A Few of Those Orgasms Are Real.

Relax, it's just a story...

¡Ay, papi! Broad daylight. Dusk. 3:00 AM. Somebody is taking down those who run los masajes, one well-placed bullet at a time. The subway fare went up again. Tortillas too. Do you know who sells the best pozole in this town? The chicas keep giving servicios. The tipos keep paying. A bullet has the last word.

It's a story about those who can't be touched and those who can. It's a story about what it means to be taken seriously when your value is measured in minutes. It's a story about what goes on in the shadows, how far it takes you, and what it leaves you with. It's a story that doesn't back down, even when it should.

Vice. A daily grind. Most of the chicas take the bus to work. The fare is 15 pesos. The lucky ones get a seat. Some have their boyfriends drop them off and pick them up. Some drive.

"A few of those orgasms are real," the chicas confess. They go home with the rent. School clothes for the kids. Medicines for mom. A payment on a dinette set from Elizondo or Elektra.

It's a side to the city that thrives in silence. Everybody knows. Everybody shrugs. Everybody changes the subject.

"You say I have a kink?" she spat. "Maybe I do. Think what this would be like if I didn't."

Get used to it.

Some stains you can't wash out.

Some stains you don't want to.

Some stains become part of the sidewalk.

Some stains become part of you.

BACK.

It hurts. It costs. La máquina no da cambio. MORE.