“I don’t understand it,” said Dom, “There are so many good looking women here, but all the guys are busted.”
“They have to be prostitutes or something,” I said, scratching my head.
My wingman Dominic Taurus and I were exploring the nightlife in the Spanish ‘hood of Jackson Heights in Queens, New York, and in the process we had uncovered what felt like a seedy underworld.
The bar was jam-packed with the jaw-dropping Latinas—provocatively dressed in short dresses and high-heels—but all the male clientele were stout indigenous Central Americans of the most homely variety.
Either we had hit the jackpot or stumbled upon a brothel. As the only white guy, I stuck out a mile, but even Dom, who was Hispanic himself, turned heads —looking like a giant compared to the competition.
Before I even got to the bar, I was approached by a dainty fair-skinned hottie with long silky black hair. She reminded me of a young Penelope Cruz, and oozed sex appeal.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in a thick Latin accent.
“We wanted a drink and this place looked like fun,” I told her.
“You never come here before?”
“No. This is my first time in Jackson Heights.”
“Be careful,” she warned me. “Don’t dance with these girls. They will ask you for money.”
“What?” I asked confused.
“The men pay money to dance with the girls. They dance with you for a few songs and then you pay ten or twenty dollars. They will ask for drinks, too, because the bar give them money.”
I was baffled.
In all my years of travel, I hadn’t heard of anything so pathetic. Men paying just to dance with fully-clothed women?
“They must double as hookers,” I thought. “This girl is playing me.”
Unbeknownst to us, we had stumbled upon a type of place called a ‘bailadero’. I tried to warn Dom, but when I turned around, there he was being dry-humped by some sexy Dominican chick, yelling,
“This place is fucking awesome!!!”
I let him at it. I thought to myself: “There’s was no way was she going to ask him for money just for dancing. She seems into him.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t want your money,” continued my girl. “You are handsome. I like you. Where are you from?”
“Ireland. And you?”
We danced for a bit and my heart raced. It felt a little too good to be true.
Suddenly, Dom came over panicked.
“Dude,” he yelled, “This bitch just asked me for money for dancing with her! Now she’s getting security guard because I told her ‘no way’. This is fucked up.”
Unbelievably, that’s exactly what happened: We were asked to leave!
Me and Colombian quickly exchanged numbers.
“Aren’t you going to give him a kiss goodbye?” said Dom, and with that, she wrapped her arms around me and passionately kissed me.
A couple of days later, out of the blue the Colombian invited herself over directly to my apartment for a 1 a.m. booty call.
I was confused and delighted by this, but then she didn’t show.
There no texts or call; I was heartbroken.
As it turned out, she was running late—a whole four hours late—and she didn’t show up until five in the morning!
Any other girl I would have told to take a hike, but this chick was so sexy that I simply didn’t give a shit, and greeted her at the door like a lap dog.
“Sorry, I had to wait until my husband fell asleep. I told him I was going for a run,” she informed me.
“You’re married!?” I asked.
“Yeah, but he’s a piece of shit. He’s a drug dealer and they just let him out of prison. Now he’s on medication and he has problems. He always sleepy and can’t fuck anymore.”
God dammit—what had I gotten myself into with this Colombian?
I envisioned some Pablo Escobar lookalike going at my balls with a chainsaw. Fucking the wife of a gang-banger fresh out of prison? That was a terrible idea…
Now I really had to do it.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I took a taxi. We have time.”
“A taxi all the way here? Why didn’t you just use the subway.”
“I don’t use the subway. I only use taxis. The subway is dirty and for poor people.”
I’d have been disgusted by this remark if it wasn’t from such a pretty mouth.
“Dirty?” I scoffed. “What about dancing with guys for money?”
“I hate dancing,” she replied. “I need to shower every time I finish work. I even put my dancing clothes in a different place because I don’t want them touching my other clothes. I only do it when I need money. Girls like me make $300-400 for only a few hours. When my husband went to prison I had to support myself.”
She sparked up a joint and from her handbag produced a strange white device that looked like a computer mouse.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Oh,” she said. “I can only cum when I’m high and use a vibrator on the outside. It that okay?”
It wasn’t okay—I thought it was pathetic, in fact—but it hardly deterred me, and that morning, I rode that sexy little cocktease senseless.
I only risked nailing her one more time after that night, but afterwards when she asked me to pay for her taxi driver $60 for the ride home, I refused, and never contacted her again. A violent death at the hands of some psycho drug dealer was one thing, but a chauffeur?
Take the fucking subway princess.
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