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 Vallarta Living | Archives
Are You Lonesome Tonight? - part 2
Terry Faulkner & Alex Barragan
... the girl retorted, "You act like children!" turned and paraded off to another table. Not once did she look back at them. The three of them accepted her rejection in stride. They then motioned for more chairs and insisted we join them.
"I'm Luis. This is my friend Gustavo. We're from Guadalajara."
"Nice to meet you. I'm Terry. You've already met Alex! Let us invite you to a round of drinks." They won't hear of it and instead buy two rounds of drinks and monopolize the conversation with tall tales detailing their many conquests. If I could lie as well as these guys I would at be holding a position in the U.S. Senate.
The first scene to catch our attention upon entering The Gentlemen's Club is the pool table and two young girls, clutching cue sticks, on our right. They are dressed in short black skirts, black tops. Both girls are on the shorter side and this shot brings the one with the longer hair to the tiptoes of her high heel pumps. Her pelvis finds support pushing against the side of the table.
Bending horizontally at her narrow waist, her breasts press into the green velvet surface. The straps of her shoes dig into the skin of her calves. The thigh muscles go tight supporting her. She takes two practice strokes and stretches hard for the third. "Crack." The stick contacts the ball. "Crack." The cue ball hits the nine. "Crack." Her feet slip from under her. Both legs shoot skyward, bounce once just before touching the floor, rise again and drop to the floor as her upper torso lifts upward.
I am following a few feet behind Alex when, distracted by the pool game, I fail to notice his abrupt stop. Luckily, I am walking slowly; the impact when I rear-end him doesn't quite knock him to the floor.
While Alex regains his composure, I go around him to the left and hasten to a table. He's not far behind me. As he sits he looks at me and I start giggling. You know what I'm talking about. Those involuntary and unstoppable giggles. Alex catches them too.
The waitress returns. This time we're ready to order. During the interim, one of the girls, "Marina," had stopped to say hello. She is now sitting sidesaddle on Alex's lap and orders a drink with us.
The stage occupies about 20% of this section of room. Here, the ceiling is two stories high. Windows, balconies and the surrounding main floor overlook us. This is the first blonde dancer we have seen tonight. She is nearing the end of her set and spinning hard and fast on the pole. Her light blue eyes are reflecting more light than the spinning mirror ball overhead. As the song reaches a climax, she leaps into the air and lands on the stage in a full split. I was amazed.
There are a generous number of girls tonight at Chicas Chicas. Two join us almost immediately. One cozies in next to Alex, the other waits until I stand and offer a more formal invitation. I order us a beer each. The girl with Alex whispers their order into the waiter's ear. He returns after several minutes with our beer, a bottle of Stolichnaya, a bottle of Squirt and two glasses of ice. He opens the bottle and mixes the drinks for the girls at the table. As she lifts her glass, I see her rest her other hand in Alex's lap.
The music is playing briskly. There is a young Asian dancing. Suddenly the girl pulls her hand away from his lap. She grasps the bottle of vodka and as she stand she exclaims, "This one is dead. I'm going." This caught the girl next to me off guard. She reaches her hand over to me and responds to her friend, "I have a live one here."
My body produces an involuntary shiver. I lower my eyes, there is a lump in my throat, the dim lights hide the embarrassment that I feel rising in my cheeks. Alex is unaware of what has just taken place. His eyes, peering in the direction of his lost companion return to me and he inquires, "¿que paso?"
I wave for the check and reach down to still the fingers that continue to probe. Alex stares at the check sitting in front of him. I wonder if he is having trouble focusing so I drag it close to me. It reads twelve hundred pesos. I insist that we had not solicited any extras and even if the girls had decided to take matters into their own hands, the cost was excessive. He smiles and says. "That was on the house. The expense is for the bottle of vodka." Guess we bought the whole liter for them.
We must look like zombies on our way out. I certainly feel like one. The stares we receive as we pass the other tables assure me we had been at least as entertaining as the dancers.
We manage to cross the highway without incident and enter Queros. The atmosphere is totally different than Chicas Chicas, even though they boast the same ownership. The theme is fantasies. The designers of the club pulled it off well. The first (inanimate) object that catches my eye is the Harley-Davidson. The constant polishing it receives as the girls fondle and caress its many parts have left the paint and chrome dazzling.
Circling around to the rear, we come upon some small rooms equipped with a variety of props to accommodate an array of fetishes. Would you like to be chained to the wall? Have your toes tickled with a feather? Hot wax? You might want to bring your own candles. The lower the melting temperature of the wax, the less it stings when it hits your flesh. Or vice versa.
The seating area embraces the sunken stage. The speakers hang overhead. The disc jockey is pumping a loud version of "Like a Virgin" through them.
The drizzle begins as we struggle our way into the back seat of the taxi. It's pouring by the time we make the right turn at Sam's Club and head inland. The taxi dips heavily as the rear tires clear the speed bump. It brings back memories of a water taxi ride to Yelapa. Just as we finish rocking, the driver swings right and lands us on a narrow, unpaved road. It is 50% water puddles and he cuts the wheels from side to side to avoid the larger of them. He is almost successful in his effort.
Once assured we are stopping, the doorman plods over with a multi-color umbrella nearly the size of the ones providing shade on the beach. His feet make a splash with each step like firecrackers exploding in a tranquil pond.
We're inside Conajitas. Dry on top and soaked from the knees down, Alex and I leave a shimmering trail as we cross to the opposite side of the dance platform. The few familiar faces fail to spark my memory of their names.
The girl performing on stage is on her hands and knees. Clad in a G-string her movements are intentional, a tigress on the prowl. The aura spilling from her depths defies anyone to intrude on her little realm. She turns her head away from us, drops her elbows to the platform and seductively sways the other end in our direction. She half rotates her head and fixes her gaze upon us over her left shoulder. We are sitting only three feet away. Her perfume bombards our nostrils. She goes totally limp, her limbs collapse beneath her limber body, and she snakes her way over to three men sitting two tables from ours. She is still displaying her charms to them when the waiter appears.
"This is my friend Alex. I'm Terry, remember me?" I'm hoping he divulges his name in like manner, but instead responds with, "Hola Terry, good to see you again." Alex interjects, "Who is the girl?"
"Would you like me to send her to your table?"
"Let's have a beer..."
"I'll have a Cuervo" I interrupt, "...while we think about it." Alex finishes.
"Why didn't I just order a soft drink?" I silently chastise myself.
The music ends as our drinks are being placed on the table. The dancer walks off stage and is stopped by the three men seated near us. They chat briefly and she takes a seat in their remaining chair. The best dressed of the group motions for the waiter.
During this momentary pause, Alex opportunely imparts a word of wisdom. "Terry, I think we may need to limit ourselves to one drink per stop." I readily agree with his reasons, whatever they might be, financial or physical. I personally wonder if it's a little late for restraint.
As hard as I try, I can't recall the cab ride to the Alamo. I surmise that I must have taken a brief nap. I know from memory that we had to make a right turn at the Ixtapa/airport highway junction. Another quick right would put us in front of the club, which is precisely where we are now. I look at my watch and immediately forget what it said.
The rains had abated at some point. There is a slight glow rising from behind the mountains in the east. I glance at the taco stands across the street. My stomach is far from being empty. To the contrary, it is filled with a thousand fluttering butterflies dive-bombing into its tender walls. I consider giving them a peace offering of quesadillas. I turn and see that Alex is entering the door of the club. I shoot a quick glance of remorse at the hot grills. As I turn to pursue him, I feel the creatures fornicating deep within my bowels, spawning a new generation who will undoubtedly fan the flames of my inevitable agony.
I find Alex as he is settling in. I sit and begin fighting the urge to close my eyes. When my eyelids do drop, I can still see her ... maybe even better than before. The lines of her body seem crisper somehow. The colors of her nail polish and lipstick register at a higher resolution. Her candy-apple red pumps leave tracers as they pass through the air. She is bronze and glistening. Her hair and eyes are black like obsidian and reflect the light like a freshly polished Jaguar. My eyes open again and she is standing there. The depth of my reflection in her eyes startles me. I shy away from her stare. When I look back, the intensity in her eyes causes a chill to rush through me and I wonder briefly about calling for help. My eyes close again and I drift...
I am awakened by a soft voice. "Will you please unlock the gate for me?"
I rise to my feet in outright defiance of my wobbly knees and pounding head. My hands are trembling but I somehow insert the key, turn the lock and pull it open.
As I re-enter my bedroom I remember Alex. Where had I lost him? I could feel the reverberation between my ears as I call his name into the empty rooms. No reply. I slump into my bed and reach for my cell phone to call his house. It's gone. So is the charger...and who was that girl?
If you missed the previous adventure of Terry and Alex, you can find them here. |
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