trato de novios
an autopsy of desire¿Quién sigue?
The Door Is Open.
Sit down. Listen.
Nothing says "I'm not yours anymore" like putting a bullet in the head of somebody who deserves it.
Monterrey, centro. The present day. Someone is taking down the men—and women—who run the brothels, one well-placed bullet at a time. Behind the desk. At the door. On the sidewalk. The chicas and the johns? Nada que ver. Just the ones who run the show. Who make it happen. Who have it coming. Endangered species. There's a mop and a bucket in the hall. Cloro under the sink. ¿Quién sigue?
The sign says ABIERTO. Three on this block. SOLICITANDO CHICAS. 24/7. 9 to 9. Legit. Licensed. Grandfathered in. The city. The cops. Organized crime. Everybody gets a cut. The chicas walk out with cash. The tipos with a smirk and a bulge that lasts a block. There's a blog on Google. Regulars post reseñas. Krystal. "Hace todo." Jazmyn. "Nunca dice no." Nikol. "Sin condón: 200 pesos más." The chicas are thrilled when their names come up. Business booms—right after payday.
Fat man sits on a stool beside the door. Reggaetón bleeds through the walls. Half a dozen "¡Ay, papi!" going off at once. "Pick me... pick me," their eyes implore the stranger who walks in. The chicas smile on cue, moan like they mean it, spit it all out when they get the chance. The tipos bring gifts. Ask for their numbers. Tell them they're special. There's a statue of La Virgen on the windowsill. An order of tacos on the desk. "Everyone has an opinion, but unless you've actually done this, you have no idea."
The menu is laminated. Recited like the Rosary. No kissing. No touching. No disrobing. One position. Extras cost extra. He pays to invade. She sells sound effects. Compliments. "A few of those orgasms are real." Knock, knock. "Voy," she shouts. Deal's over. "Qué le vaya bien señor." One down. Ten to go. Fifteen on a good night. Turns it on when she arrives, off when she leaves. Los werkos—waiting at home. She brings candy and chips from the Oxxo. God is a bullet. Mama is love.
Women's bodies. Men's appetites. The glue that holds everything together. The grease that makes it all run. "Do it to her. That's what she's there for." Nobody says that out loud, but everybody understands. The big man crushes the little man. The little man pays for his chance to feel big. The chicas buy lube by the case. The plastic bucket overflows. ¿Quién sigue? Everybody gets something out of it. A stain. A smile. A wad of cash. A reason to come back tomorrow.
Vice: a daily grind. What else is there to dream of or reach for? Standing in a doorway in lingerie. Manufacturing erections. Ingesting their contents. "No me beses la boca," she says. "No beso." It hurts when some vato grabs her head trying to reenact what he saw on PornHub last night. Everyone has a version of themselves they can stand and another one they can't. Which will it be today? There's an odor here, a taste even. It gets in your hair, on your skin. Goes home with you on the bus. If you're expecting catharsis, you won't find it. If you want the floor plan of how this shit actually works, the door is open. It's better for business that way.
The chicas sell servicios. The tipos buy self-respect or something. The city sells permits. Un ruco viene a cobrar cada semana. Everybody does the math. No one goes home empty handed.
Nothing's broken here. Just smashed to bits. It's Tuesday. Everyday is Tuesday. The parade never ends. Nobody wants it to. There isn't a bandage big enough for this desmadre. Let it bleed. It'll stop on its own.
NOW OPEN. UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT. ¡Pásele, caballero! ¡Pásele! Aquí están las chicas. The boss gets blown away tonight. Qué pedo. Neta.
Now you know.
Monterrey, centro. One is random. Two, a coincidence. After that, limpia. Even the werkos understand—you can never be too good at marksmanship.
Title. Trato de Novios: an Autopsy of Desire.
Format. Literary fiction. 60k manuscript in prep. Explores gender, class, culture, character, sexuality, and what it's like to sell your body or buy someone else's because it's the best thing you can do today and the only thing that stands a chance.
Two versions: one mostly in English with a touch of Spanish and another entirely in Spanish that respects the sounds and sentiments of the people and places it depicts.
Promotional website live. Samples available. Pitch package assembled. Slide deck too. Subscription model active: six dollars or 100 pesos a month. Audio reads available. Beta readers wanted. Storyboards. Deep dive into the creative process and all aspects of development.
Potential. Print. Audio. Digital. Adaptable to stage (one act monologue) or screen (limited series.). VR.
Why Now? Urgent. Relevant. No one else is saying this and no one else is saying it this way. Hellscape. Ground zero.
Hook. Authenticity. Timeliness. Transgression without exploitation. The subject matter is lurid. It's treatment is anything but.
Pluses. Cult potential. Critical reception. Long tail.
Minuses. Slice of life. Audience bears witness. No three act. No resolution. No hero. No rescue. No redemption. No closure, just scars. Feels like a documentary. Starts arguments. Is it art? Activism? Exploitation? Are men really this pathetic? Doesn't take the "right" POV according to whoever's complaining. Defend from all sides.
Risk—One Line. Unscripted. Uncomfortable. Unresolved.
Upside—One Line. There is nothing else like it.
The writing is hot. It's happening now. A note scribbled on a receipt from Oxxo. A memo quietly spoken into a phone. A plea whispered in a dark hall. A word shouted through a locked door. These things will be forgotten. Or erased. Testimony is dangerous because someone believes it. Garbled recordings. Grainy photos. Evidence. Cover charge: $6/month. La máquina no da cambio. Step inside.
Truth is often found in the unscripted, the uncomfortable, and the unresolved.
Email the writer.
Pitch Package.
Slide Deck.
Home.
Versión en español.
