Buenas Madrugada (Greeting To Dawn)
She just looks at me with these big charcoal eyes and doesn’t say a fucking word. She’s got a beer in one hand and a joint in the other and she’s sweating like a whore in church. The motel room has the AC cranked . It’s so cold you could hang meat. She stands there naked, paralyzed with fear. There’s another Angel of the Night passed out naked on the bed. The knocking at the door continues. It’s not the typical Cop knock. In the United States, Colombia and Mexico the policia golpea con fuerza (knock with force), but I’m in Perez Zeledon, San Isidro, Costa Rica, and the knock is soft and unassuming.
I begin to laugh at the bizarre spectacle taking place. The knock is now accompanied by a male voice.
“Este es el guardia de seguridad. Responder.”
Just the security guard. I got this, I tell myself.
“Voy,” I yell
The panic stricken girl takes refuge in the bathroom locking the door.
I answer the uninvited visitor with a cheerful “buenas” after opening the door.
“Señor, hemos tenido una queja sobre el ruido (we’ve had a complaint about noise).”
Who would complain about too much noise. I hear music , loud talking and laughter leaking out from other rooms. The sounds flooding the predawn darkness with acoustic precipitation ,but I make a sincere effort to handle this situation without confrontation.
“Yes no problem. I’m sorry for the disturbance,” I say in Spanish.
“And a question. Is it possible you could give me a beer?” he asks.
“Of course, no problem.”
I grab a cold cerveza and hand it to him.
“Anything else, sir?” I ask.
“If you have a cigarette I would like that very much.”
I give him a couple of smokes, he shakes my hand and nods his head in a grateful manner.
“Good night or morning,” I say with a laugh.
So the reason for his visit wasn’t about the noise. It was purely a search to satisfy his vices. Gotta love the Ticos, constant quest for immediate self gratification and without ever saying por favor or gracias.
I knock on the bathroom door.
“Andrea todo bien mi amor. Era sólo el guardia que sólo quería una cerveza. Abre la puerta, nena,” I beg of her.
I hear the lock click and I turn the knob but she has blocked the door with wet towels. I push with force and it gives way. I see her cowering in the shower, shaking with a terrified expression.
“Baby, what’s going on with you? No more coca porti. Come on, Diosa, get outta there. Take an Oxaforte,” I offer, “it’ll make you feel better.”
“Bigotes soy muy high,” she whispers.
“Yo se bebe. Ya venga conmigo. Quien te cuido? (Come with me. Who takes care of you),” I ask.
I have known Andrea for 5 years. She stole my heart first time I spent a night and fifty dollars with her. It was Quepos, Costa Rica on the Pacific Coast when her cousin Diana introduced us. Sometimes there’s this connection, a fire, an electricity between two souls. And there was truth in her flame no doubt in her spark. Unfortunately, it always becomes convoluted and gets messy, the sheets, the libretto, the emotions and living.
“I had her trapped between my skin and my soul.” Mana.
She stands still holding the beer and joint then hugs me not out of affection but with the emotion of a child seeking security.
“You’re safe baby. You trust me, right?” I say.
“Si papi siempre contigo,” she answers.
I carry her to the bed and take the unlit joint from her hand but she refuses to relinquish the warm half can of beer.
Yaneth, my other companion and friend of Andrea’s, wakes then heads to the bathroom.
“Que hora es Bigotes? Es madrugada?” she yells from the doorway.
“Si yo creo casi. Y ser tranquilo que sólo tenía el guardia de seguridad aquí. No aumente la música así que...”
And just as I ask her to be quiet and not play the music loudly, she cranks up the volume on the TV and the music screams. She begins dancing and it’s difficult to stop the sexual display. Naked, with a body that would make men beg for just one chance to touch her gossamer skin. She’s fucking gorgeous and every move defines sensuality with refinement.
I give Andrea an Oxaforte and an Ambiene to take the edge off. She swallows the pills with a hit of beer and gives me a tender kiss.
“Adelante, sé que la quieres. voy a ver,” (go with her I will watch) she says.
“It’s ok? Just me and Yaneth without you?” I ask.
You need to understand that there’s an etiquette or code of conduct when dealing with prostitutes, especially Ticas. A special client or boyfriend such as I am to Andrea is considered property or a possession. It’s a depraved twisted relationship where the doctrine only applies to my actions and doesn’t take her’s into consideration.
Andrea is a working girl and can fuck anyone she chooses for of course a price. Which is on a sliding scale depending how much she likes the client. If I fuck someone else (especially a friend of hers), that is a violation of the terms to the supposed agreement.
I was involved with a Tica off and on in a Liaison de Amor for a couple of years sometime ago. Veronica was a working girl that considered my involvement with another woman as a betrayal.
“If I fuck other women you say I am cheating on you. But how is it ok for you to fuck other men and I am suppose to accept your behavior?” I asked. “If you fuck other people then I fuck others too.”
“NO! You fuck other women to have pleasure.” came her retort. “To have an orgasm and pay them for that. Sex with others for me is work and not for pleasure.”
Of course I never believed for a moment that she never enjoyed her work.
I just don’t subscribe to that type of logic. And so ended that relationship. However, I discovered that school of thought was a widely practiced rule by many.
Yaneth continues to dance, rubbing her breasts against my face, placing my hand between her legs.
“VENGA BIGOTES FUCK ME!” she implores.
Andrea pushes me towards Yaneth. She sways gracefully to the music.
“Un chino porfa BEBE!” Yaneth asks.
Now a chino for you rookies is, yes, the word for a Chinese person in Spanish. However, in street lingo, it also identifies a cigarette minus some tobacco with cocaine added in. It’s a pleasant high which I prefer over smoking crack. Crack instantly takes me to a level of euphoria that makes it impossible to function socially.
I comply with her request and twist up a monster, removing the filter and inserting a small piece back in its place. I look at Andrea and she appears relaxed, having opened another beer. I can’t believe she’s still awake.
She smiles and extends her hand for me to pass her the chino.
“I don’t think so baby,” I say. “A half-hour ago you were freaking out. Wait a while and pass on this one, ok?”
Then it happens. A Tica displeased with being told what she can and cannot participate in by a man is considered disrespectful. She objects with a display of anger that would make a weaker man tremble in terror.
“Who are you to tell me no! You’re not my fucking husband or my father. You can’t tell me what to do!” she screams.
I immediately hand her the chino and strike a flame with the lighter. She inhales then passes it to Yaneth. She takes a hit and passes it back to Andrea, completely bypassing me.
“Hey, what’s going on here? What about the Gringo? Are ya gonna share?” I protest.
They both start laughing and hand the chino to me. Yaneth starts kissing Andrea and pulls down the sheet, uncovering her goddess-like naked body.
Now we’re back to the original game plan, I think to myself. I take a short hit and pass it back to Andrea, and she blows me a kiss.
“Te amo Bigotes. (I love you Mr. Mustache),” Andrea sings.
Just at this moment in time, it can all change in the flutter of a butterfly’s wings.
“Yo tengo tu amor. (I got your love.) Yo tengo tu amor. Yo tengo tu love.”
The song serenades us from the music video on the TV. Who said the darkest hour is always just before the dawn? They were so far off course.
“Buenas madrugada,” I say.
Hope there are no more interruptions.
Horror Sleaze Trash 