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Sunday, April 10, 2011

MEXICO NINE: Twin Peaks at a Strip Bar

[Note: Blogspot lists these chapters in reverse order. To read earlier adventures, scroll to the bottom or click here to go to the beginning.]

BREAKING THE BOYCOTT... OR MYKEL SELLS OUT TO HIS EGO__ part 9 (part 8 will come later)

The very core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. “ --Christopher McCandliss

[My friends told me not to go to Mexico. They said it was dangerous. I do not listen to my friends. My conscience told me not to go to Arizona. It said the place was evil, a hotbed of racism and xenophobia. I do not listen to my conscience.

I'm here because my Mexican friends have made a cover band. It's a cover band of my songs from my old group ARTLESS. Called Sin Arte, we're supposed to play in Arizona and Mexico. Three shows in the latter, two in the former. Things don't work out like that. That's life.

This blog skips a bit. My traveling companions from Cojoba have left. I'm on my own with Gilberto. We're off to Aqua Prieta, his hometown. This blog appeared in abridged form as a column in Maximum Rock'n'Roll. Here's more of the story-- and pictures!]

I'm not like other people. I love to watch naked-- or near naked-- people gyrate on stage, I love to poke my dollar in a bikini string, I love to stare at the flash of gash, a quiver of quim, or a dollop of dick. I love to watch naked nipples, and the pulsing spiral of an exposed anus. Yes, in that way I'm normal. 

But, I cannot get off on a lap dance. It's my curse.

No matter what the gender, age, endowment. No matter how hard or light the pressure. No matter if it's frontwards or backwards. No matter nothing. Rubbing my stiffened stub from outside my clothes will not give me an orgasm. It may even unstiff the stiffness.
Now: I'm in Guau Guau, a titty bar in Aqua Prieta, right over the border from Douglas Arizona. In one hand is a beer from my 180 -peso-a-bucket special. In the other hand is a single dollar bill.

AP is one of those cities that the US government issues warnings about. One of those places where headless bodies turn up on Main Street. Where the local drug cartels run the drugs, the restaurants, the shops and the government. One of those places where the U.S. State Department says DON'T GO:

Since 2006, the Mexican government has engaged in an extensive effort to combat drug-trafficking organizations (DTOs). DTOs have erected unauthorized checkpoints, and killed motorists who have not stopped at them. According to published reports, 22,700 people have been killed in narcotics-related violence since 2006.

Yow! Here I am!

At the end of the town's main street is a single mountain with an ominously cup-shaped top.
“My family told me it was a volcano,” says Gilberto. “Now, I don't think so... but you never know.”

You've already met some of the characters in this story. There's Gilberto, my best Mexican pal and organizer of this trip. It's for his birthday party that I find myself in this town.

(And what a party it is. Mexicans have relatives and friends from here to Arizona. From 8 to 80. At least Gilberto does. He's a pretty popular guy.) Check out this crew!
Then, there's Barichu. Here's a picture of him and me outside Guau Guau. 

Aka the Mexican GG Allin, he's been arrested by the police more times than I've paid for sex. That's a lot. When he went after the cops waving a plastic gun, they broke his nose. Newspaper headlines were (in translation): Drugs or Satan? What's behind the bizarre attack?

Barichu's hobby is mashing up dried dog shit... and snorting it.

Then there's Ingrid, Gilberto's roommate in Boston. She's a pretty perky blonde with skin so pale you can almost see through it. Her visit to Aqua Prieta engenders erection impeded walking from every male between the ages of puberty and final decay. With me, she always talks about her BOYFRIEND back in Boston. For some reason, whenever I meet attractive people, they all immediately talk about their BOYFRIENDS... always in capital letters. Ingrid won't let me use her real name, so she gets Ingrid, for the blond hair and general sexiness. 

Also in A.P. is Pamela. Ah, what a great story that is. We know each other through Gilberto who gave her a copy of my book I, A Me-ist, as a birthday present. She was not amused. 

“¿Quien es ese pinche pirata?” she wanted to know.

After meeting me in real life, though. We got to like each other. Seems like I'm not as bad as she thought I was. I even stay at her place in Flagstaff when we go to the Grand Canyon. More on that later.  

She surprised me as much as I surprised her. Though her refrigerator magnets are a bit on the sinister side:

She was cool enough to come to the strip club with us. And she proved to be a lot more fun than her fridge magnet would indicate! That's her in the middle, between Gilberto and one of the many folks whose name I forgot.

I also don't want to forget Tavo Poison. He's one of Gilberto's punkrock pals, and a nice well-connected guy. He brings the hardcore Tequila to the birthday party. He's filled with stories. I really like the guy, but sometimes girls find him... creepy. Then again, sometimes girls find ME creepy. Here's a picture of him at Gilberto's great birthday party with Gilberto and Barichu.

But the real star of this story is Agua Prieta itself. A wry place with a sense of humor lurking on every corner. The local convenience store is Walmarcito.

It's just down the street from the fast food joint, Burger Queen.

You won't want to eat there, though. Because Gilberto's uncle has La CabaƱa, “the biggest non-cartel restaurant in town.” I suggest you go there and try the cow-udder tacos. You won't find them at Taco Bell.

 Gilberto's uncle introduces me to some wild concoction of beer, soysauce, line, chili powder, and Clamato® for God's sake! It's called a michelada.

Pamela is in town for the two day birthday party. Ingrid comes tomorrow. The party's a wonderful affair hosted by Gilberto's aunt and uncle... with a ton of kids, grand-dads, relatives, friends of every gender, age and description. Igrid, with her blonde hair, thin body, and gringa good looks, stands out like a beard at a lesbian bar 

She and Barichu hit it off pretty well. The only two smokers in the place, they have that special camaraderie that pushes social outcasts together in the most unlikely combinations. Like homos in a small town in Alabama.

Then there's Guau Guau, the strip club. You pronounce Guau Guau like WOW WOW in Sonoran Spanish. It means something like BOW WOW! But the girls here are as far from being BOW WOWs as Barack Obama is from being progressive.

Tavo gets us in free. It's him, Pamela, Gilberto and me. He's got a ton of free admission tickets. It must be like New York. There the guys give out free admission cards to Gentlemen's Clubs. They lurk on every midtown corner and hand them to anyone who looks like they'd enjoy the show. I got a ton of 'em.

Inside the club, on the stage are beautiful girls who give you a kiss when they pick up the dollar you leave.

Yeah, they bug you for lap dances. Walking around after their set, putting their hands on your thigh, asking if you want a private dance. It is a strip club, after all. Tavo is soon off in the back room. He returns with a satisfied smile on his face.

“I'll buy you one, Mykel,” says Gilberto. “You should do it.”

“No thanks,” I tell him, not going into detail about my personal... er... impairment. “I just like to watch.”

He goes off with one of the more attractive strippers. I keep feeding dollars to the girls on the stage. Each kisses me on the cheek after I slip a bill under an elastic band, near the good part. 

In my 71 years, I must've gone to a hundred strip bars... but up til now, I've never been to one where the strippers kiss the patrons for tipping them. 

The next night, Pamela has gone back to Flagstaff. Ingrid joins our crew for the night. I return to Guau Guau with Gilberto, Tavo, Barichu, and Ingrid. It's great enough to meet a girl who likes a guy like Barichu. But it's even greater to meet a girl who likes STRIP CLUBS! This trip I meet two of them! In the 70s, even girls who WORKED in strip clubs didn't like them. Ah, change is not all negative.

One of Gilberto's friends gets us in for free. We huddle around the stage, nose-close to the dancers.

Ingrid lays those dollar bills down almost as fast as I do. She gets a flash for each one, and a nice peck on the cheek. 

Gilberto brings one of the best strippers, tall, curvy in the special way that Latinas do curves. You know, ass-not-hips. Skin, the color of cinnamon. Breasts like twin Mount Fujis. Makes me want to erupt.

Gilberto speaks to Ingrid in English. “Hey Ingrid,” he says. “You want a lap dance? This one's the best. I'll buy you one.”

I laugh.

Ingrid doesn't.

“Sure,” she says. 

By the time I close my gaping jaw, she and the Chicana walk off to the back. Brown and white, like a peanut butter sandwich made in heaven.

In twenty minutes, Ingrid's back. Her face glows in the soft light of the club. 

“They were watching me, Mykel,” she says. “All those bodyguards and bouncers. Back there... it's like an office... with cubicles... she sat on my lap and we were surrounded, these guys... those guys with no necks who work here... they came around to watch... you could see them jiggling themselves... their hands in their pockets.”

“YOU should have charged THEM,” I tell her. 

By this time, another Mexican beauty is on stage. This one darker and lither than the first. Like a sexy snake, she slithers full length across the stage... crawling on her arms and legs to the edge. Her petite but proud breasts just touch the wood. She slides right in front of Ingrid and reaches down. 

She grabs both of Ingrid's arms and pulls her on stage. But our Indrid isn't dancing. At least not in the normal sense of the word. She's lying on her back. The stripper is over her. Rubbing her brown body against the white girl. 

Then the dancer reaches down. She pulls Ingrid's sweater up, over her head. In the soft light, Ingrid's breasts, as perky as her personality, sparkle bright and white.

I reach between my legs to make myself more comfortable.

Gently, the dancer takes one, then the other nipple in her mouth. 

Looking at the men in the audience, I can see sympathetic tongue movements on each of them. We're in this together.

Together we lick those nipples. We lick each and then lick down to a place between them. We lick in a line from breast to navel, back to breast. We lick downward again. We press our collective chins against her individual crotch and keep licking. We're collectively disappointed when Ingrid keeps her pants on. We're collectively inspired when she licks back at the woman on top of her. We become Ingrid as she takes those brown mounds into her hands. 

All too soon, it's over. All too soon, we let go of our breath and applaud our collective appreciation. Ingrid puts her sweater back on and climbs down from the stage.

“Guau Guau!” I say.

She smiles and we (Ingrid, Tavo, Barichu, Gilberto and I) walk out to the car.

“I'm sorry you had to see my breasts,” she says. 

“I'm 70 years old,” I tell her. “I've done more than people twice my age would have done if they lived that old. I've eaten Piranha in Peru, had sex under a Mongolian staircase, been in a threesome with one girl in Thailand, been kidnapped in Albania, but never in my life before has someone said to me I'm sorry you had to see my breasts.”
She smiles.

“Please don't be sorry,” I tell her. “I sure as shit am not.”

We got back to Gilberto's tio's place where the party is still going on. 

“Mykel,” asks Gilberto's tia, “¿Mykel, porque andas todo pintarrajeado??”

The lipstick! Whoops. I forgot about that.

I wash my face as best I can. The various shades of lipstick on my cheek meld into one another, but never completey disappear. 

We drink some more, eat some more, and somehow Gilberto ends up in bed with Ingrid. I sleep with Barichu.
FLASH AHEAD: It's Arizona. Ingrid wants to see the Grand Canyon. That's what you do in Arizona. I don't want to give the state any of my money... and I certainly don't want to do any tourist shit. But I'm out-voted and Gilberto has the car. So it's to Grand Canyon we go.

We pay $20 to park, then go to the guest house and souvenir shop. I can buy a Grand Canyon Collector Plate, a Grand Canyon Ceramic Cup, or a Grand Canyon Refrigerator Magnet. I don't.

The gift shop is in a rustic-looking shed. Log cabin-ish, though there aren't many logs in this area. One wall is Plexiglas. It overlooks the canyon.

A crowd of tourists presses against the glass, oooowing and ahhing. Being 5'3” tall, I decide not to compete with them, and walk outside for a direct look. I look. It's a hole in the ground. A big hole... and that's it. 

Twenty dollars for a hole? I've paid that in Thailand and the DR, but in those cases I got a hole I really enjoyed! 

Sometime ago... in the Wild West... some Indian stumbled on this place and said, “let's sucker the gringos. Tell 'em it's special. A really big hole. The rube's be lining up to buy fridge magnets. Those white folks. They can't tell their ass from a hole in the ground.”

I don't take one picture. I don't even stay and look. I head for the car and let Ingrid and Gilberto ooooh and aaahhh. 

For me? Aqua Prieta was more ooooh and aaah than the Grand Canyon will ever be. Walmarcito, Burger Queen, the volcano at the end of the street. 

That's worth some oooohs and aaaahhs. Ingrid's own twin peaks, the lipstick all over my face, Gilberto's birthday party, that's what I'll remember from this trip. I can tell an ass from a hole in the ground. I'll take the ass any day. 

More later.

[This is part 9 of Mykel's Mexican adventure. Part 8 has not been posted yet. To read the rest, click on the right spot:]

The story of the Yellow Chili Pepper is here.

And, you can and should go directly to Mykel's own website.