Call it a confession to a crime in progress.

There's only one thing money can't buy. Sincerity.

Who's using whom?

She hasn't got much, but she's got what they want. Took her three weeks to make up her mind. Carried the number around in her purse. She says it's just for a month or two. Three max. Until the bills are caught up. Until something better comes along. The thing is there's nothing better out there. Not where she comes from. Not where she goes either. Nobody says it out loud, but this is as good as it gets. Might as well grab all that she can. Might as well take them for all they've got. It's the first time in her life that something pays off. Imagine how that makes her feel. Turns out she's got something after all. Turns out she's got what it takes.

It's a legit business in this jurisdiction. The more visible it is, the more unremarkable it becomes. A part of the scenery that's taken for granted. If a guy's got a couple hundred pesos in his pocket, he's good to go. Listo. He can be something he isn't—for a few minutes at least. Somebody special, somebody good. Who's using whom? If he's got more, well it only gets better from there. There's money to be made making a guy feel he's got what it takes, even if it only lasts a block or two. For most of the girls, it's an opportunity too good to refuse. For the ambitious, it's a winning lottery ticket. For the rest, it's the only hope they see all day.

A FADED SIGN.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust as you come in off the street. Even so, the faded sign is barely visible in the dim light. Look up or you'll miss it.

RUTA DE EVACUACIÓN. NO FUMAR. EXTINTOR.
THE FOLLOWING IS A PRODUCT OF IMAGINATION.
ANY RESEMBLANCE OF THE SETTINGS OR THE CHARACTERS AND THEIR CONDUCT TO ACTUAL PLACES, PERSONS, ACTIVITIES, OR EVENTS IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.
PRESERVATIVO OBLIGATORIO.

The Door Is Always Open.

Twelve hours. Twenty-two men. The others wear lingerie. This one—she's a nurse, a bunny, a football player, a nun. She walks in with determination. She walks out with cash.

"No one's here who doesn't want to be. We see the sign in the window. We ask for the job."

They call it tranquis right before dawn. A few vatos sleep sprawled in doorways. Their trousers are damp. Watch your step. The sewer's backed up again. A bus plows through a puddle and splashes the sidewalk. The sign says ABIERTO. The door is always open. It's better for business that way.

One calls her boyfriend to come pick her up. One hails a cab. One walks to the corner with a worried look on her face. The kids will be up soon, and her mom has already left for work.

"We meet a lot of men. A few are interesting. None worth taking home."

Pop. Pop. Pop. One on the sidewalk. One in the doorway. One behind the desk.

Carlos Salazar. Diego Montemayor. Platón Sanchez. Reforma. Somebody is taking down those who run los masajes, one well-placed bullet at a time.

The nurse, the bunny, the football player, the nun—she saw five kilos of cocaine in a hotel room last week.

The boss gets blown away tonight.

Qué pedo. Neta.

Trato de Novios: An Autopsy of Desire.

Relax, it's just a story...

¡Ay papi! Broad daylight. Dusk. 3:00 AM. Somebody is taking down those who run los masajes, one well-placed bullet at a time. The subway fare went up again. Tortillas too. Do you know who sells the best pozole in this town? The chicas keep giving servicios. The tipos keep paying. A bullet has the last word.

It's a story about those who can't be touched and those who can. It's a story about what it means to be taken seriously when your value is measured in minutes. It's a story about what goes on in the shadows, how far it takes you, and what it leaves you with. It's a story that doesn't back down, even when it should.

Vice: it's a daily grind. An army of women works las salas de masaje that dot the central zone. A parade of men shows up to buy sex from them.

"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.

It's a side to the city that thrives in silence. Everybody knows. Everybody shrugs. Everybody changes the subject.

"You say I have a kink?" she spat. "Maybe I do. Think what this would be like if I didn't.

Get used to it.

Some stains you can't wash out.

Some stains you don't want to.

Some stains become part of the sidewalk.

Some stains become part of you.

On This Page.

Summary I.

Summary II.

¡Ya Abrimos!

1. Take your best shot.

2. It all goes poof.

3. Call it a trampoline.

4. I'm not yours anymore.

5. A great place to hang a leash.

A piece of the action.

Excerpts.

What folks are saying.

Latest revision: May 28th, 2026.

Summary I.

There's a side to the city that prefers anonymity, that resists intrusion—unless, of course, you're there on business.

ABIERTO. Three on this block. SOLICITANDO CHICAS. A heart in Sharpie makes it emphatic. Reggaetón bleeds through the walls. Cash. Bars close. Taxis honk. Cash. Bimbo Cuernitos and Joya Manzanita from Seven. Cash. Cigarettes and un encendedor, económico por favor. Cash. The girls stand every time a stranger enters. Cash. Their smiles vanish the second he chooses someone else. Cash. "Everybody has an opinion, but unless you've actually done this, you have no idea." Cash. The plastic bucket overflows: crumpled wads of tissue, baby wipes, used condoms. Cash. Cash. Cash.

Monterrey, centro. One is random. Two, a coincidence. After that, limpia. Somebody is taking down those who run los masajes, one well-placed bullet at a time.

It's best to mop up the blood before it gets sticky. Patching the wall can wait.

Summary II.

"Do you remember their faces," he asked.

"Do you remember ours," she replied.

There's a side to the city that thrives on anonymity. It's the place folks go when they can't find what they're looking for anywhere else. They get what they come for. They go back for more. The only thing real is the change in your pocket and a handful of bills folded up at the bottom of her purse.

Monterrey, centro. Somebody is taking down those who run los masajes, one well-placed bullet at a time. Gets a paragraph on page eight.

The chicas still have bills to pay. The tipos still stand in the door. The sign outside says "UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT." And somebody still has a job to do.

¡Ya Abrimos!

1. Take your best shot.

The brutality and chaos of the city touch everyone, but not equally. No one opts out, but some find a way to cash in. The sign says ABIERTO. The door is always open. Her smile is as fake as her name.

Trato de Novios is los masajes downtown. The chicas who work there. The tipos who visit them. Unfiltered. Uncensored. Unrepentant.

A girl with long black hair and a short black skirt doesn't blink when the stranger steps in from the street. She does the math. "Pick me."

The walls are thin. Half a dozen "¡Ay papi!" going off at once. Watch your step on the way out. The boss took one. The bouncer took another. Two puddles. Should be enough bleach left for the job.

The murder spree takes a break. A bus rumbles by outside. In the room on the right, a man's belly pummels the girl on the mattress. His sweat drips on her face.

She used to say it was a means to an end. Now she just gets up, goes to pee, and waits for the next one.

What is there left to lose? Take your best shot. Use whatever weapon you can get your hands on.

2. It all goes poof.

They usually don't make the news unless they're found strangled in the alley or mutilated in a motel room.

"¡Pásele, caballero! ¡Pásele! Aquí están las chicas. ¡Pásele!"

She smiles on cue and moans like she means it. It all goes poof when his time is up and someone knocks on the door or calls her name from the hall. The only thing real is the stain on the sheet and the cash folded up at the bottom of her purse.

"Look. Este jale—it gives you something you don't get anywhere else. Your own money. What's the other plan? Stay with some pendejo who hits, cheats, drinks his paycheck before he gets home? Like the one my sister picked. Yeah. That plan."

Las chicas siempre dicen, "You choose your sacrifices. You choose your suffering."

"¡Atrévete, wey! ¡No seas cobarde!"

"You do this? You can do anything. Stand naked in front of a sweaty, stinky cabrón who just came in off the street. Y todo el pedo. Don't give you superpowers. I wish. But it gives you something."

"You get tougher than any pendejo asking for it raw, grabbing your head."

"Some of that goes home with you."

When the blood sprays the wall from an exit wound at the back of a skull, one thing is clear. The chicas aren't the only ones who go to extremes to get what they want. That's an option open to everyone.

3. Call it a trampoline.

Las salas de masajes—a la vuelta de tu vida.

Follow the rules. They'll even give you a business license.

The tipos get a shot of manhood come payday and in between. Welcome relief for as long as it lasts. Several blocks at least.

The chicas get a trampoline. Suddenly, things are within reach.

School clothes for the kids. Medicines for mom. Izzi. Totalplay. La Comisión. Agua y Drenaje. Un tanque de gas for the kitchen.

"How can something be bad that does good?" they ask.

"Look, every perra should do this for two weeks when she turns eighteen. Not for the money. Do it so you see how this shit really runs. What you're fighting. What it costs to not get ate. You walk out—you don't ask nobody if you're enough. You know."

In broad daylight. At dusk. At 3:00 AM.

Los encargados, wey. Son los blancos. No las chicas. ¡Ufff!

One is random. Two is a coincidence. After that, limpia.

Head shots mostly. Close range. Like somebody is trying to prove a point.

El Buen Fin comes early this year. Dos por el precio de uno.

You can never be too good at marksmanship.

4. I'm not yours anymore.

Business is brisk where desperation meets desire and neon paints the night. Hit it, fool. That's what it's there for. No one says "no."

Until now.

Trato de Novios is los masajes downtown. The chicas who work there. The tipos who visit them. Unfiltered. Uncensored. Unrepentant.

The chicas don't want your pity. They want you to get it over with so they can get on to the next one. And leave a tip. ¿Entiendes?

The tipos get their fifteen minutes. It wears off in a block or two. They're back in the doorway as soon as they get the cash. They don't tell their wives or girlfriends; they tell each other. There's even a blog on Google. The girls are thrilled when their names come up. It's good for business.

Pop. Pop. Pop. One on the sidewalk. One in the doorway. One behind the desk. Just like a series on la tele. It's only the beginning.

Juana took the first one. Pepe was next. Then Carlos. Then Claudia across town. No stopping. Carlos Salazar. Diego Montemayor. Platón Sanchez. Reforma. (That was a triple—three in one block.) Somebody is taking down those who run los masajes, one well placed bullet at a time.

¿Abierto?

Cerrado.

A young woman with long black hair and a short black skirt sits on a couch in front of a door open to the street. It's tranquis today.

Nothing says "I'm not yours anymore" like putting a bullet in the head of somebody who deserves it.

5. A great place to hang a leash.

"We don't go looking for men. They come looking for us."

The chicas who work los masajes downtown don't lack for street cred. "Where there's money, there's power. Where there's power, there's sex. Where there's sex, there's money." They know men. They know what men want. They know what it costs.

Vatos, tipos, morros....

"Guys come in all shapes and sizes until they take their pants off. Then they're all about one thing."

Carnales, perros, pelados....

"Guys are stupid about sex. An erect penis is a great place to hang a leash. All you have to do is call them corazón or cariño or amor and they'll give you all the money in their pocket. Well, you have to do more than that, but nothing real, nothing sincere, nothing that matters. Nothing you can't do in your sleep."

"Pendejos todos. Es mecánico..."

The men don't even notice.

Los werkos—their uniformes are always clean. She makes sure of that. New tenis. Las libretas forradas. Just like it should be.

"Why do you even care what I do? It isn't hurting anybody."

She had to miss the asamblea Navideña this year at her daughter's school. Still, there will be a tree and something under it. She helps her sister with the new baby on her day off. The bills are paid. Every last one of them.

In her purse: a raffle ticket for charity, a folded ultrasound from her sister, a receipt for condoms. All dated the same week. Two phones. She's "Mamá" on the school's WhatsApp group and something else on Mileróticos. Krystal. Jazmyn. Nikol.

Most of the chicas have lives that are straight up ordinary, especially the ones with school age kids.

Aside from two things.

They see more cash on a good night than most folks see in a week.

They fuck strangers. Almost every day. Not all the men are strangers. Some are regulars. That's even better. Fewer surprises. Just cash.

Where desperation meets desire and neon paints the night, you don't bite the hand that feeds you—you shoot it in the head.

"The best part is the look in their eyes. Then they offer money—the day's receipts—like that's what this is about. One even pissed his pants. No joke. No one ever has the balls to say sorry. Fuck it. The boss gets blown away tonight. Qué pedo. Neta."

A piece of the action.

SOLICITANDO CHICAS says the sign. There's one on this block and the next and the next. This thing is predatory—on an industrial scale. Maybe it's bigger than that.

The chicas spit it all out. What they really think about men. How they see themselves. What it takes to do what they do. What matters and what doesn't and why.

Trato de Novios is made up, but it doesn't lie. The story goes home with you, and crawls into your bed. ¡Pásele, caballero! ¡Pásele! Aquí están las chicas. The faces change. The block is the same. Mañana es otro pedo. You won't forget.

Call it a confession for a crime in progress.

Where desperation meets desire and neon paints the night, you don't bite the hand that feeds you—you shoot it in the head.

Brazen acts of violence—narrated by the perpetrator—accompany a deep and candid look at how far folks go to get what they really want—a look from both sides of the transaction.

No one goes home empty handed.

They walk out with the rent and a good reason to come back tomorrow.

You walk out with a smirk that lasts for a few blocks at least.

There's only one question that has to be asked. What does it take to monetize human nature? What does it take to get a piece of the action?

Like the girls say, "Some of those orgasms are real."

What do you want to believe is true?

Bystanders pretend not to notice.

Perpetrators look for the next opportunity.

By the end of the evening, one thing is clear. She's there for her reasons. You're there for yours.

Want some advice? Step outside before the bullets fly. Better yet, take her for coffee. It's almost dawn. She'd like that. You never know. Both of you might get lucky.

Excerpts.

The Problem.

"What are you doing? Why are you writing this?"

Her eyes told me she really wanted an answer.

"I want to give you a voice." The hero spoke—proud of himself.

"I have a voice," she replied. "The problem is no one listens to it."

"There," she almost spit. "You write that. You print that."

Options.

"I read what you wrote," she began. "We need to get something straight."

The look on her face said I had it coming.

"Listen. Do not feel sorry for me. Don't you dare feel sorry for me. I chose this. Of all the things I can do, this is what works the best for me. If I had had better options, I might have made better choices, but I didn't. I took what I had to work with and made the best choice I could.

"Let me tell you something else. I've come back to it a number of times. You know that. And I'll keep coming back to it until I have something better, but whatever that is it better be pretty good because this really does work for me."

The Right Words.

"We're all just animals fucking each other."

Leave it to this one. She has a knack for finding just the right words.

"You see it everyday," she went on. "Don't tell me you don't. It's behind every headline you print. It's why you people have a job. Some of us are just more upfront about it."

What Really Matters.

"Think you're something, right? You got to stick your dick in her. She moaned for you.

"You know what? You didn't get anything that really matters.

"You didn't get invited to her son's birthday party.

"Or her mom's wake."

They Try Harder.

"Sure, we talk about the guys behind their backs. It's good for a laugh. All the girls agree. The good looking ones are the most disappointing. A lot of noise and—that's it? The average guys—they try harder. I'm much more likely to orgasm with a guy who tries than with one who thinks he's a champ because he's buff and wears a nice suit."

Two Reasons.

"There are two reason girls get involved in this," she began. "One is to support their families. The other is because they like being in the middle of the shit."

Thank You.

"I'm not through being mad at you," she said. "But I wanted to tell you something."

"You told our stories. I knew you would. Thank you."

With that, she turned and walked away. She didn't look back.

I knew she wasn't going to.

What Folks Are Saying.

What possessed you to write this? Nobody talks about this and nobody talks about it this way. Folks like to paint slogans on the sidewalk and insist that makes a difference, but nobody talks about what it's really like to live here and deal with this everyday.

...calm down dick head stop this bullshit you don't know who you're messing with I'm not gonna tell you twice...

You can't feel sorry for somebody who has chosen her path in life. Those who want to get mixed up in shit get mixed up in shit. They know what they're doing. Every one of them wants to be there. If not, they wouldn't be. That's not gonna change.

...stay away from my girls asshole if you don't wanna end up in pieces in a cooler and your face on the poster of the disappeared...

There's more to Monterrey than Calle Villagrán. Why don't you check out the museums?? Get off the Viagra—I mean Villagrán. Do something healthy for once!! We've got more than putas in Monterrey. World Cup 2026!!

You wrote about the putas. Oh, isn't that sweet of you. Why don't you write about the folks who go to work every day? The ones who don't take the shortcut... They also have lives that matter with stories to tell and things to say...