prostitutes who were standing side by side and waiting to make money to feed their babies or take care of their elderly parents or to keep their pimps happy.
There are desperate men and women who will try to convince you to hire them as guides through Zona Norte, saying it’s dangerous for gringos who don’t know the lay of the land; these guides, for a few dollars, will procure drugs or cheap flesh for kinky acts of desire.
One such person was a woman who called herself Yolanda. She was short and in her fifties and looked like she needed a heroin fix. She was dirty and had a missing front tooth. One of her eyes drooped.
She spoke good English: I’m trying to make money to put my little doggy to sleep, she said with tears. She was carrying the lethargic small pooch in a knapsack on her shoulder. He’s sick and he has to die, she said. Can you help me? I can help you get whatever you want, she said. Do you want a Viagra? A young schoolgirl? A he-she?
I want either a midget or a tranny, I said in a drunken stupor. Or maybe a midget tranny, I told her, thinking that was funny.
This is what I was thinking in my state of alcoholic non-thinking: I would catch an STD like gonorrhea or herpes, go back home and give it to Anna as payback for all the crap, for being unfaithful, for the failure and shame and sins of the body.
I’d never been with a transsexual prostitute during those times I came down to Tijuana in my youth; some of my friends had and I was always curious; they said it was different and a blast.
I didn’t wear a condom and I didn’t find the experience all that exciting. I felt a little sick after. The he-she was named Gabriella and she looked like a woman, until she spoke with a deep masculine voice and you got close enough to see stubble on her upper lip. I paid $30 for her, $3 for the room.
You okay? Yolanda asked me when I walked out of the $3 hotel room where I’d had sex with the tranny hooker, watching roaches scuttle up and down the walls as if they were on an important mission of insect urgency.
Okay, I’m lying. The sex was fantastic. I wanted more.
There are desperate men and women who will try to convince you to hire them as guides through Zona Norte, saying it’s dangerous for gringos who don’t know the lay of the land; these guides, for a few dollars, will procure drugs or cheap flesh for kinky acts of desire.I want either a midget or a tranny, I said in a drunken stupor.
Hey, Yolanda said, you all right there?
Yeah, I said.
Duck! she yelled.
Across the street, the sound of bullets filled the air. Real gunshots never sound the way they do on TV or the movies. The local police were having a shoot out with some members of the drug cartel, or drug dealers, bad guys with automatic weapons.
Yolanda hid behind a parked car.
She said: Get down you fool!
Men shooting guns at one another mesmerized me. I wanted to get a closer look.
I felt an immense pain in my right shoulder blade.
I was bleeding.
It was all over the news, the Internet: American tourist injured during drug bust in Tijuana.
And there was my face, on every social media site, just like Anna. But it was my mug, not my crotch, for the world to view.
Anna came to get me. That sounds like the opening of a bad joke: Why did the wife cross the border?
What the hell happened? she asked.
Shit, I said.
Shit happens. In one of them, she was doing an intimate act with a long piece of fruit. I’ve been getting emails and phone calls about your spread legs and wide open inviting pussy. Things happen. Shit happens. Some things just happen, dear. One day, you’re walking down the street, the next day, you’re allowing some strange man to take dirty pictures of you. Real gunshots never sound the way they do on TV or the movies… I felt an immense pain in my right shoulder blade. Shit happens.