Friday June 7, 2014. 5 p.m.
I’m red and I’m sore. I’ve been out glad-handing like a politician. Passing out hundreds of Badoink.io bumper stickers, following the racer registration until it turned into a parade. Sunscreen will only work for so long and I am now pretty much a crispy critter who is going to hurt tomorrow while the race is on.
I head back to the hotel and find all my media brothers in the lobby and at the bar, way ahead of me in the inebriation stakes. I run upstairs, shower, cream myself up, get dressed and head back downstairs.
Anything going on? There’s no WiFi anywhere in downtown Ensenada that works properly. So you’ve got a bunch of reporters with nothing really going on, except holding on to their iPhones and old school Blackberries and going from bar to bar. Consultations on the move with editors back in Denver, Phoenix, Sydney in Oz, Munich, London, Manila and all points in between. Editors always know where all the best cheap sleaze and booze is no matter where you are. That’s how they become editors, according to the garrulous Pete from Perth in West Oz who informs us all that Australian girls are no longer referred to as ‘Sheilas’ in the new non-sexist world
Anyway, it’s Friday afternoon, and we’re by Primera Street, a/k/a ‘Gringo Gulch.’ It’s pretty sleazy but we’re a team so no worries about crime. Around a corner we go and there’s a really God-awful cheap hotel with a line of seriously stunning hookers out front. We smile. They smile back. Most of us walk on about our business save for a couple of Australians and the guy from the Denver Post who avail themselves of a bargain.
The guys in traditional shoes stop at Hussongs for a cheap shine. My group stops in Rosarita’s, which is named after the Warren Zevon ballad about junkies down on their luck in Ensenada. Where to go next? The Hot Fox or Anthony’s? They’re both titty-bars-cum-brothels. The booze, I’m told, is cheaper at the Hot Fox. Makes no difference to me. Ho vagina is not my style because I learned decades ago that I’m a sponge for their life stories and I can’t use rubbers and bringing home disease is just not a grown-up alternative.
So the Hot Fox is about one block east of Hussongs on Ruiz Ave. The place is reasonably decent, far superior to all those clubs in Bridgeport, Connecticut, where my college students used to take me and where all the pole dancers kept Sig Sauers in their oversized purses. Then suddenly they’ve got Nine Inch Nails blasting out of the speakers. The DJ/MC goes into some Spanglish hip-hop about “woo-tangy concha panocha” before introducing “the gwon-han-onlee LAAAA DOOOOL-SAY!”
Then La Dulce sashays out on stage. There’s a bunch of tourists cheering all of a sudden and I look to the other side of the room under the glitter ball where there are scores of drivers and bike folks, many of them very, very intoxicated. Anxiety? Race tomorrow? What the fuck?
Something baby-pink distracts me. The MC has a huge dildo in his hand that wobbles as he waves at La Dulce who slowly takes her clothing off and commences rubbing herself with baby oil.
“Come on baby!” A very famous driver shouts out. “Let’s go to work.”
Eager to please, I guess, she grabs the dildo and begins to swallow it two feet deep while rubbing her pussy.
The seats next to the stage fill up quickly with racers. Not a single crewmember anywhere in the room. Just drivers and bikers, including more than a few females, as she proceeds to masturbate convincingly with the dildo— deep—in and out of alternating orifices.
Minutes later La Dulce has taken her fuck-me stiletto shoes off and is letting guys finger-fuck her while holding onto a fist full of pesos and greenbacks while being yanked hither and thither like a puppet. The whole xxx-rated routine goes on for 30 minutes, during which she never takes a break, save for a kid who periodically runs out to scoop the cash out of her hand before sprinting off again…
I never really get a good look at her until she quits. While she whispers in the ear of a certain Nascar superstar, I see that she’s a gym rat with magnificent trapezoids, a pretty triangular face ever so slightly spoiled by blue contact lenses, too much make-up and the most beautiful natural black hair I think I’ve ever seen. She’s like a sex gladiator; it’s just too bad that the whole effect is ruined by her fake, pointy, bolt-on tits.
And then off she goes with her Nascar guy. Jaime, a late-registering biker from Mexicali I met yesterday at the red room of the convention hall explains to us that Hot Fox has about 10 private rooms upstairs where you can take your girl of choice for a private session, for which they usually charge around $50-60 for CBJ & Sex, although the rooms can be a bit expensive, around $50, which is paid to the bartender.
“It’s good,” says Jaime through a thick accent. “At leas’ you can preview them before you fuck.”
We never went to Anthony’s. I ended up sitting around bullshitting with four reporters and Jaime about the motorcycle world, all of us sipping some really superb high-end tequila with the lime and the salt and Tecate chasers.
Good troopers all of us, drivers and media folk alike. Around 7:45 p.m. we leave en masse and head for the Score folks’ mandatory racer meeting at the Cathedral room of the Pacifico Cultural Center.