trato de novios
an autopsy of desireEl patrón se volvió loco.
Pásele. Chéquele. Pregunte.
Todo barato, amigo.
A Good Day.
¡YA ABRIMOS! The lona above the door droops at one end.
The albañiles patch the holes the bullets make behind the desk. Cloro gets rid of most of the blood but leaves a stain of its own on everything it touches.
On a good day they're back to back. On a bad day you can count them on one hand. Between servicios, most of the girls gossip, scroll, sleep, stare out the door. The TV is on in the corner. There's a statue of La Virgen on the windowsill. A half finished order of tacos from Tlaquepaque on Rayon sits on the desk.
You can't make this stuff up. She doesn't have to.
One gloats he's somebody important. One confesses he thinks she's "special." One assures her he's gentle while holding her wrist too tight. One thinks he's interesting as he tells the same joke three times. One says "I'll get you out of here" and leaves a tip that buys tacos at the corner. One can't look her in the eye. One asks if she's OK.
The cop. The bus driver. The reporter. The priest. The delivery-boy. The manager. The homeless man. (He was actually humble and sweet.)
Fifteen minutes of fame. That what you get on the 800 block of C. Juan Álvarez. "Qué le vaya bien señor."
They come in looking for what they can't find anywhere else. She smokes Marlboro, sabor pepino, and looks for ways to stay awake. They walk out with a lie and a smile and a bulge that shrinks in a block or two. She goes home with the rent.
The door is always open. Two just walked in. It's going to be a good day.
The Ticket.
The call it la vida. The downscale ones have the girls standing in the doorway, on the sidewalk even. The better ones leave the door slightly ajar. The girls sit on a sofa just visible to passers-by.
Here comes the parade.
One gloats he's somebody important. One confesses he thinks she's "special." One assures her he's gentle while holding her wrist too tight. One thinks he's interesting as he tells the same joke three times. One says "I'll get you out of here" and leaves a tip that buys tacos at the corner. One can't look her in the eye. One asks if she's OK.
The cop. The bus driver. The reporter. The priest. The delivery-boy. The manager. The homeless man. (He was actually humble and sweet.)
They pay to be something they're not. The girls walk out with cash. The rooms will be there tomorrow to welcome a new parade. The deal will be too. The girls sell access. The men buy a ticket that expires in minutes. Extras. Cost extra.
Where the only things real are the stains on the sheets and the bills folded up at the bottom of a purse, pulling the trigger isn't a last resort. It's the first thing you do.
Fine Line.
In broad daylight. At dusk. At 3:00 AM. Business as usual takes a turn for the worse.
A quick glance. An outstretched arm. Their pleas are cut short by the flash and the momentary deafness brought on by a gunshot at point-blank range.
Call it a heat wave—an occupational hazard. Who knew owning a brothel puts you on the endangered species list? Someone has a point to make, one well-placed bullet at a time.
Where desperation meets desire and neon paints the night, the fine line between sex and violence gets easier to cross every time you try. Nothing says "I'm not yours anymore" like putting a bullet in the head of somebody who deserves it.
The sign says ABIERTO. The door is always open. Your prints are all over this.
No touching. No kissing. No disrobing. One position. Condom mandatory. Extras. Cost extra.
The killer tells you what it's like to look down a barrel and pull the trigger.
You didn't ask to be a witness.
You chose to be an accomplice.
Two Are Waiting.
She stops at the Seven on Villagrán and Ruperto Martinez. Hot chocolate from the machine. Botón 3. They're out of pepino Marlboro. She grabs sandia. Cashier recognizes her. Won't look her in the eye. She forgets the package of toallitas. Has to go back in.
Three times around the block. Finds a spot on Treviño. Knows the owner. Car is safe. Guys on the sidewalk shout something.
The lockers are past the curtain at the end of the hall. Street clothes off. Mini dress on. Señora Norma at the front. Keeps things chill. Keeps track. Who. What. How long. Shouts names when the time is up.
She keeps things simple so that folks understand.
No kissing. No touching. No disrobing. One position. The rest costs.
Come prepared. Quick look. No pimples. No ooze. Wipe it down. Rips open the condom wrapper with her teeth. All fixed up. Listo. Pulls up dress. Pulls aside panties. Leans back. Make the most of it.
Most guys are done in five. Last one took seven. He goes home thinking he's a champ. She goes home with the rent.
A few try and try. She gets loud for both of them. They're too ashamed to complain. They come back. Better luck next time.
"¿Te puedo traer algo de la esquina? Fumas Marlboro ¿no?" More heart than hard on. She tells him no. Two are waiting.
Purse goes from room to room. Loose condoms and a package from Shein. Bottles of Prudence. Caps on tight. Las toallitas por supuesto. Bimbo Cuernitos and Joya Manzanita for later. Two phones. One with Super Mario she hands to the kids in the Walmart checkout. The other number is pa' los vatos. Whatever.
The girls: Amber, Tania, Yaya, La Güera. They split a case of lube last week. They don't split customers. One starts charging less. Takes all the business. They straighten her out. You don't make friends here.
A guy walks around the block three times. Pretends not to look in the door. Fourth time he walks in like he just found the place.
She gets off at eight. Traffic will be a bitch.
¡Ay papi!
"Ay papi... qué calor... qué calor tiene tu verga..."
The more vulgar she becomes, the more guys think she really means it.
ABIERTO. There are ten in three blocks. SE SOLICITAN CHICAS. A heart makes it emphatic. The door is open. It's better for business that way.
A bus rumbles by. Stench rises from the sewer. A stranger grunts in the room on the right. His bulging belly pummels the girl on the mattress. Sweat drips on her face. Nobody cares.
Here, everyone gets what they pay for. That ought to be a sign on the wall right under PRESERVATIVO OBLIGATORIO and NO FUMAR.
Cariño, she purrs, looking up from her phone as you step in off the street. Don't take it seriously no matter how much you like the way it sounds. The others flash smiles that vanish the moment you pick someone else. Smiles are disposable around here. They only mean one thing.
Vice doesn't deliver hope, just cash. "A few of those orgasms are real," the chicas confess. They go home with the rent. School clothes for the kids. Medicines for mom. A payment on a dinette set from Elizondo or Elektra. Everybody gets their cut. Everybody shrugs.
The regulars know the chicas on a first name basis, the names the chicas tell them anyway. Like the chicas they're there for what they can't get anywhere else. It's good for as long as it lasts. Several blocks at least.
"Ay papi... qué rico se siente tu verga... dame tu leche..."
The chicas arrive with bills to pay and sick kids on their minds. They call this jale a trampolín. Suddenly, things are within reach. They know what it's like to stand next to a tortilla machine for twelve hours and make 250 pesos or sell tacos a vapor in the sun. Here, they can make that in twenty minutes—or less. Do the math. It's like finding a winning lottery ticket. It's a cajero automático that never says no. Sometimes, they even hit the jackpot.
The guys who walk in the door aren't monsters or creeps. Most aren't anyway. Here comes the quincena. Cash in hand they arrive on foot or by cab. Sometimes they drive, although more than one has returned to find his car disappearing out of sight behind a tow truck because he was careless in selecting a parking spot or feeding the meter the correct amount.
Something's trending on this block. It's not by chance. The owner. The manager. The bouncer. Each gets a bullet in the head. Leaves a nice puddle to clean up. The mop and the bucket are at the end of the hall. "Qué le vaya bien señor." It's a different kind of kink. The mistake is thinking it's a last resort. Sometimes, it needs to be the first thing you do.
They call it tranquis right before dawn. Time to go home. You can't wash the stain out. Don't even bother to try. The witness swears she didn't see a thing. The accomplice is already planning the next move.
"Ay papi... dame esa rica paleta que trais..."
"Deal's over," she says. "It's time to say goodbye."
Somebody's going around town blowing away the ones who run los masajes. Don't ask who. Don't ask why. Just be glad somebody's fucking doing it.
-30-
Truth is often found in the unscripted, the uncomfortable, and the unresolved.
Call it a Confession.
Extras. Cost extra.
¡Pásele, caballero! ¡Pásele!
Home.
Versión en español.
This is literary fiction that doesn't back down. For about $5 a month, subscribers get early access, a behind the scenes look at story development, short audio recordings of key scenes as read by the writer, storyboards and stills, and the chance to test read and offer criticism. SUBSCRIBE HERE.