. With a groan and an Aye Caray! Ignacio pulled out and hosed me down with hot white spurts of his own.
As I lay akimbo 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 think of moving out of Mexico...