Stories from the Road: The $40 Pay for Play Girl Treated Me Better Than American Women I’ve Had Relationships With
The Zona de Tolerancia in Reynosa, Tamaulipas. It costs roughly $2 to enter the compound. Part of the strip club Lipstick is visible on the left
It’s no secret American women treat men like garbage. I’ve had a few pretty good American girlfriends here and there, but by and large I knew I was nothing more than a disposable utility or a passing infatuation with almost all of them. I knew any LTRs would risk my finances, freedom, and sanity.
As a social observer who watches single mommery become the norm on social media and in cities nationwide (i.e. once the sperm is extracted from the father and he’s disposed of and cast into state slavery, mom hops back on the cock carousel) I know my experience with predatory females is far from unusual. American women use men financially, then kick them to the curb.
I found myself on the Mexico border recently, with a trailer dropoff at a border town. Of course, crossing over for some tacos (in more ways than one) naturally was on my mind. So, I rent a car, drive to the Puente Internacional (International Bridge) and walk across. One of the nice things about crossing into Mexico is there’s no police state badgering a man when crossing Mexican customs. Sure, they’re there, but 9 times out of 10 a man just walks on through with narry a question about his activities. Someone with a libertarian bent, like me, loves that experience.
I walk out of customs, wave for a taxi, and negotiate a price of $20 for the cabby to take me to the Zona, drive me by the rooms where scantily clad girls stand outside, let me pick out one, and wait on me while I bang her. (Sometimes I get the taxi drivers to drop me off, but I decided just to do a hit and run this particular day.) As we pull out, I move to put on my seatbelt and the driver asks me what I’m doing. Suddenly, it occurs to me I don’t have to put on a seatbelt here. “Fuck it. I’ll leave it off,” I think.
We arrive, I pay the $2 to the police to enter the compound. (Yes, you pay police to enter a zone replete with brothels, strip clubs, dive bars, and freelance whores. Pay for play, is of course, illegal in the Land of Prohibitions, America.) We drive around the entire compound. It’s about 7 p.m. so even though it’s Friday night there are only a handful of putas on duty. In our first circle, none of them really caught my eye.
Thinking I’m another weak American, the taxi driver starts instructing me on what to do, in Spanish. “Stop and get a beer.” Of course, he invites himself to a beer with me. I flat out tell him no. Not because I don’t want to buy him a beer, I know he’s just testing to see if he can push me around. So, I tell him to drive around the compound again, and suddenly, a flaquita morena catches my eye. (She was a thin, tan skinned girl.) She had beautiful, flowing black hair, a very nice body with perky tits, and was wearing a revealing but classy black dress. She stood out over the other girls. Indeed, a man can truly find some diamonds in the rough in the zonas once in a while.
She had it all. Perky tits. Tan and supple nipples. Nice legs. Nice hips. Nice, taut little behind. After drinking that scene in, we proceed do the deed. She didn’t rush me. This flaquita morena actually made love to me rather than just fucking me. The whole experience actually got quite intense as I started pumping her pretty hard. I could tell she loved that. I knew afterwards I would remember this girl long after this day. For there’s nothing quite like being treated like a man when you come from a culture that hates men and hates sex.
We talk a few more minutes in Spanish, and I learn this girl is actually studying. They all say they are, but she has books in her room with her. I pay her more than what she was asking for, and get her number before I leave. This girl might be selling it, but she made me feel better inside than most American women I’ve dated because she respected me.
That’s why I monger in the zonas once in a while. Not only is sex a human psychological need as detailed in Maslow’s hierarchy, but it’s nice to be treated like a human being by a woman and not a walking, talking cash machine. I gotta tell you, mutual respect is where it’s at. Life is stranger than fiction sometimes, in that a $40 whore can make a man feel more complete than a woman he’s invested thousands or even hundreds of thousands of dollars in.
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But, it’s a tricky situation. First off, this chick still lives with her parents. Second, she has a great body butterface knocks her down to about a SMV 6½ or so. Third, I know from talking to her she’s been around the block a couple of times. Fourth, I’m spoiled with frankly superior women abroad. American chicks just don’t do it for me anymore. I know they’re an inferior product that typically comes at a very high price. They’re aggravating, unfeminine, and awkward compared to the primo cuts I enjoy abroad. (They’re also usually fat, but this chick isn’t fat.)
As I mentioned before, I’ve literally been eating on a budget like this for years. I’ve lost weight by planning meals. I’ve cut down on waste and aggravation by streamlining and simplifying. I’ve saved tons of cash. And I’ve adapted this plan to hyper-save while I’m in the throes of The Matrix, driving 3,000 miles a week earning that precious freedom money to power my mini-adventures here in the USA and my major adventures abroad.
Bottled water and Walmart store brand sodas are my daily beverages, along with instant Kool-Aid and iced tea packets to keep things interesting. It’s Walmart brand Pop Tarts for breakfast. Celery sticks, carrots, cherry tomatoes and a big tub of ranch dressing for snacktime.
It was really a delight to witness their disgust and powerlessness. There are other, more entertaining moments I witness white girls who are upset by their new roles as soulless worker drones in society, but for some reason these two stood out in my mind as they happened.
In the second instance, I don’t normally like to eat out but I was in the mood for a sloppy fast food burger this evening. I haven’t had one in weeks, and decided to stop by a national chain to pick up some trash food. As soon as I walked in, I saw one rather plump white woman weeping, another trashy one consoling her from the front of the counter, and several other white girls behind the counter toiling away. All were fast food workers who obviously hated their new roles as corporate slaves. A couple were cute, but cuteness does nothing for me. I’m still an asshole when it comes to dealing with chicks.
She takes the burger, hands it to the only guy in the place, and tells him, “I don’t know what he wants.” Dude comes up, I tell him the exact same thing I told fatty, laugh in a cocky manner about it, and he immediately fixes my order in a cool, calm, professional manner rather than the estrogen-filled flailing around I witnessed from the YouGoGrrl brigade on this visit.
Here’s how it went.
