I Expanded My Enterprises

It is night and I am in Juarez. I am ghosting the night, stalking the streets like a solitary jungle cat hunting to lay claim to new flesh, for a new woman to fuck. Tonight as on previous nights I have been methodically, exhaustively exploring an ever-expanding concentric circle, finding an increasing number of sleazy juke joints and flesh-shops. My loins demanding that I increase my exposure to other women.

      Somewhere, someone had warned me of the danger of what I am doing. Warned me of the danger of exploring the Outlands of Juarez, the fringes beyond the main drag – beyond the G.I. section.

I am exploring where the unlicensed and forbidden flesh dens are littered about; where women operate as free-lance hookers at a cost of far less than a U.S. dollar and are not monitored by the government of Mexico. Places we call ‘Rotten Meat Retreats’ because of the higher incidence of venereal disease, robbery, assaults, murder and illicit drug use which is the common fare.

I am ignoring all good advice.

      I am feeling a fascination with the dark and profane.

I am also too stupid to realize the real danger I expose myself to every time I explore these areas.

      I momentarily lose my bearings. Suddenly, some soldiers I know from the base and I are face to face.

I feel comforted that I see familiar faces.

An evil pocked face man approaches us.

“Senors, would you like to see a donkey fucking a woman?” For a few pesos you geet to see women sucking donkey dicks and geet her pussy fucked by a great beeg ole donkey dick!”

      The Army guys are excited as a bunch of mischievous children told that they are going on a ride on ‘Magic Mountain.’

“Come on Chimera, come with us.’

I am horrified at the idea that anyone would allow a donkey to choke or impale them with its monster cock.

“Fuck that, I ain’t going to see that shit, you sick fucks.”

“You fucking choirboy.”

“Pussy girl.”    

 They all piled into a cab, eager to see a woman’s pussy split open by a donkey cock.

I wonder what sort of vocation these devient fucks will end doing when the get out into the real world; probably postal management, no doubt.

I laugh at the thought and laughed more as I struggle to figure out what subconscious whim causes me to think of such a thing.

I am once again wandering the streets looking for a new dive to explore.

A young dirty boy sidles over. He has bad teeth and a hump in his back.

“Psstt, psstt! Hey meester, would you like to fuck my seester? She is a virgin senor.”

I shake my head and hurry my stride. I need to get away.

He is insistent.

You can fuck my mother if you no like my seester!

I look at him in anger and disgust.

He stops and raises his hands as if defending himself from a blow.

I walk a few more blocks. A fat guy walks straight up to me.

“Senor, You like to fuck a little girl? Maybe a little boy?”

I am afraid. I don’t want trouble. I turn to walk away.

He grabs my arm holding it firmly.

I can geet you a little baby, if you want senor. He licks his lips and rubs his crotch suggestively.

Terrified, I break free. I am running down the street trying to put as much distance between him and me.

      I see what appears to be an unlicensed club. I am now thankful that I have a place that I can hide from the last guy I had run into. The place is dark and dank. It looks like what I imagine an opium den to look like. Waffling in the air is a metallic taste of cheap perfume, sour sweat and the acrid fumes of cigarettes, pot and heroin.

I see men and women sprinkled about the darken rooms drinking beer, tequila, and smoking pot or heroin. The music playing in the background is your typical country-western and Spanish fare.

In the darkness, at the far-side of the club, I see a few of my army buddies hunkered down on the floor. I see Buster is among them. Buster has a fondness for heroin and he is a junky. All of the people in Buster’s group are junkies of one drug or another. Half of the people hunkering in his group were army. A lot of army guys I know are hooked on heroin. It was at places such as this place that he could get hooked up with heroin cheaply.

      Buster and his friends are looking cold and grey and appear as if they were suffering from a chronic low-grade fever.

I am feeling smug that I don’t have any addictions.

      Buster and his friends are laid about, nodding off with women who are doing drugs with them. The women are hags before their time, wrinkled creased leathery faces grinning listlessly as they smoke their shit, as they take their pills, snort their powders. Half of their teeth are missing, their remaining yaggers are brown and black with rotten decay and rocking in the sockets. Their tongues are compulsively moving, worrying and worming their way through the evicted gums where teeth had once stood. A few have pendulous breast, like leather baker’s bags. The age of their bodies are prematurely warped from alternating stints of undernourishment, physical neglect, and the saturation of chemicals into their bodies - a constellation of factors appalling to nature. They are lying with their bodies tumbled and entwined with Buster and his friends as they are nodding off repetitively. Buster and his hag are absently rocking their bodies to an unheard tune.

I am once again feeling smug that I do not suffer from such addictions. For me, sex is my cozy cosset of comfort.

      As I sit in the dimness of this ‘Rotten Meat Retreat’ I am sucking down my bottle of Mexican beer. I am observing my comrades of the U.S. army with their female wraiths, their familiars lounging about like the living dead. I am looking about at some of the other patrons scattered throughout the rooms.  There is a mixed crowd of mostly Mexicans and the smattering of us military gringos. In a booth across from me I notice again a woman who has been lying on her side. She has nodded off, unawares of the world around her. A female companion of hers is sitting next to her drinking while her one hand is working under her sleeping friend’s dress, playing with her pussy.

      The unconscious woman is wearing what appears to be a clingy black one-piece dress of sorts. From my vantage point she also appears to be a nicely formed woman of her thirties. There are other people in the room; drinking and a few women had managed to pull out the cocks of their male companions.

I see a guy in view of everyone getting a blowjob. The woman who is sucking his cock is moving her head up and down mechanically.

      Obsessed about sex as I am, receiving head in the dim light of a public place, even a place such as this, especially a place such as this, is not very comforting for me.

      “Your not in Kansas any more Toto”, my mind whispers.

      A quote from some voice long forgotten also whispers in my mind, “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” I shudder as I feel queasy distrust of the voice.

      Yes, this hole-in-the-wall fringe drug den was just the place for anyone fascinated with the darkness of the human soul and the profane. As I am pondering my place in the scheme of things, I am feeling pretty smug that I have avoided the pitfalls and traps of addictions. My passions did not put me in harms way as has the addictions of lesser people sprawled all about me.

      Suddenly, the jukebox starts to play a Latin tune with a strong driving beat. It reminds me of some of the music that Carlita had played just five years prior. The instant the song started, the unconscious woman pops up from her coma just like a Jack-in-the-box. She pulls away from the woman who is still playing with her pussy. She climbs off the bench and throws herself into one of the most exotic and sultry dances I have ever seen.

I feel an immediate throbbing in my penis. I ache for her.

      She moves with primal grace, her body is undulating hot and sultry. Her body is full figure, youthful, almost perfect.

Her face is old before her time.

It is a hard face, a face that has once been beautiful beyond compare. It has hard lines of pain and substance abuse etched deeply around her mouth and forehead.

At that instant, I imagine a bond of energy between her and I, and then I chide myself for such imaginings.

      As if on cue, she glides over to me and pulls me on to my feet. She tugs me forward to join her in the primal dance. I feel the call of the wild. My heart is like a jackhammer. My blood is burning. My synapses are screaming. She spins away from me and then glides in towards me before I can react. She puts her arms around me, her hands are musing up the hair on the back of my head.

      Then she does exactly what Carlita had done five years before, she insinuates her supple leg between my legs into my crotch and grinds against my painful erection.

      She starts to kiss me working her tongue in my mouth. She is leaning back to look at me, her large dark eyes blazing with animal ecstasy, her full lips part in a hard feral smile that shows bad teeth. Everything about her reeks of dark sinful pleasure, drug abuse, disease and sharp regrets.

Despite all of my instinctual warning bells clanging, my survival centers in my brain screaming to break away and run, I still ache for her terribly.

My mind screams, “Get the fuck out of here!”

Instead I stay.

      I want her like a scavenger wants road-kill. I want to fuck her like I have never fucked any other woman, and damn the consequences!

Vaguely it is starting to sink in that I may be a sex addict and I am foolishly enjoying my dependency.

      We are dancing, but the way we are grinding against each other, we may as well be fucking. She is unbuttoning my pants and reaching for my swollen unit. I know she is going to peel my pants off in front of God and everyone in the room. I am resisting the public display of rutting. She grabs my hand and starts running in the direction of the door. I think that she is going to take me home with her where we can fuck in privacy. Instead, she is running, towing me in hand down a short dark hall, to a room with a door left open. I realize that she is a working gal, a working gal past her prime.

There is no negotiating of fees; it is going to be a freebie. I know that come what may I am going to have the sexual experience of my life. 

      My head is swimming. I am fighting to steady myself. I am looking around the place. I looking down the hall of where we had just stumbled through and I see vomit marking the hallway in intervals. In the air, my tongue is affronted from the metallic taste of cheap perfume, sour sweat and dry rot. The mattress in the dingy room is patterned and colored with various stains of urine, sweat, dried blood and no doubt the drippings and splattering of jism from thousands of men. The stains of blood on the bare mattress are so large, so extensive that it looks like the Texas chainsaw massacre has just taken place here.

      This musty looking mattress from hell, looks as if it had never been exposed to the light of day, it is a forensic nightmare.

Right then and there, I realize once again…I am a sex junky.

I have become just like my dad and I am dismayed.

I realize that my perceptual grasp of reality is distorted.

I tear myself out of her parasitic grasp and run out of the ‘Meat Retreat’.

As I take several steps outside the world turns grey and spins.

I am falling to the ground and blank out before striking the pavement.

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