Taking out the gimp

The taxi driver didn’t give me a chance to say anything. “La Zona rosa?” he asked. I saw all the Christian stuff on his dashboard so I said “sure, why not.” I had arrived in Mexico City earlier during the day, checked in a cheap hotel in some far periphery. In the evening, I was thinking about eating somewhere since, being in Mexico City, I might as well. So some Indian girl at the office called for a cab. And that’s how it went.

“Bonjour,” I said and I knew the cab driver would have a story to tell his wife next morning. He seemed to like that I was French although I spoke no Spanish. He kept saying: “Zona Rosa, good, good,” each time winking at me in his rear-view mirror.

He let me off in “Zona rosa” with a last wink. OK, I knew where I was and there was no more Christian stuff. You go to Memphis, Hamburg, Shanghai, wherever, there’s always a Zona rosa and they all work the same way. So I looked at my options, realized it was a week day, started walking and eventually entered into a bar that somehow felt a bit friendly, a Corona sign blinking a sad yellow.

I knew it was still early evening but I realized I must have been quite hungry and thirsty to be among the first clients in such a joint. All the tables were empty.

It was cool inside, although there was no air conditioning, and there were more waitresses than customers. Sure enough, a hefty one – but they were all hefty – soon came to see me, asked me what I wanted for a drink. “Birra,” I said. She knew right there and then that I was not her usual local farmer or horny Yank.

“Cerveza?” she asked.
“Yeah yeah, birra, cerveza,” I said.

She stood there and looked me up.
So I looked her up too and she was hefty, too hefty for me.

“You buy me a drink?” she asked, in Spanish I guess but I understood.
“Sure,” I said, “what do you want?”
“Champagne,” she said.
“No way,” I said.
“Really no Champagne?” she shrieked, with a wicked smile.
“No, no Champagne,” I said. “Una cerveza will be fine.”

So she walked away, miffed, and was soon sharing the news with the crowd of waitresses having nothing to do. “Who’s this cheap fuck?” they were probably saying in Spanish that was no Castillan from the academy. It took forever for my beer to reach my table.

So, there I was having a Mexican beer hardly cold when another one of those rubenesque waitresses showed up.

“Where are you from?” she asked.
“France,” I said.
“Oh!” she said. “From France? Paris. Are you from Paris?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“Do you need anything?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.

In fact I had plenty of time to look at the menu. So I ordered tacos – Tacos!!! The waitress was dumbfounded – “one beef, one chicken, one pastor,” I said. “And another beer.”

Her big tits were looming over me screaming for recognition if not love.

“You buy me a drink?” she asked in a shrill voice.
By then my Spanish was doing better.
“Sure,” I said, “what do you want?”
“Champagne?” she said.
“No way,” I said. “No Champagne.”

She was miffed too. So, on her high heels, she walked away from me shaking her ass and that ass was saying “look fucker, this ass is a hacienda to some cowboy.” So I knew she was miffed. At least, she had figured out that, although I was a foreigner brought here by a complaisant taxi driver, although I was French, I was not rich and, at this moment, only looking for a place to sit and drink and eat and maybe call it a day.

Then, another one of these quite big and round girls/women showed up, in due time this time, with my food and drink.

“So, you’re French?” she said. “Je vous aime! Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir? Paris mon amour!” she said quickly, in French.

She knew what the words meant. She was looking at me, her hip in my face and she was anything but bony. I had to give it to her. So she laughed aloud and her laughter was so clear and so true that even the bartender noticed. “What’s happening with the girls now,” was he thinking, on guards.

True, her fat hip and all the work right up my face were giving me ideas.

So I said “yeah, your French is good.”
Still smiling, she said: “You buy me a drink?”
“Sure,” I said, “what do you want?”
“Champagne,” she said.
“No way,” I said.
“Ok, I’ll have a beer. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“OK,” I said.
And so she did.

By then the place was filling up with locals, rednecks off the surrounding mountains and foreigners, mostly too loud Americans much too careless with their lives. I’d see the waitresses, now sitting on those guys’ laps, and these guys thinking so much about themselves in buying overpriced bad warm champagne.

And there I was having a beer with a funny and curious and cute Mexican hooker who, to my eyes, was still too much on the fat side.

We exchanged stories, I made her laugh and the other fat and jolly girls were bringing food and beer and sharing a moment and by then some Mariachis owed the juke and I was feeling better. Then the nice fat funny whore whose name I never knew told me that she had to go back to work and she was soon sitting on the laps of some John she obviously knew from before and you could tell that, in John’s eyes, little Mexican honey was none too fat.

By then the place was now very busy and I was still sitting at the same table, drinking beer and not saying much but a nice word in French to the waitresses here and then to see them giggle. That’s when she showed up: the gimp.

I saw her walk through the crowd among big guys and big women paying no attention to her and coming straight to my table. She had a big gimp, like for some reason one of her leg was an inch or two shorter than the other. But she knew how to move through a crowd and all of a sudden she was at my table. No cane.

“Can I sit?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said.

So she sat.

She gave me a chance to look at her. She was pretty, not so young – 25, 26 years old maybe – with abundant blond curly hair, a small body, a small frame and eyes that said she wasn’t born from the last rain.

Somehow, I could imagine where she could be from and what she could have known, with that gimp, to end up here in this funky place. I had not noticed her since I had arrived so I knew the guy behind the bar was getting her out only when the place was really busy and peasants hornier than ever. Other than that, I guessed she was probably doing more cleaning jobs than head jobs or selling Champagne.

But she didn’t look beat.

“So you’re French,” she said.
“Oui,” I said.
“What you’re doing here?” she asked.
“Eating and drinking, trying to make it a day,” I said.
“What you’re doing for a living?” she asked.
“I write,” I said.
“You write?”

She was surprised. Maybe she thought I was exporting cattle to Europe or something. Then again, I wouldn’t have been in her bar.

“What do you write about?” she asked. I then realized her English was pretty decent. I could understand her and her me.

“About stuff, doesn’t matter really.”
“And you make money this way?” she asked and she was genuine.
“I make just enough that I can buy beer and food and afford a room for myself, not enough that I can buy champagne at first sight,” I said.

She gave it time to fly and then she asked: “You buy me a drink?”
“Sure,” I said, “what do you want?”
“I’ll have a glass of wine,” she said.

She waved her hand and I discovered, when I saw them wink, that the other whores seemed to be happy for the gimp. They seemed to think it was only fair that she had her chance with this French guy and the bartender was not unhappy that someone was finally getting some cash out of this odd ball from Zorg and the Mariachis on the juke were by now going full blast.

So the little gimpy whore drunk her wine, more than one glass, and I drunk my beers and she ordered food now and then.

I asked her name.
“Gabriella,” she said.

“Do you want me to sit on your laps?” she asked me.
“Sure,” I said.

So she did and I was glad.

The rest of the evening was tender in the sense that she would let my hands go over her body, tits and ass and legs, more precisely so as the evening and the drinks bore along. Later, it was obvious the place was soon going to close. So obvious I was paying my bill.

“You know, I can come with you tonight if you want,” said Gabriella.
And she added, very quickly, “for free you know.”
And she added, very quickly, “I know you don’t have much money and that I’m a gimp and all but if you want I can come with you tonight,” she said.

By then, yes, I wanted, and I didn’t care that much that she was crippled.
Shit, for all I knew, I was French, and poor at that.

So we took a cab. The driver didn’t know quite what to think – although he could certainly guess some – so he shut up. In the dingy hotel lobby, the Indian help acted as if they knew nothing and as if this French E.T. with a Mexican gimp was business as usual.

Then again, maybe it was.

We had picked up beer and wine so we drunk some more in this sad and uncomfortable hotel room in some periphery of Mexico City. What was that? A free one? Really?

We did fuck that night, once, and there was not much joy to it, as if we both had to be acting our part. Yet, before going to sleep, much to my surprise, Gabriella cuddled to me and there was something very sweet about it and I had a fleeting thought about all the assholes she had met.

When I woke up in the morning, she was still there and thus I knew my wallet was still there too and I felt happy somehow.

From then on, Gabriella took command, starting with breakfast. And, for the next three days, she took me out throughout Mexico City, food and drinks and clubs and tourist places. I was paying but it wasn’t expensive. I noticed that when she took me in her neighborhood, or when she was in places she was used to, her gimp was lighter and she paid no mind to it. I didn’t care. For all I knew she was sometimes gimping so fast I’d have to calm her down. And she had found she could talk to me all the time and that I was listening. All of a sudden, I was in Mexico City alright.

These few nights, sex became very good and daring and lovely and she kept cuddling so I eventually was proud to take her out in a trendy place downtown. She was touched and we were both shy about it.

She ordered what she wanted for her and for me and I ordered good French wine. Neither of us knew how to act in such a place so we got drunk real good on French wine, didn’t even like all the fancy food, talked aloud and gimped our way out of there like we knew something.

We took a cab home. I knew that was it, I was broke again and would have to get going the next day to where ever bums go. I told her that.

Back in the dingy hotel room, we had the best love making ever. Tiny frame, tiny pussy, tiny ass, one leg shorter than the other. There was something racy and desperate about it, about us.

Then she cuddled.

“I could be your wife you know,” she said and she meant it.
“I know,” I said and I meant it.

We were silent at last.

She cuddled some more and I held her, tight.

Ellar Wise

Originally published on February 24, 2015


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