A night in Santo Domingo

sunrise

I’VE BEEN IN lots of brothels: Port-au-Prince, Haiti. San Juan, Puerto Rico. Nuevo Laredo and Matamoros, Mexico. Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. Barcelona, Spain.*

But I’ve never purchased the principal product, just the secondary, alcohol. I came close once,  however. A booze-fueled, Caribbean night in Santo Domingo.

I related this story years ago on a former website, but it’s vanished. If you remember, be aware that some details may differ. It’s been a long time.

Some things are fun to repeat, and I’m a fun fellow.

It started one morning at the airport bar in New Orleans. My traveling companion was an old French friend from years earlier. We’d met in the Air Force in California.

(Trivia: Sitting two stools down from me at the airport bar was Kris Kristofferson, but I pretended not to notice him. I was cool like that.)

We continued drinking on the plane, and by the time we landed in Santo Domingo we were well-oiled. We rented a car and drove to a downtown hotel. As night fell, we hired a taxi driver to take us to the brothel zone, which he did.

(More trivia: Dominican hookers were the most beautiful I ever saw, far outstripping the international competition from my experience. Just so you know.)

We continued drinking. My French friend partook of the wares but I, as always, took a pass. Sex that way has never interested me. Going to brothels was a sociological experience and a very fascinating one. But the night wore on, and I drank more.

And, Lordy, they were lovely.

Around 3 a.m., the two of us walked out the front door to hunt another taxi. At my shoulder I noticed a cute working girl who’d tailed us. She wanted to come along. I said yes, so we three took a cab to a restaurant and ate.

After eating, we caught another cab to the hotel. Somewhere along the line, I had decided to abandon my hands-off approach. We entered the hotel lobby, the three of us, but the hotel’s security man stopped us. Not the girl, he said.

My friend headed up to the room, and my companion and I walked back outside. Habitual drinkers, which I was at the time, can reach a state in which they’re quite ambulatory, steady even, but completely plowed at the same time. I was there.

We got into the rental car, and she gave me directions to “a place I know.” It turned out to be an old, two-story, wooden hotel on the beach highway. It’s about 4 a.m.

Things get foggy now. I recall entering the hotel. The girl was walking just ahead of me up a broad stairway. Behind me was a man, a hotel employee, I suppose. I suddenly got wary of the situation, suspecting I was going to be robbed or worse.

I changed my mind.

As we entered the room, I told the girl I had left something in the car and that I’d be right back. I turned on my heel, headed out the door, bounced down the stairs and leaped into the car. But she was right behind me. She didn’t want me to leave her there.

Okay, I said. Jump in. But she had left her shoes in the room upstairs. Go get them, I said. But you’ll leave, she replied, accurately. This exchange continued for a few rounds till I started to drive off. She ran around and jumped into the car without her shoes.

We pulled out onto the moonlit highway while she yelled, My shoes! My shoes! I braked and pulled over, opened my door, walked around to the other side, opened her door and attempted to pull her out. She grabbed the steering wheel. I could not extract her painlessly, so I gave up, returned to the other side and continued down the highway.

Twenty or so minutes later, we entered a downtown plaza. There was a parked police car, and two cops stood on the sidewalk. The girl stuck her head out the window and began yelling which, of course, caught the officers’ attention.

Deciding not to make a run for it, I just pulled over.

The girl got out and spoke to the police. We ended up driving back to the hotel. The girl and I led the way, and the police car followed. When we arrived at the hotel, she walked upstairs to retrieve her shoes while I and the smiling cops waited.

She returned wearing her shoes and told me to give the police some money, which I did, not wanting trouble and thinking myself lucky so far. The officers drove off, and I did too, with my companion. I offered to take her home, an idea she liked.

Ever the gentleman. It was the least I could do.

She lived in a low-rent area, of course. As we pulled up to her humble home, she asked, still hoping for some cash, if I’d like to come in. I said no, and asked how old she was. After so many years, I forget what she told me, but it was 16 or so.

As I headed alone back to the hotel, the sun was rising.

And I remain to this day a whorehouse virgin.

* * * *

* This was unintentional. My second wife and I entered, sat at the bar and ordered drinks before it became clear where we were. We did finish the drinks.

(A Christmas Eve brothel in San Juan. Plus another romance on the road, also a true story.)

Right-wing digest

ANYONE WHO’S been passing through here for at least a year knows I’m a Trump fan. I voted for him long-distance and think he’s not only a breath of fresh air in Washington but that he’s trying to fulfill his campaign promises in spite of opposition from both Democrats and Republicans.

donIf given the chance, I’ll vote for him again.

Trump, like me, is ostensibly a Republican, but I don’t think he’s much of one, and neither am I. I’m Republican simply because it’s the only voting option in America that is not the Democrat Party, which was my party for decades.

The Democrat Party has become extremist, succumbing to political correctness, pie-in-the-sky socialism, and race-baiting, among countless other sins.

If you follow conservative news sources, you know that Trump is having a slow slog due to opposition from both Democrats and, incredibly, Republicans. Most U.S. politicians, no matter the party, are corrupt, self-serving, nincompoops.

If you follow left-wing news sources, you know that Trump is an orange-haired monster married to a prostitute.* His daily life is dedicated to lynching “negros,” grabbing women’s hoohahs and persecuting Mohammedans.

Speaking of news sources, I’m going to tell you some good conservative ones. I read them every morning online. I do not subscribe to actual newspapers. Very few people in Mexico do, and I don’t watch television news.

I’m strictly an online guy.

I pay virtually no attention to Mexican news. Although I vote here, I let Mexico take care of itself — and hope for the best.

(Amusingly, a few years ago, I was asked to be the honcho of our local polling station. An all-day commitment, I turned it down. Another reason was that I did not think my Mexican neighbors would appreciate a Gringo overseeing their voting.)

But the title of this post is its purpose. I am sharing my conservative news sources with you. Some right-wing sources are as silly as left-wing ones.

Read mine, however, and you’ll get smarter.

What may be surprising is that I read neither Breitbart nor Fox’s websites. I dodge Breitbart because they focus too much on trivialities, and they incredibly fired a staffer months back over a purely PC issue.

I don’t read Fox’s website because the company stupidly threw Bill O’Reilly overboard. I don’t always agree with Bill, mostly due to his Catholicism, but he was the heart of Fox. Plus, Fox’s website is heavy on silly showbiz gossip.

Without further ado, here’s where you can get some straight-shooting conservative coverage with a minimum of showbiz fluff and wacky conspiracy theories:

  1. The Washington Times, solid, sober coverage that you often don’t get in that other Washington newspaper.
  2. The Daily Caller.
  3. The Gateway Pundit.
  4. The Daily Wire, Ben Shapiro’s home. Try to ignore the pop-up pushing his free book.
  5. Truth Revolt.

I know there are lots of others, but these are my Fav Five.

* * * *

melania* Melania is growing on me. I initially considered her little more than a trophy wife. She is that, but I like her. She’s buena gente. After Ivana and Marla, Trump only had one way to go: up. And he did.

The lady warriors

THE AMERICAN elites’ politically correct obsession with putting women into military infantry and other front-line combat positions soldiers on.

Because women can do anything a man can do. There is absolutely no difference, aside from plumbing and what dangles where, between the capabilities and talents of the two. It’s about fairness, you know.

Arrant nonsense, of course.

girl

It appears that President Barry is poised to order women into direct-combat positions by January 2016. A military that does this has a death wish, no matter how much you gussy up the gals in camo.

Women do have a long history with fighting forces. Camp prostitutes, of course, and in certain periods of European history — when wars were a more gentlemanly affair than they are today — many soldiers brought their wives along on campaigns to sew and cook and love.

The ladies got to watch battles from a nearby hill, but no safe hills exist these days.

And the great American experiment that began in 1776 continues its disintegration into nuttiness, mostly brought to you by clueless, dreamy-eyed collectivists.

These notions invariably spring from the NDP, not Republicans. Keep that in mind the next time you’re inclined to say the two parties are the same, so why bother to vote?

We are engaged in a religious war with Mohammedans. The Mohammedans do not bring women to their battles, and Mohammedans react nastily when they encounter women opposing them.

You’ll end up with sand between your butt cheeks as a camp prostitute for the other side. It won’t resemble what you were led to expect during “empowering” Women’s Studies at Bryn Mawr. Not by a long shot.