their virginity, drink until they were swimming in liquor, and let their lust and penis take control. I was not one of those men. I had a sinking feeling that things were not going to go well. Justin led the way to the first strip club on Calle Coahuila Street.
Clouds of cigar and cigarette smoke filled the dusty room. We made our way to the last three empty bar stools. The tables were sticky and smeared with lime and salt. The noise was deafening, drowning out the obnoxious catcalls the crude men were throwing at the scantily clad ladies that worked the room and stage.
The girls’ faces and ages were obscured with a pound of makeup caked onto their faces. I couldn’t tell if they were hideous or pretty, blond or brunette, twelve or thirty. Honestly, I felt disgusted and vile. I had an ill taste in my mouth and it wasn’t from the countless shots of Tequila or the pitchers of beer that Justin and Lance tossed my way. It was the atmosphere.
I felt sick and appalled as I drunkenly scanned the slap-happy eyes of the men around me. I could feel their lust and horny cravings pierce through me as the girls flaunted their perky tits and round asses—I couldn’t tell who was the hunter and who was the hunted—all I could think about was the fathers who sat at home worrying about their daughters and the mothers who lived in agony as their little girls were taken to live in sin; the girls who had no hope, their virtue shattered and their soul trapped by the devil—moisture started to well up in my eyes…
There I was, at a bar in Tijuana, celebrating the night of my twenty-first birthday with two of my good friends, and I was miserable. Not only was I crying…I was bawling.
“ ¡ Fuera ! ¡ Fuera ! ” Large, intimidating men in large double-breasted suits pushed us out. My tears, being so out of place, frightened them.
“Sow- ree guys.” My eyes were bloodshot and my speech slurred.
“That’s all right. We should get back anyways. It’s almost midnight.” Justin ignored the fact that I was a mess because we probably couldn’t get in anywhere else without fronting a lot of dinero .
“Uh-oh…” The infamous two syllables that everyone dreaded.
Justin hurriedly grabbed Lance’s wallet without his permission. I watched as Justin opened the empty billfold, staring at it as if money would magically appear if he stared hard enough. I should have foreseen this. I should have known that Justin sneaking off to the “back room” would lead to trouble. We were out of money.
Somehow we made our way through the poorly lit streets and dark alleys. The smell of piss and vomit got to be too much, and ten minutes into our blind journey we each added our own contributions to the vile aroma. Using the little Spanish I retained from High School, I was able to get us past the danger and across the border to San Diego without going to jail, being robbed, raped, kidnapped, or mutilated. This had been, what you would call, a bad trip.
No one said a single word driving back home—we were too stunned, sick, and distraught. It was 3:00 A.M. when Justin dropped me off. I went straight to my room and crashed. I could hear Dad snoring in the next room with the TV blaring—a failed attempt to wait up for me and chew my ass for not checking in.
If he had awoken without seeing my scuffed shoes tossed helter-skelter in the entry, my bedroom door left ajar, and my fouled body scattered across my rumpled sheets, he would have probably called 911 in a panic. I knew he was often worried about me, but I also knew he would never mention the extent or even question my whereabouts the next morning. The crisis was averted. I was safe. End of story.
8
In the next few months I suffered silently but loudly enough to cause Dad and my grandparents grief and worry. My grandparents sent me to various therapists who did nothing but force prescription drugs down my throat, and listen to my basic, drawn-out thoughts.
Somehow among the
Clouds of cigar and cigarette smoke filled the dusty room. We made our way to the last three empty bar stools. The tables were sticky and smeared with lime and salt. The noise was deafening, drowning out the obnoxious catcalls the crude men were throwing at the scantily clad ladies that worked the room and stage.
The girls’ faces and ages were obscured with a pound of makeup caked onto their faces. I couldn’t tell if they were hideous or pretty, blond or brunette, twelve or thirty. Honestly, I felt disgusted and vile. I had an ill taste in my mouth and it wasn’t from the countless shots of Tequila or the pitchers of beer that Justin and Lance tossed my way. It was the atmosphere.
I felt sick and appalled as I drunkenly scanned the slap-happy eyes of the men around me. I could feel their lust and horny cravings pierce through me as the girls flaunted their perky tits and round asses—I couldn’t tell who was the hunter and who was the hunted—all I could think about was the fathers who sat at home worrying about their daughters and the mothers who lived in agony as their little girls were taken to live in sin; the girls who had no hope, their virtue shattered and their soul trapped by the devil—moisture started to well up in my eyes…
There I was, at a bar in Tijuana, celebrating the night of my twenty-first birthday with two of my good friends, and I was miserable. Not only was I crying…I was bawling.
“ ¡ Fuera ! ¡ Fuera ! ” Large, intimidating men in large double-breasted suits pushed us out. My tears, being so out of place, frightened them.
“Sow- ree guys.” My eyes were bloodshot and my speech slurred.
“That’s all right. We should get back anyways. It’s almost midnight.” Justin ignored the fact that I was a mess because we probably couldn’t get in anywhere else without fronting a lot of dinero .
“Uh-oh…” The infamous two syllables that everyone dreaded.
Justin hurriedly grabbed Lance’s wallet without his permission. I watched as Justin opened the empty billfold, staring at it as if money would magically appear if he stared hard enough. I should have foreseen this. I should have known that Justin sneaking off to the “back room” would lead to trouble. We were out of money.
Somehow we made our way through the poorly lit streets and dark alleys. The smell of piss and vomit got to be too much, and ten minutes into our blind journey we each added our own contributions to the vile aroma. Using the little Spanish I retained from High School, I was able to get us past the danger and across the border to San Diego without going to jail, being robbed, raped, kidnapped, or mutilated. This had been, what you would call, a bad trip.
No one said a single word driving back home—we were too stunned, sick, and distraught. It was 3:00 A.M. when Justin dropped me off. I went straight to my room and crashed. I could hear Dad snoring in the next room with the TV blaring—a failed attempt to wait up for me and chew my ass for not checking in.
If he had awoken without seeing my scuffed shoes tossed helter-skelter in the entry, my bedroom door left ajar, and my fouled body scattered across my rumpled sheets, he would have probably called 911 in a panic. I knew he was often worried about me, but I also knew he would never mention the extent or even question my whereabouts the next morning. The crisis was averted. I was safe. End of story.
8
In the next few months I suffered silently but loudly enough to cause Dad and my grandparents grief and worry. My grandparents sent me to various therapists who did nothing but force prescription drugs down my throat, and listen to my basic, drawn-out thoughts.
Somehow among the
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