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MEXICAN SEX HOTEL

by

HP Tinker



Q. Could I treat her nice? Could we drink sherry together and play chess? (But would she ever marry me?) Well, would she?

A. We decided not to press the matter any further, stumbling down blindly into the bowels of the steamboat, discussing the weather: “Fine day.” “Yes, isn’t it.”

Q. Why did she so readily agree to join us? Didn’t she naturally have a few questions of her own? Wasn’t she at all suspicious?

A. Did we in fact persuade her to join us?

Q. Or was she tied in a sack? Bound callously? Hard and tight?

A. In fact, did she not fully comprehend the exacting nature of the situation? Did she wearily gasp instead: “Where am I? Who are you? What place is this? Where is my father? Where is my father? Where is my father? Where is my father?”

Q. And so like a glamour model -- at something of a competitively fixed price. Did we purchase her from the doorman of a Mexican sex hotel and step inside? (Was he a most civil and obliging, good-natured older gentleman, I wonder now, looking back?)

A. Possibly. And stepping inside the hotel, was it like stepping into another world? A world of badly painted passages and useless tourist information…

Q. Can I suggest these badly painted passages and useless tourist information receded, shelving off into mysteriously darkened chambers?

A. You can.

Q. And now do we sit alone in our dimly lit rooms and wish she’d never left us?

A. And so like a glamour model, in something of a haze…

Q. Did we say nothing, you and I, standing around the deck of the steamboat, discussing the weather? “Fine day.” “Yes, isn’t it.”

A. Did we laugh callously in the shadow of the competitively fixed price of our nearest parlour, discussing future tactics while unpolished provincial types laughed openly at our choice of travel clothing? As we gasped in the TV lounge of the hotel, did she begin to stir? Did renewed circulation thrill our every vein? Did she want to purchase the latest digital TV set? Did she regard fine bone china with rare discernment? Did she watch Kramer Vs Kramer repeatedly, smoking mentholated cigarettes? Did she naturally question her own powers, the control she had over men and nature?

Q. And then the two of us, in a squatting posture, astride enormous latrines…

A. Was she strangely unperturbed by this sight?

Q. And how do we long for her now, boy? Quickly revealing her sunken torso, every embossed symbol speaking forth so eloquently? O what disenchanted her? O what exactly took place between the paper-thin walls of the Mexican sex hotel?

A. Nobody is quite sure.

Q. Why did she ever let it slip she was the slow and careful solution to our largesse?

A. Every day is a little more hazy than the last…

Q. Did it all begin long ago, in fairly mysterious circumstances? Did it elate and delight us at the time? Did she claim to be much more fun in the dead of night? Did we telephone colleagues and laugh heartily at our good fortune? Laughing like foxes?

A. Or crocodiles?

Q. Or small household pets generally?

A. Can we settle on the sacred signs that traced her body?

Q. Yes. What was her tremendous form clearly symbolic of? Something old and very important? And in our squatting posture, did we gasp? And as we gasped, did she readily agree to join us on our long voyage back home?

A. But what was inscribed on the local community by her presence? Was it a positive effect observed by blossoming daughters and driving instructors, amongst others? Did highly experienced college lecturers attempt to locate the reason behind this positive effect, without success? And what did our current wives think? Did her beauty disarm them? Did her beauty disarm us?

Q. And is this why we now drink so much Chianti?

A. And as a consequence do we eat sweet pastry in her wake?

Q. And why do birds suddenly appear, singing sad bird songs hinting at love and disenchantment?

A. Do several more then contrive to do the same?

Q. Did gaining access to her prove a relatively simple process? Did we believe her lies?

A. Did she settle in rather nicely as it happens? Did she regard fine bone china with rare discernment? Did she turn to the greatest hits of Tina Turner for inspiration and meaning? Did she find any?

Q. Did we believe her lies?

A. Do we frequently ask these and other questions? Do highly experienced college lecturers attempt to locate the answers to these questions, without success? Did her beauty disarm us all?

Q. Gaining access to the lonely autocratic nature of our upbringing, did we ask ourselves, “Why didn’t she refuse us and our contumacious requests?”

A. We will not forget her…

Q. Were snickering donkeys involved at a later stage? Did they fly mesmerised?

A. One day, via a kind of darkened vestibule, in the dead of night, contravening certain international laws protecting such ancient matters, did she vanish?

Q. How could she simply disappear like that? Did we feel it was arguably the correct thing to do however, given the circumstances?

A. But did others disagree, taking exception? And did they convey us across shifting industrial wastelands in search of her? Did many of us feel a speeding motor vehicle might have been more appropriate? Did we unwittingly suck the very lifeblood from the doorman and step inside again? (Was he a most civil and obliging, good-natured older gentleman, I wonder now, looking back?)

Q. Possibly. Just the two of us, like a family so afflicted by winter, one after the other… throbbing red with animal hate…

A. ... and did we sit down beside her and reach for her arbitrarily…

Q. … the softness of…

A. … her epidermis…

Q. And now do we long for her return?

A. And is there really nothing more to be said about her unspeakably bright green eyes, their sepulchral luminance?

Q. All the time, was she quietly growing restless without us noticing?

A. And so do we listen to authentic country music and drink into the cowering gloom? In the cowering gloom, already bored, disenchanted, do we cower gloomily? Did we never truly consider her feelings in all of this?

Q. Did she never purchase the latest digital TV set? Did she acquire a library card instead? Did she turn to the Boss Man and the departmental rough back alleys of time? Was a secret trigger-device helpfully sign-posted to speed her departure?

A. Yes.

Q. But how did her sacred signs translate approximately? “What is the nature of her motives?” did we ponder at the time? Did we ask too much of her own powers, the control she had over men and nature?

A. One day, in a kind of darkened vestibule, did she proceed to completely devour the novels of Virginia Andrews voraciously?

Q. Did they lack meaning?

A. And is there really nothing more to be said? Except that the sight of her left me every day significantly more mesmerised than the last...

Q. Did she purchase Parisian sombreros for all and sundry?

A. Was her effect on the community a positive one? Was this effect observed by blossoming daughters and driving instructors, amongst others? Did they fly mesmerised? Like us, were they later more than a little vague about the actual events?

Q. Did she prepare chilli con carne on special occasions alone? Was an air of mystery conducive to her lifestyle after all? Did it happen on West 35th Street? Or am I now where you are too?

A. And in the kitchen of those early days, did she in fact jump at the chance?

Q. And in the dead of night, did we unwittingly suck the very lifeblood from the pretty bones of her face?

A. And is this why we now drink so much Chianti?

Q. Unperturbed, did we wake one afternoon to find her simply not here anymore? Had she left an empty bed behind her, slipping away softly, fading in the cowering gloom?

A. In the cowering gloom?

Q. In the cowering gloom, did we decide not to press the matter any further? Stumbling blindly down into the cowering gloom, did we never truly consider her feelings in all of this?

A. And did many of us suddenly wonder who would take her place now?

Q. Unperturbed, did we ask too much of her naturally sweetened face?

A. Sadly, did it happen in a Welsh castle, a gloomily vaulted bedroom apartment? And touching those majestic erections, towering to the lonely autocratic nature of our motives, did she sit up, thin and blooming as a glamour model, spread magnificently wide…

Q. Or did these things not happen?

A. Like I said before, my memory of these events is a little…

Q. And did we purchase ice cream from the actual bones of her absence? Were attempts made to replace her with others? Did these attempts take place by a series of rapid time-elapsing dissolves? Were they without exception unsatisfactory?

A. Did we then ask, what is the nature of the night? Of this pretty lady? Could I treat her nice? Could we drink sherry together and play chess? (But would she ever marry me?) Well, would she? And did we purchase ice cream from the provided vending machines? And how did she enter our lives? Did it involve a long voyage back home?

Q. Or did we slowly dismount in the dead of night, contravening certain international laws?

A. Once there, did life continue much as before?

Q. Or did she not see these things? A glamour model, in something of a Welsh castle?

A. Nobody is quite sure.

Q. How did it happen? On West 35th Street? Or am I now nothing without her? Every Valentine’s day do we sit alone in our dimly lit rooms and wish she’d never left us? And due to the greatest hits of Tina Turner did we never truly consider her feelings in all of this?

A. Was life suddenly empty then, without her in it? Did we unwittingly suck the very centre of the lonely autocratic nature of our upbringing from between the shadow of those brazen legs, spread magnificently wide, toward the centre of which yawned a deep, dark gloomy cavity like a crevasse or moist, sunken well? And by simply touching the secret trigger-device hidden there, did majestic erections slowly rise like a portcullis in a daze, towering to the skies like an octopus in the dismal wake of her face? Did we neglect her, you and I, because of the night? And what were handsome-faced men heard to remark in the dead of this night?

Q. Is that true? Did she elate and delight others also?

A. Where I am now, without her?

Q. An ink black laundry room called Melancholy…?

A. While we feel secretly to blame, what were handsome-faced men heard to remark? Did they ever ask themselves why a flurry of starlings trailed her every footstep, clinging from tree to tree in her memory?

Q. Every Valentine’s day do we long for her return?

A. We will not forget her…

Q. And in the dead of night did we return to our small town of high churches? Did the journey take place via a series of luxury hotel rooms? (Although were the actual details, like herself, shrouded in much mystery?) Did we ask ourselves, “Why did she ever let it slip she was the slow and careful solution to our largesse?”

A. Although, as no other autobiographical details were forthcoming at that time, did we not really believe her?

Q. But did others disagree, taking exception? Did several years contrive to pass in this manner? Did any of it happen in the way I have just described?

A. Like I said before, my memory of these events is a little vague…will we not forget her?

Q. No, but do we feel deeply responsible?

A. At least in part?

Q. Yes. But all the time, was she quietly growing restless without us noticing?

A. Did we not believe her lies? Were they even lies?

Q. And everything she inscribed on the community, observed by blossoming daughters and driving instructors, amongst others, was it torn down and rebuilt? Or was it a relatively simple process? Did we laugh callously in the kitchen of those early days? Did she regard the soft-spoken county sheriff down to his dismal cock and the dietary dysfunction of the goodness held therein? Did renewed circulation thrill his every vein? Did we ask: “Will she be good and hold important positions, participate in great deeds, organise Scrabble tournaments, and so forth? Or will she be mean and wear mean expressions and embarrass you in front of your friends by dancing the funky chicken…?”

Q. Did our words lack meaning, then?

A. For this particular pretty lady? Yes, perhaps…

Q. But unperturbed, did we come across some kind of crevasse or moist, sunken well sliding open of its own violation, magnificently wide… renewed circulation thrilling our every vein…?

A. For no apparent reason…

Q. “What the deuce is this?” did we ask?

A. Did it all begin long ago, in fairly mysterious circumstances? Or did it happen on West 35th Street? Or am I now where you are too? And at what address is this pretty lady currently resident? Could I treat her nice? Could we drink sherry together and play chess? But would she ever marry me? Well, would she? And how did she enter our lives? And what disenchanted her? And what exactly took place between the paper-thin walls of the Mexican sex hotel?

Q. These and other questions remain largely unanswered.







ABOUT THE AUTHOR

HP Tinker , 32, is Cheshire's best kept secret. .




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