I am wondering if any of you have been to Mexico. I haven’t been there since 1987 when I was in Tijuana, but it was a mess even then. We were in the red light district (Where else would I be?) so it was a rather delightfully degenerate mess with no sexual morals whatsover. However a criminal element goes along with that and some maniac tried to force me to buy an edible cactus from him. He was very menacing and tried to shake me down.
Crime, social disturbance large and small scale, fistfights, car crashes, falling down drunkenness – that’s Mexico for you.
In the late 70’s when we used to go to Baja California on the outskirts of Tijuana there was a vast slum stretching as far as the eye could see, extending down into some ravines and over some ridges. I have no idea what they made those houses out of, but it was not standard building materials. We used to call it “The Cardboard Shacks.”
As a kid, this slum was utterly terrifying to me. I felt my heart sink into my stomach in fear and awe every time we drove by. Never in my life could I imagine a vast slum like this. There was nothing even slightly like this in the US at the time. My eyes were locked to that scene the whole time we drive by there. It was like watching the aftermath of a gruesome car crash.
Later when we were in Ensenada (that was mostly where we went), once you got off the main road, the streets are junk. They’re either potholed or dirt roads or both. And on the wall, everywhere, in these areas, we saw red graffiti with a hammer and sickle and the words, “Revolucion!” Well of course.
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. You can’t have slums like that anywhere without having its obvious reaction – a socialist or Communist pro-worker or pro-poor movement.
These rightwingers with their End of History crap are self-deluded like all of the blind rich and their water-carriers in academia and journalism. They actually thought that when that Wall fell, the rich would be able to create capitalist paradises all over the world where the rich could live like literal kings where most of the people suffered in slums like “The Cardboard Shacks.”
They wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. No more Communists, socialists, or even social liberals. No more wealth redistribution. No more social programs. No more worries about the poor rising up – they could die in their self-made horrorshow slums while the royal rich ate, drank, and made merry like no tomorrow.
Well, only a few years after the Fall of the Wall, revolutions were still going strong all over the world. The world was mostly ruled by socialist or social democratic parties. Vast maldistributions of wealth still created inevitable Leftist backlashes, just as Marx’s Laws predicted.
Did these rich fools really think they were going to pull this crap off? Sometimes I think rich people are retarded. But they’re not. They’re just blind, live for the day, and are amnesic towards the past like most humans. Idiotic, senseless optimism not grounded in reality seems to be coded into our genes. Presumably this is why our race never simply offed itself as you would thought by now.
I went into a Mexican bar and it was wild and crowded and crazier than any American bar. There were off-duty US servicemen in there, getting shit-faced with everyone else. A gorgeous but very tall woman came up to me and grabbed my cock, just like that! I mean when does that happen? I thought I won the lottery until she whispered in my ear, “High baby…” I jumped backwards. You just can’t hide that male voice.
Earlier we had just made our way to the Red Light District. We weren’t trying to get laid or anything like that. Hell no! What kind of a guy do you think I am? There were men standing in front of every sleazy bar, hawkers. They were all trying to outdo each other in degeneracy.
“Six-teen year old girls!”
“Fif-teen year old girls!
I forgot if they were offering 14 year olds, not that I cared. I don’t go to foreign countries to fuck JB’s. Clearly an awful lot of grown men like that teen pussy, the illegal kind most of all. Part of it is because it is wrong, illegal, and forbidden – there’s that appeal.
I was buying tacos everywhere we went. I was hungry and they were all damn good!
Against the wall with a crashed-in foregone look on her face that seemed to recede into the wall itself, was an Indian woman. She was actually good looking. She had ~four of her children there. She was a mother and her four kids and there they were on the streets, living like animals. And literally no one gave a damn. I gave her some money and she was very grateful. Ever since then I have wondered what happened to her and her kids. They’ve haunted me ever since.
We went into a seemingly empty bar. There were some men back there running the place, complete pigs like most Mexican men. I’m sure it’s bad for the women, but I can’t deny that piggy societies are awful comfortable and fun for us men. We run the show, no one dares challenge us, there’s not a whole of stuff we can’t get away with if we dare.
There were several women up on tables wearing short dresses. They were dancing in this desperate, sexy way, trying to sell their bods to us. The men were gesturing to these women with looks that said, “Here’s the merchandise, men. Please help yourself to one of these debased whores here.” Snicker. Guffaw. Belly laugh.
But this scene was almost as sad as the homeless woman with her brood. All of the women had the worst sadness smashed into their faces. And there was something else. Abject and utter shame and humiliation.
Now that can be fun as a game to play in bed because a lot of women like their sex really dirty like that. But these women were very unhappy. There were miserable, wretched. That plaintive pain sucked anything sexy out of the scene. Only a sadist would get turned on by that.
We walked out of the bar, shaken. I felt like something had died inside of me. I have never seen a sexual scene as depressing as that in my life.
We wandered the streets and some Mexican guy made friends with us, probably to get some money. He kept asking us for money to go to this or that bar. He was our traveling barker. He was about 20 and certainly pleasant enough.
We ended up in some real Mexican bar full of working class men and women, mostly 18-30. There were a lot of hot women. But this was no pickup bar. All of the women were more or less unfuckable.
I have heard that at least back then (and still today apparently), it was hard to get even young Mexican women to put out. Many guarded their virginity. A lot would only trade their hymens in for a wedding ring. In other cases you might have to date her 3-4 months before you can finally smash.
This was nothing but a dance bar, replete with scores of happy people dancing their lives away, right here amidst the ruins of humanity.
I noticed another thing. There was a sense of anxiety on most their faces, men and women. They weren’t very relaxed or secure. I asked my Mom if poor people tended to feel insecure and she said, “Of course.” Which is something I never thought about: the psychological face of poverty. That was almost a bit haunting too.
We left the bar and I tried to pick up a Mexican woman, age 20. She was cute but rather fat but who cares? I was drunk in a foreign country and I didn’t give a damn anymore. I was using all my famed pickup skills on her, wooing her with my smooth and slick ease, but she wasn’t falling for the bullshit I was selling. In a high-pitched voice she kept protesting my seduction attempt.
“Es una mentira! Es una mentira!”
She was protesting that everything I was saying was a lie. Of course that’s true and that’s always true when I am trying to seduce a woman. Seduction after all is a scam, a fraud, a lie. We are literally trying to trick and fool women into bed past their silly protests.
“Honest seducer” is an oxymoron. If you can’t lie your fool head off, don’t even bother trying to be a player. Just get a girlfriend or get married and keep your conscience clear. You might even get a lot of sex – who knows? Seduction is a dirty game.
Somehow it was 2 or 3 in the morning. We were out on lost streets to nowhere without a soul in sight at the literal edge of the world in Tijuana, drunkenly careening the streets and trying not to fall off the edge.
Most people would advise you to stay out of those places at those hours. It’s generally regarded as a scene that is dangerous as Hell. But hey, I like to live dangerously. Life’s no fun without a bit of risk – even risk of serious injury or death.
Somehow there was a bar tucked out here in all the nothingness. It gave off seriously sleazy vibes. Out here, far on the outskirts of the Red Light District, is where you find the really dirty bars with the legendary donkey shows and whatnot. Why? Because out here no one cares. Out here the morals are as lost as the streets.
We went inside and the place was packed. We hung out for a while. This seemed like a place where it was anything goes, and abandonment of all propriety felt warm and cozy to me. I was in my element, happy as a clam. We were drinking.
About half an hour in, at 3 in the morning, there’s a woman up on the stage, maybe 35 years old, gorgeous with long dark hair. She’s about as White as I am. She’s completely nude. Her legs are spread as wide as wings.
This was before all the women decided to go bald, so there was a huge triangle of dark brown public hair at her V. Young people nowadays think such decoration on one’s body is gross and disgusting, but the men of our age grew up on hairy pussies, we were weaned on them like our mother’s milk. Most of us probably got imprinted at almost a genetic level, and at least I developed a love for bushes that I carry to this day.
There was a young White man on the stage, completely plastered. He was blond and about 20. He was down on the ground, slinking forwards like a snake. He looked a bit humiliated and embarassed himself, which made sense as he was making an abject ass out of himself. But part of his body said he was too wasted to care anymore. Soon he was at that wonderful bush, and he started munching away.
Damn, that’s depraved as Hell! I love it!
The woman had a look of shame, defiance, anger, and arousal all at the same time. Sometimes she smiled. She was happier than the Table Women. Even if this was debasing, she seemed to be getting off on that aspect like so many women do.
We crashed in our car somewhere near the beach, in the land of nowhere. Early in the morning someone knocked on the glass. Two Mexican police officers. We woke up and waved to them.
Unlike American cops, Mexican cops don’t give a damn. About what? About much of anything. This list of things deemed trivial and not worth an arrest is quite long, which is as it should be.
Later that morning we went around to crowded panaderies buying Mexican sweetbreads, which are actually quite nice. They were all packed to the roofs, and the hordes there all had that familiar desperate sort of anxiety I saw at the dance club. Their faces were hard, pained, gritty and desperate. Poverty paints lines on your face, lines of cruelty.
It was time to go home. There was the terrible line at the border. Dirty children in rags with filthy cloths darted about, offering to “clean your windows” for some coins. We mostly blew them off but there was something terrifying about them too. This place, Tijuana, was obviously a place where human souls go to die.
There were others, often dead-poor older women, selling this, that, or whatever. They were a bit pathetic but not as bad as the haunted kids with rags. Most of them had shy, submissive smiles on the faces. Here in this forsaken land at the edge of the world trying not to fall off, the poor definitely know their place.
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