Some notes on bordertown bordellos might be interesting to one who will never visit such a place. In Tijuana, solicitation was exclusively the province of street hawkers who identified prospective customers. They would approach single or small groups of men but had learned that couples and mixed groups are never in the market. I suspect these procurers worked on commission, rather than salary, because they would always respond to unusual requests and guide you anywhere (the bull ring, jai alai stadium, the best restaurant in town). They would accept a tip of course, but after you had been delivered and introduced, would be seen talking business with a manager who took notes.
Very few individual women worked the street, possibly because the industry was controlled by an organization (We have seen too many tasteful movies and TV plots.) Imagine the problems of being an independent who must maintain her own quarters and working place, whose access to the only obstetrician in town is limited, and without benefit of group-protection coverage by the police. Even without direct coercion, she might not last long.
A friend and I were guided on the main (dirt) road out of town nearly to the bullfight stadium. We turned off a short distance to an isolated structure that looked like a two-story, wood-framed, Kansas farmhouse. In the moonlight (there were no street lamps), it appeared never to have been painted in its 75-year history. Enough illumination leaked from the interior to support several men loitering in the front yard. Passing within ten feet of those guys, they contemptuously stared straight at us. Their eyes followed us into the house so unwaveringly that I, last through the doorway, watched over my shoulder in case they should attack.
The interior smelled like soiled laundry — I am tempted to suggest stale sweat and dried cum . . . but I won't. The large front room seemed more dimly lit than outdoors. Our guide turned us over to a pimp and went on to a well-dressed man to make sure his delivery was recorded. The panderer inquired what sort of pleasure might interest my buddy while I soaked up our surroundings. Moveable screens divided the periphery into three sided cubicles, only slightly larger than the cots for which they provided scant isolation from one another and none at all from the room's interior. Some were occupied, some not. The motion of copulation could be detected in one. I deduced that there were more rooms and accommodations upstairs.
The cot nearest the door must have been the centerpiece of attraction and was the most visible. On it, lay a nude, pubescent youth only partly covered by a rumpled sheet. I could see her face; motionless, staring at the ceiling without expression. She must be the one to whom the procurers on the street referred, "Hey, Marine, you want to meet my sister? She cherry." I am not joking, that cry will echo within me forever.
My comrade was becoming as turned off as I was, "Three dollars is a good price, but I can't stomach this." He turned to the man and indicated the girl by the door, "How much for that one?" Five dollars he was told. The Marine slipped a bill into the child's limp hand and we walked out. As we left, I saw the pimp retrieve the money without resistance — there was no movement or expression of any kind from the girl.
I understand from hearsay that this particular crib practiced no health standards or disease control of any kind. If you wanted to use a prophylactic, you brought your own because no one there was able or in a position to care.
Outside, the loitering men took up their critical stare. There was, to me, contempt and even hatred in the scrutiny. I said to my companion, "Hold up a minute. I have to figure something out." I stepped forward to within touching distance of the nearest Mexican and bore into his eyes with my own. I was flooded with emotion. How can this short man tolerate such a cultural anomaly and hate me so? Does he blame this (his) condition on me? He does indeed! He believes that the rich Gringos are to blame for this misfortune. I am on the receiving end of the most pure form of prejudice.
Demons galloped through my mind. He was perhaps undernourished prenatally or as a youth. It wasn't his fault he was a runt or that we had here a sad social phenomenon. But it sure as hell was his fault to hold me in contempt for these things. The others, who were hanging out, had backed away from the eye confrontation. I wished briefly that any of them would make a physically threatening move to which I could respond in kind. At that moment, I felt kinship with the girl inside and none at all for these assholes. Finally, the little guy retreated into the shadows, and I was left with my fists clenched and elevated pulse and respiration.
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