An Unexpected Sex Show With My Spanish Teacher in Puerto Escondido
My Spanish teacher in Puerto Escondido dressed like the Fonz and liked to flaunt the collection of selfies on his blackberry. The photos were always edited in really outdated camera effects like ‘negative’ and ‘stencil’. It seemed he was more interested in convincing us he was cool than teaching us to speak Spanish. This was confirmed when he announced that we were going on a field trip. He told us it was a must-see of Puerto, rich in culture, a place where we could see “the real Mexico”.
We met at 10pm in a bar down town; José had popped his collar, gelled his mini-mohawk, and was wearing dark shades, which must have significantly impeded his vision considering the sun had set two hours prior. After draining his cerveza, José announced it was time to head to the main event.
We exited the bar and turned into a dark alley leading uphill away from the beach and ending in large concrete stairs built haphazardly around a drainpipe. We clambered up and found ourselves on the busy main road that leads in and out of town. We passed a row of women dressed in skimpy sequined outfits and ill-fitting negligée, sitting legs-apart. They were lined up along the side of a wide driveway as we proceeded towards the entrance of the building.
“Is this a fucking brothel?” I hissed at José as we crossed the threshold.
“Ha ha no, relax! It’s a strip club, the best in town. There’s some really dodgy ones around, you know?”
I glanced over the room, and turned back to him, eyebrow raised. Either the interior decorator had gone for oriental primary school disco, or this place doubled as a Chinese restaurant during the day. Cheap neon flashing lights and disco balls hung amongst red Chinese lanterns painted with dragons. There were two feature walls covered in street art and a smoke machine that exhaled every couple of minutes, suffocating everyone around it. The “stage” was a slightly raised platform strategically placed next to the bathrooms. It’s hard to believe I noticed any of this, though, considering there were two giant televisions at different vantage points playing explicit pornography. It was a sensory overload, and not in a good way. To top it all off, we were the only patrons.
José ordered us beers and we took a seat at a small round table. The Madam poked her head out from behind a curtain that presumably lead backstage. Seeing that there were people awaiting entertainment, she marched out to the girls and before long, a despondent dancer was stage front.
Now, I don’t want to criticise the poor girl, but she had absolutely no oomph whatsoever, no work ethic at all really… it was as though she didn’t want to be there. She barely gyrated and there were certainly no acrobatic pole manoeuvres. Somehow I got the idea that dancing wasn’t the primary task of her employment.
I spent the next several minutes attempting flippancy as our group continued to interact as though we weren’t on the set of a bizarre Spanish porno. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stop thinking about whether José and Alex had boners, so I just stopped looking them in the eye altogether.
With wandering gaze, I noticed a gentlemen had quietly slipped in an alternate door and was sitting in the shadows of the far back corner. The Madam noticed too, and was quick to ascertain the nature of his visit. Before long, a second girl was brought into to the room and began to perform what I suppose was a lap dance, yet with less dance and more ferocious dry humping. The man didn’t seem perturbed that he was basically having sex in front of us, and I know this because he then actually did begin to have sex in front of us. I don’t care if it was dark, I was as sober as a Zen-yogi-master and I saw what slipped out of his pants and around the side of her hot pink studded bikini bottoms.
Everywhere I looked a woman was uncomfortably performing a very warped version of sexuality, from the grumpy pole dancer and the unsophisticated 1970s Amish porn on TV to the seated reverse cowgirl that was going on mere metres away.
I decided to leave.
José looked surprised as I stood up and politely excused myself. “Where you gooiiiing?” he said, raising his aviators with one hand to make eye contact with me. His expression was that of a person trying to peer pressure you to stay at the party by making you fear you’ll henceforth be considered lame if you leave. Unfortunately for José I wasn’t trying to impress him as much as he was trying to impress us.
It did hinder my education though. I never did go back to class. No wonder my Spanish is so shit.
Cover by Álvaro Gómez Pidal