After taking a week long sojourn in Mexico to cleanse myself of the cultural toxicity of America, I’m back.
Luckily, I can request time off anywhere in the U.S. my trucking company does business, so naturally I request time off on the border every 3 weeks to escape the mean-faced, Cloroxed hair women and the spiritual emptiness of a nation that worships the shopping mall and the slow death of bad, ersatz food.
I arrived at the international bridge around 10:00 p.m. after dropping my last load. I decided to walk across into a border city tormented by ongoing battles between Prohibitionist Mexican police and drug cartels. (Prohibition never works, it just leads to violence.) After having my sanity questioned by everyone who knew I was a white boy walking alone into Mexico, I can tell you I had absolutely no problems other than having to dick around with cab drivers who wanted to rip me off. You gotta be a man in Mexico. You can’t be a bitch. Weakness will be pounced on. Just so you know.
I immediately made my way down to the zona de tolerancia to search out some $40-$50 legal whores. Oh yes, renting sex isn’t illegal in Mexico.
The brothel inside the zona was dead, no chicas in sight, but there were still a few working girls in the cuartos or rooms around the compound. I ended up banging a 30ish chick from the capital of Mexico City and remember thinking as we finished up, “Holy fuck, this $40 prostitute just treated me better and made me feel like more of a man than any of the American women I spent large sums of money on dating when I still tried to be the Beta nice guy.”
She was light skinned, could have passed for white, and treated me with utmost respect. I remember thinking as we put our clothes back on that I come here to the zonas from time to time to experience women treating me like a human being and not a utility object, not just for the sex. (Which is hit and miss in terms of quality.)
Anyway, after that it was on to coastal Mexico.
Wisely avoiding the tourist areas, I ended up in Playa del Carmen. Initially disappointed by the Eurotrash and Americanized clubs and shops, I decided to take a walk to the bad part of town. Ended up having an awesome time with a couple of chicas.
And then, it happened.
I met a Mexican girl, about my age, who pressed all the right buttons. She reminded me of the first Latina I ever dated way back at the tender age of 24. The rest of my trip was magical. Transcendent, even. I remember why having the Latina experience changed the course of my entire life and I’m still chasing adventures in Latin America over a decade later.
This chick was hot. I mean really hot. Beautiful face, flowing dark hair, sumptuous curves, full booty, perky tits, luscious lips, and haunting eyes. She was so charming and treated me so well I was in a trance. I spent maybe $100 on the both of us for food and dancing the ENTIRE WEEK. Obviously, she was not after my money. Nor a green card. No, this was a real woman. She was everything I ran away from Anglo America to find.
A couple of times I fought back tears at the rush of emotion and happiness, having been starved of tender, female affection like this back home.
She would nibble on my ear and we would make out in public like teenagers. She would lay in my lap at the park. She would grab my hand as we walked around town and focus her attention on me. She cooked for me. She talked to me like she was interested in what I had to say.
Of course, the sex was incredible. It was real. More than just physical, it was emotional. There’s just nothing like the experience of a real, Old World woman. It can be a life changing experience, realizing there are places where women treat you like a man and not a dog. This is a big reason I travel.
But, my Savage Pilgrimages are about much more than empty sex and good times. I travel to have beautiful experiences like these in my life, in which I get to feel what it’s like to be with a woman who knows how to treat me like a man, rather than biding my time with a chick trying to be a man herself, like Anglobitches.
I am still high on this experience, walking around with a spring in my step and stars in my eyes as I wander back in to a nation of hateful, spiritually dead materialists. The memories and the happy daze make the transition back to living the life of a monk easier while I work and save for 6 months of living abroad. Memories like these motivate me. There are places where women aren’t taught to hate men.
While everyone else snarls their nose when someone mentions Mexico, I know the truth. This is a place where a man can still be a man and live a full life, one denied him by a gynocentric death cult.
All you gotta do is speak the language.
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