It’s strange how much you rewrite the past once you’re older. What you’d do differently. What you’d leave alone. Most guys our age had already messed around by then—hands in the dark, girls from school, the usual. This wasn’t that.
My first real night wasn’t forty years ago when I was a kid. I was twenty-one. So was Vernon. We told our folks we were going fishing overnight. We weren’t. We were driving to Boys Town, across the river in Mexico. A hundred and forty miles. He had the car. Neither of us had ever driven that far from home.
We dumped the rods under the trees at my place in the country and left.
Two hours in, a car full of guys blew past with straight pipes screaming. Vernon looked at me. I nodded. His ’54 Ford came alive. We leapfrogged them for fifty miles, sometimes over a hundred. Last time they passed, he let off. Over the next rise the highway patrol had them. The driver was pointing at us. The cop hadn’t caught us. Once we were over the hill we hauled ass again.
Del Rio. Through town, follow the signs to the bridge. Immigration looked at us hard.
“Where you boys going?”
“Shopping,” I said, which was the dumbest thing I could have opened my mouth with.
“Yeah. Sure.” He waved us through anyway.
We didn’t know Boys Town sat a few miles out. Someone who spoke English laughed and pointed us toward it.
The place was shaped like a Y. We parked, paid a kid a quarter to watch the Ford, and took the left fork.
The first doorway looked like a pool hall. We’d barely passed it when the shouting started. A man ran into the street. Another man followed and shot him down in the dirt. Vernon and I ran like hell and ducked into the first open club.
We stopped dead.
“Come in, boys,” she said.
A topless Mexican woman, mid-twenties, the biggest tits I’d only ever seen in magazines. They stood out from her chest, dark nipples like a dare. Vernon walked to a table. I stood there with my mouth open.
She laughed, walked up, and rubbed those tits across my face. Then she grabbed the hard line in my jeans and said something in Spanish. The other girls laughed. I went red. Her tits kept swinging past my mouth and I finally grabbed one and sucked it. Her nipple drew up. I shoved my hand under her rolled blouse, between her thighs, and rubbed her through the skirt. She threw her head back and moaned.
Vernon already had a girl on him.
Lilly—I learned her name later—kissed me, pulled me to the table, and straddled my lap. I moaned into her mouth.
“Hey Vernon. Beer. Before I have to leave the chair.”
Lilly got up, kissed me again, and went for the bottles. I unzipped. When she sat back down her eyes went wide. I’d slipped between her pussy lips and missed the entrance. Heat all around my cock. I almost came on her thigh. She looked at me a long time. Her ass moved a fraction. The head brushed her clit. I pinched her nipples. She raised up, found me, and sat down until I was buried.
It wasn’t a whore’s kiss. It was slow.
The other girl hissed something in Spanish. Lilly answered without getting off.
“She say take you to room or I get trouble,” Lilly told me. “I say you feel too good. After you make Lilly come, we go.”
We stayed locked like that half an hour. I didn’t thrust. Her cunt milked me in tiny moves. I held on by spite.
Then the floor show started. A woman and a donkey. Vernon and I looked at each other and back at the stage. The girl danced the clothes off, rubbed herself on the animal’s muzzle. His tongue came out. His cock started to drop and swell. Lights dimmed. Lilly lifted off me, turned to watch, then sat back down—and this time she put me in her ass. Tighter than before. I held still and let her take the length until she was seated on my stomach, shaking.
On stage the girl got into a harness and fed that animal into herself so it couldn’t wreck her. Thirteen inches, thick as an arm. She worked herself on it. Lilly’s hips picked up. I found her clit, then pushed a finger into her cunt while I stayed planted in her ass. She turned and kissed me.
“When this is over, I want to fuck and suck you for real.”
I rubbed her clit harder. Her moans disappeared into the crowd. The girl on stage came. The donkey squealed and jammed forward. Lilly clamped down on my cock so hard I thought she’d snap it. She shook through one orgasm, then another, juice on my hand. She lifted off me, felt I was still hard, and gasped.
“Put it away. Please come with me.”
Vernon was already gone. I stuffed myself back in my jeans and followed her through the back curtain.
Small room. Narrow bed. A metal basin on the floor with God-knows-what in it. She took it out and came back with clean water and soap. Washed me. Washed herself. Some homemade douche. Then she knelt and took my cock to the root.
“Lilly—I’m going to come.”
“Yes, Joe. Come for Lilly.”
Twenty-one years old and I emptied down her throat like I’d been saving it for a decade. She swallowed and crawled up beside me, smiling.
“Joe like Lilly?”
“Joe like Lilly very much.”
“Good. Joe stay all night.”
“I can’t afford all night.”
“Lilly no charge for you. Only two dollars for room.”
That night I learned more about sex than I have in most of the years since. Open. No performance. No little rules.
Next morning Vernon and his girl met us for breakfast. We stayed that day and into the next night. When we left, Lilly cried at the car.
“You come back to Lilly soon. Lilly love you.”
I hadn’t done anything except treat her like a person. Maybe that was enough. Maybe, in some small way, I loved her a little for what she gave me—not for the room.
We picked up the fishing gear and crawled into my bed around three. At five my mother was screaming.
“Both of you. Off my clean sheets. In the tub.”
Clorox bath. More bleach than water. It burned.
Then she told us exactly what she thought of two grown sons sneaking to the whores in Mexico and lying about fish. How did she know? I was almost forty before she admitted it: she’d found the border-crossing receipt in the laundry.
Last time I saw Vernon was the thirtieth reunion in 1993. We sat there and laughed about the pipes, the cop, Lilly, the two-dollar room. He died the next year. Alcohol and drugs. I still miss him.
The other two guys in our later foursome—that’s another story.
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