a butterfly stuck in an anal cocoon


My view of sex changed around the age of 27. Sex became a business exchange. This is a story of the result of love lost. This is a brief explanation for women and men that don’t realize how unattractive a broken man appears to other women or men after a break-up and the means to an end some guys must pursue to continue some semblance of being alive, guys like me.

        There was lightness beneath my toes as I bounced into the Zona de Tolerancia, the Tolerance Zone, the Mexican equivalent to a brothel, an expansive, gated apartment complex filled with hundreds of prostitutes. Paid the 10 Peso cover charge, then wandered door-to-door, peeking inside each apartment to see the goods, looking for the one; the one with the goods and the wont to give services which provide hungry men with coital necessities. Men like me find the undulating dips in-and-out of beautiful women and the resulting releases of crème fulfilling and, well, gayishly delightful. The brothels in southern Mexico have no equal. These havens hold proper, furnished apartments for pros with whom desires, and a paycheck, are held for the ultimate finish for guys like me.

        Again, there was lightness. I somewhat pranced, as heterosexually as possible, glancing through each door to view each potential temporary love, hoping for that one pro that could provide the 20 minute deletion of my love gone bad. There, inside broken-hearted Mecca, waited the beautiful, ugly, intimidating, passive, hungry, sincere, shattered, cheap, expensive loved and unloved women that most men seek. The entire array. Something for everyone.

        Mannish. She was definitely mannish. Apartment # 181. There were bruises on her face and elsewhere. Maybe she’d been fighting with a neighboring pro, maybe some absurd sex-act had taken place, maybe anything—she sparked an interest in me. This masculine female held the key to unlocking something that needed opening. I had no interest in brutal sex; I had interest in a human being who felt as battered as I. And you don’t get beaten on the outside without getting hurt on the inside. I liked her.

        Walking into a brothel without a condom is always a good idea when you’ve given up. Waking up the next day is the downside.

        [The conversation in this story is translated from Spanish to English to avoid confusion, the rest of the details are simply written in my first language, English, as I am incapable of describing anything in any other language]

        “Do you have time?” I asked as I poked my head through her door, doing my best not to overstep the threshold with an unwanted foot. She looked up and stared at me for several uncomfortable seconds… I couldn’t tell if she had been crying or if the unbearable heat of southern Mexico had streaked tear-ish marks down her purpled dirty cheeks.

        She continued to hesitate. “I guess. What do you want with my time?” This was against the unspoken rules of the Zone. Everyone knew what everyone wanted. I couldn’t tell her that I wanted sex with a woman that resembled a beaten man. 11 years later, still not sure if this was latent homosexuality. Still not sure if I wanted to fuck her in the ass.

        “Do you want to fuck my ass?” she asked rhetorically.

        “Yes,” I answered to a question without a prerequisite or needed response, “but I don’t have a condom or lubricant. Is that okay?”

        “That’s fine. Just spit on your dick before you put it in. That’ll be enough lube. I’m tough.”

        This is my problem. I’ll fall in love immediately with anyone that’s willing to give me something I don’t even know I want. Beneath the bruises she wore like trophies, (she seemed to glare at me triumphantly, as if she were tougher than thou) I saw the pieces of something I wanted—battered beauty, a butterfly stuck in an anal cocoon… a brutal, then perennial, beginning.

        Already disrobed when I poked in the door, she was laying gut-down, trough upright—instigating readiness. Any dog would simply bite the moment, but I felt love.

        The room smelled of ass. Clearly this was the apartment for demented men. I didn’t, and don’t, want to be one of these. I was and am, though. I didn’t and don’t want to be this guy.

        “Do you want to talk at all?” My first shot at pursuing emotion. I heard wedding bells as I stared at her beautiful beaten back and saw the colors of marriage; there was white, black and maroon draped across the windows and walls in the church, maybe yellow lilies on the tables of our loved ones; all the colors of the emotions we would feel at our house of worship (even if the colors didn’t match). I was pants-unbuckled and ready to proceed but thought that conversation was the best way to begin a lifelong relationship.

        “Do you wanna fuck or not?” she asked with uncalled for aggression.

        My pants were at my knees and I was presenting a full erection both physically and emotionally. Clearly she didn’t understand what I really wanted. As I stood at the foot of her bed looking at her hiked ass, I began thinking of a way to grab her heart as she had already grabbed mine. Then I noticed that her ass was hairy and she had almost purposefully positioned the sheets to cover everything underneath her butthole. I began to question her gender. But this wasn’t Thailand; this was Mexico. There would’ve been some sort of notice outside the door. Something like ‘This is a dude. Fags only’. I had to know.

        “I’d actually prefer to fuck the normal place, not your ass.”

        She shifted her man-like head and face to catch a peripheral glance at me, “I only get fucked in the ass.”

        “Can’t I do that while facing you? Just turn over and we’ll get to it.”


        Her room was a studio apartment. I glanced at the corner towards the back, away from the door, and noticed the kitchenette; there was a three-foot high fridge and a microwave—nothing else.

        “So you must like Rice-A-Roni.” Knowing this was a stupid statement, (there wasn’t or wanted this type of food in southern Mexico, but there were no other cooking appliances) I tried a different route. “Do you like tortillas and cheese with…”

        “What the fuck are you talking about?” she interrupted. “You gonna do this or what?”

        I realized, through her Spanish subject pronouns, that she was probably from Guatemala and most likely an unbelievably hot, possible male with long hair and untitted chest-lumps hiding under the bed sheets, illegal immigrant hiding in a place where no one would look. I didn’t care.

        “I don’t need an interrogation. I need your money,” the anger in her voice and potential ability of her to kick my ass and take my money changed my mind. I needed to do something or nothing.

        And she was right. Time to do it.

        I fucked her ass without the spit or condom... far from the lightness I usually offer. Tried to finger her vagina during the intercourse but was repeatedly denied access. Probably because she had a dick and refused to satisfy my curiosity. Finished and left the load inside her, as everyone before had done that day. Paid the Pesos, with a generous tip, then left, and continue to think about her to this day. And continue to wonder if she was a dude and question the quickest break-up of my life.

more by abe

flossing out chile

id est