Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 16 — Reality Show Appearance as Fake Mad Dog Mateo.

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Chapter 16. Reality Show Appearance as Fake Mad Dog Mateo.

 

So… 

 

I was in a reality show over the weekend.

 

My tour were British guys following a commercial pilot. I signed a non-disclosure agreement, so I don’t think I am allowed to talk much about this but fuck it.

 


 

They were five guys total, don’t remember anyone’s name except Noah, one of the camera guys, and Christian, the star of the show. There was another camera guy, a sound guy with a boom mic, and the director. The pilot and the director were the main show. A clap would initiate the takes.

 

Some crazy shit I’ve never been part of. Until now.


 

I talked a lot. I told some of the stories I already wrote here. The South African guys’ story that was the previous chapter and the story about the pilots which was earlier at some point in this stupid shit.


 

I said shit I might regret. Similar to the shit I’m writing here. 

 

No ragrets.

 

Fuck it.


 

It was a fake tour for a reality show. Fake Tijuana Adventure. Fake Mad Dog Mateo. 

 

Fake reality show. Nothing new here.

 

The tour was basic, I didn’t even plan it much. I didn’t think of it. I just improvised like always. 

 

It started with my basic explanation about the city and why Tijuana exists. We walked to Norte Brewery Co for the sunset views of the city. Here I told the story of the pilots on camera to a reality tv show pilot. I ignored the cameras and just acted natural.

 

I’m going to hate it once it’s out. 

 

And people in Tijuana are going to give me so much shit about it.


 

After Norte, we moved to street tacos. Las Amigas that they never disappoint and it’s an interesting taco stand. I found out that the star of the show was a vegetarian here. Good job telling me about that before rolling cameras… 

 

All the guys got one taco, but we wanted more food.


 

We had a second dinner at Cine Tonalá. 

 

They didn’t want to drink or party for real. More like do it for the cameras and move on.

 

The meal or drinks didn’t get recorded. It was like a break from work. 


 

After done with the second dinner, they started recording again. Us exiting the Cine and talking casually about the meal.


 

From there they had one request. Strip clubs where they could record.

 

And of course, there is only one shitty strip club that would allow us to do such a thing without a warning. El Zorro. Yes. The same one with the South Africans just from the previous chapter.


 

I convinced the bouncers and waiters to let us film. We told the girls that they weren’t going to be on camera… and none of them were attractive… 

 

We ordered a bucket of beers but didn’t drink any. 

 

I ran to the bathroom quickly, and when I came out, girls were all over the guys. A fight ensued between the producer and the pilot. The pilot went to get a private lap dance. The producer stormed out with the cameras following behind.


 

It’s a reality show.

 

That was planned.


 

After they “reunited” I walked them through Zona Norte and told them they couldn’t film here or to be careful. The camera guys started filming as the “paraditas” or the street prostitutes ran for cover while hiding their faces.

 

“Están grabando!” I would hear them say to each other and scramble to hide. Never seen that before.


 

A cop started following us. I told them to ignore it and we kept walking.

 

But then he blasted his siren and stopped us. I said I would handle and expected the worst. It was the complete opposite. He told us that if we needed anything to let him know or give him a call. He was super excited to see the cameras and told us to record whatever we wanted. It seemed like he wanted to be on the show. So the crew kept filming. They were live bandas being fucking loud and they filmed that. 

 

It might be some of the best recordings of Zona Norte and it was only 9 pm. And now I know, if you enter Zona Norte with a bunch of gear, the cops are fine with it, the prostitutes are the ones that hide and hate it. 


 

And then it was over. Walked back to the border.


 

I offered them more places to visit and drink. Nope. They were done. The job was done. Short fake Tijuana Adventure. I got paid. Signed the contract. And took them to the border.


 

I wonder what will happen next with them. I wonder how the show turns out. They don’t really even know where it’s going to appear. Or maybe they did and they just didn’t want to tell them. Netflix maybe? YouTube? Maybe only in Europe? 

 

Oh shit. I just googled it and it has an IMDB. 

 

“A documentary filmmaker follows his best friend, a Windowed airline pilot, around the world as he looks for a new love, via the TINDER Passport dating app.”

 

We did talk about Tinder and Bumble. So the premise they told me is real. No Tinder girls were met. 


 

HOLY SHIT! 

 

After more research… I’ve been duped.

 

The “pilot” was, in fact, the producer that I was in contact with.


 

I’ve been googling these guys… They told me the producer stayed back in LA setting up the next appointment. Nope. The producer was the main star the whole time. And obviously, his name wasn’t Christian.

 

Holy fuck.

 

Nice one.

 

Nice fucking one.


 

I should have googled these fuckers a bit more before I actually took them on a tour. They have two movies, one out with a bad rating and the other still in production. And now their new show. 


 

Oh fuck.

 

What’s going to happen to my appearance….

 

I might get heavily edited or cut. This show might not even be aired. But… oh well.

 

Shit is done. I made some money. Tour is over. 


 

I have more tours coming up. A lot of people have been hiring me to film around Tijuana. Might as well change what my tours are about and help filmmakers and journalists. They seem to have enough money to pay me.


If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas

Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 14.5 — Rumble Fest, Acid, and Meth. 

If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas


Chapter 14.5. Rumble Fest, Acid, and Meth. 

 

The festival ended. It was a mess. We lost a lot of money. And I barely even slept.

 

I still owed $400 to Mothers of Gut and Habits who came all the way from Los Angeles. They also had a horrible time, except when they were on stage and then partying. They had a horrible time on their way down to Tijuana. They got a flat tire, got in trouble at the border, and it was a general mess. They also got up on stage later than promised but made the most out of it.  

 

Not only that. I promised them $400+ expenses. I only paid them $400, it was all I had. As in, seriously, all I fucking had. $64 were left in the bank. And I had no real income.

 

We thought that we were going to make money with Rumble Fest.

 

Fuck were we wrong.

 

And all the signs that it was going to be wrong were there. And I knew it. But we were having too much fun.


 

I crossed the border to the US with the bands and gave them the cash. I didn’t sleep for over 20 hours and border crossing took us around 2 hours. I was destroyed. And cashless.


 

I went home, got food, got plenty of water, dropped acid, and floated away for what seemed days.


 

After everything that happened… everyone was on acid during the festival except me. It was my turn. I could see my body floating away as I blasted live concerts on YouTube by Battles and other noisy/mathy bands. I rested on acid. Again, as if floating/levitating in the middle of the room. 


 

Months before Rumble Fest, we were organizing mini-festivals. It involved bands that were going to be featured in the event and other minor bands that asked us to be in it but we couldn’t. We did one or two every weekend. This often involved music, alcohol, and drugs.

 

Sex. Sex was also included and random.

 

Everyone was single. And we ruled the stage, the entrance, and the party. The party never fucking ended.


 

The party started since the idea of Rumble Fest came about. We worked. But work was partying. And coming up with ideas. And talking to bands.

 

I did a lot of the work.

 

The website. The ideas. The actual fabrication of what was going to go down. Logistics. They never trusted me fully, and a lot of that went wrong. Logistics. I had some contacts in the music industry and other vendors.

 

David had the crazy idea and the contacts for music and party people. 

 

Chad had the contacts for music and artists. 

 

And for three months we coordinated to make it all happen.

 

 


 

 

J-Mar came later. He had contacts and his own ideas. His band was opening the festival. We needed his support.


 

After many preview shows, the date of Rumble Fest was near. Which was a week before my birthday.


 

The ultimate party celebrating that this shit was actually happening. At the gym, with our partners.

 

Tecates abounded. And we drank for a long time. 

 

Cocaine was also available. And though I don’t like the drug, I partook. 


 

Suddenly, we were running low on beer and out of cocaine and it was past midnight.

 

Someone said he had a contact for both. Forty minutes later when only one beer was left, the contact showed up with a 24-pack and more cocaine.

 

Party saved… momentarily.


 

That was harsh cocaine. 

 

In fact, it didn’t feel like cocaine at all.

 


 

 

We were at the gym. There were mirrors everywhere. So I remember staring myself in the mirror and realizing I just did some meth.

 

My hair was crazy, I felt insanely energized and powerful, my eyes were bloodshot red, and I had a sudden thirst for everything.


 

That feeling continued the next day. 


 

And the next day.


 

And almost to the next day.


 

We drank Tecates throughout the whole weekend. Mostly at Tropics Bar. 

 

That’s why I loathe that place. 

 

And many other reasons… 


 

That year, 2015, was the last time I went there, near Christmas time.

 

Except, I broke my promise of not going there last week. When friends from Minnesota came over and we were invited there. It wasn’t as horrible as my memory painted it.


 

It was on Sunday at Tropics Bar when I started to feel the fucking worst withdrawal feelings ever. Thank god I don’t really fucking smoke cigarettes or ever dabbled with heroin. 

 

Fuck that.


 

It was a fucking nightmare.

 

I was wearing sunglasses at night like a fucking douchenozzle. But I did it because my fucking head felt horrible. I was a zombie. I was fully awake but tired as fuck. I knew the only thing that would make me feel better would be more meth.


 

Or “cricais” (crick-ice) cocaine mixed with “ice.” That’s what it was.

 

That shit was fucking nasty.


 

To top it all off, there were four women at the bar that I have previously slept with. One crazy chick, one girl that I fell in love with and the feelings weren’t mutually, and two one-night stands.

 

And there I was with. Feeling like shit. Drunk as fuck and coming off from meth. And ex-lovers in the same bar talking to other lovers. 


 

“Tijuana es un cojedero, se cree ciudad, pero es un pueblito.”

 

Tijuana is a fuckfest, it believes its a city, but it’s just a small town. I was warned about that when I first arrived in the city. It was. It still is.


 

One week to Rumble Fest. Nothing was really ready. Problems were mounting. Everything was falling apart. And the solution were more drugs and alcohol.


 

Clean the fuck out of the area where the fest was going to happen. Fell behind in permits. The vendors were confused. The sound was a shitty contractor. The bands were a mess. And organizers… 

 

Organizers were kept together by drugs, friendship, Tecates, and a fucking belief that we could pull the best fucking concert ever out of our asses.


 

For some people it was. For a lot of others, it was a fucking disaster.

 

It had its highlights, for me, it was 100 Onces. That was it. That was the only moment I enjoyed myself for a second.

 

The rest was running around FUCKING everywhere answering fucking EVERYONE about FUCKING anything. And almost everyone was on fucking drugs. Which made things worse.

 

I had to kick out bands off-stage. Held the ankle of the drummer of the Wax Children to let them know it was their last song. They expanded that last song for many minutes and I had to grab his ankle again. Everything fucking behind schedule.

 

And bands always want special treatment. They are all rockstars in their heads.

 

I had to kick out one of the bands. I told them that I couldn’t be giving everyone fucking blowjobs. And they came in demanding instead of helping. The schedule was way behind, and they wanted the stage. Told them it wasn’t their turn, they got up on stage anyway.

 

Kicked them the fuck out.

 

Not your fucking turn.

 

Fucking bands.


 

Many were helpful, many were in drugs (yet still helpful), and most seemed to enjoy themselves.

 

Only one band were complete ratdicks, they don’t exist anymore, so it’s not even worth mentioning them. Great musicians. Shit attitude.

 

The other, San Pedro El Cortez, they were the fucking best. They didn’t care what happens as long as they could have beers. They played at 4 fucking a.m. The last band to play. And they were happy to do so. With a shit drum set and without checking sound over and over. They just went up on fucking stage and did their thing. 


 

And that’s the last time I tried organizing a major event. And I don’t think I ever will. Unless I get paid a lot and the investment is not my money. And that’s never going to happen. So yeah. 

 

No.


 

I rarely even go to shows nowadays.

 

This last week I went to two. That felt good. I should go to more. But no more drugs. Those days are behind me.

 

That’s what your twenties are for, right?

 

Hunter S. Thompson would disagree. But I don’t have his talent or his wit.  


 

One show was in San Diego. Kirby Dream Band. Nerdy shit. It was great.

 

The other was in Tijuana with my Minnesotan friends. Perdición. It was hardcore. It was fucking loud. Very fucking loud. Dangerously fucking loud.

 

Minnesotan friends couldn’t handle the loud. So we bounced after a few songs.


 

That was after days and nights partying in San Diego, one night in Tijuana, Minnesotans were hungover as fuck, we still fucking managed to party somehow.

 

No strip clubs. 

 

They did that in Southeast Asia. And didn’t feel the need to do it anymore.


 

My stories are enough.

 

I don’t need new stories.


 

And I only have a few left before I’m done embarrassing myself.

Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 10.5 — Rudy the Italian New Yorker who said Tijuana was the DR mixed with 80s Brooklyn.

If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas


Chapter 10.5

Rudy the Italian New Yorker who said Tijuana was the DR mixed with 80s Brooklyn.

 

I got busy again and I forgot where I was going with all the shit I was typing. I said it had been slow days in the other intro. Well, that got reversed. The editor accepted my pitch for a feature story, then I went to investigate another short story. I got really good material, so I pitched a lengthy story and he went for it.

 

Now I have a couple of days to finish the first story before I leave town.

 

And also… one paid photo gig to take care of.

 

And a tour…


Not really a tour. My tours have changed a lot. There’s still the occasional bachelor party, but it is very rare now. 

 

This tour is of journalistic nature, not that of gross nature. Irish reporters are visiting this weird city and they need someone to show them around. They found me somehow. And I got to take care of that this weekend.


And there are a lot of good events this weekend. And tomorrow I’m jamming with some guys to see if we start a band.


And…

And…

 

Tijuana is a lot. And I’m getting busy. Let’s get it over with so I can go back to work.


 

We left Hong Kong and it was nice and bright out. What an experience. Especially for a 20-year-old who has never been in a bar or much less a titty club like that one. 

 

I stopped feeling joy showing people that insane place. It used to be awesome to watch. How people’s eyes lit up when they see that depravity. Men and women. LGBT or anything. It’s world-famous for a reason. And getting famouser as I write this (I am aware famouser is not a word).


So you can imagine Kevin’s conflicted feelings and emotions and excitements.

 

Taking him to La Nueva Pachanga is like throwing a bucket of cold water on his face.


It goes from tempting depravity from hell to actual hell. A real one. No makeup on this fucker. Crude reality. 


 

We sat on the back near the inflatable palm tree. The only fucking decoration inside La Nueva Pachanga besides the Chivas posters.

 

There used to be a pole there. Not sure if they changed it. But there used to be one.


 

Kevin didn’t understand why I took him to this shithole. I didn’t really even know either.

 

That place still fascinates me, but I used to be obsessed with it.


 

There was a drunk older woman with a summery dress dancing by the pole. She had a date on a table. A date that was passed out and she barely paid attention to him.


Kevin kept staring. I told him not too, but he couldn’t help it. I tried not too, but I obviously played it dumb like I wasn’t watching it.


Then she came over and touched Kevin and asked for a dollar. 

 

His reaction was of “eww no, get off of me.”

 

Drunk woman got mad and said, “if you don’t like it then don’t watch!”

 

And kept dancing and making obscene gestures at us. She lifted her dress to show a very undesirable body. 


We left way before sunset. 

 

That was Kevin’s brief introduction to Zona Norte.


 

Reviewing memories of the time, my friend Nick from Minnesota was here when all this shit happened, since Kevin and Nick met at some point.

 

This is when the craft beer scene barely started occurring and my tours started to shift focus.


 

I never took Nick to Zona Norte. Just craft beers and dive bars. More like my tours now.


 

Later that same week, I had my first legit paid customer. He was not interested in craft beer.


When I started, I used to advertise on craigslist. 

 

The ad said something along the lines of “Hey, I’ll guide you through Tijuana for $25.” 

 

It probably included beer, tacos, and strip clubs as part of the ad.


 

My first client came through those ads.

 

A guy from New York named Rudy. Classic Italian New Yorker from the Bronx. Super heavy accent straight up from the movies. Never met a guy like that. Incredibly New Yorker.

 

He compared Tijuana to the Dominican Republic and to 80s New York.

 

“Me and my boys, you know, we would go to the DR and get all these girls for cheap, you know, the DR was great, you know.”

 

He sounded something like that.

 

Really funny dude.

 

“New York was like this in the 80s, you know. You would drive around, you know, and get girls to suck your dick for a $20, you know.”

 

For him, Tijuana was that. A mix of 80s New York and his experiences in brothels in the Dominican Republic or “the DR.” (Dee Ahr you idiot, not doctor). 

 

He requested chicken tacos.

 

That took me by surprise. Chicken tacos are an odd request. Or rarely even seen. I told him Tijuana is about fish and shrimp tacos or meat. Nah. He wanted chicken tacos.


 

This is how bad I was giving tours. I didn’t know where to take him. 

 

We ended up in a shitty place that served shitty tacos. He didn’t like them.

 

Again, I told him chicken tacos aren’t really a thing. Should have just taken him where it is good and not giving him silly choices.


We had a beer somewhere before going into the strip clubs.


 

He loved the shit out of Adelita’s. Again, he said everything was the same as the DR. 

 

He said that some politician came to the DR and cleaned all up.

 

“They fucked up, you know. DR was great and then they cleaned it. No more hookers. We used to fly every other month, rent a house, you know, and get girls, you know. Beautiful girls for cheap. The DR was great. But no more, you know.”

 

“You know” was never a question. More like an interlude between thoughts. 


 

I charged him $25 for the tour which he paid upfront. Then he paid for all the rest.

 

After Adelita’s, of course, Hong Kong.


 

Oh was he loving the fuck out of Hong Kong.

 

He picked up the most plastic looking girl. He said he liked that. The faker the better. He bought her a couple of drinks and told me to get a girl for myself.

 

He then said he was going to take her to the room and gave me some cash so I can drink while I waited for him.

 

He came back all happy with the same girl and kept buying her drinks.


Old school photographers roam strip clubs to try to sell you a picture of the memory of you with a hooker.

 

He paid for a photograph with him and his girl. Two actually. One of them posing as if they were the most awkward high school couple before prom. The other of him with his head between her tits.

 

$5 per picture.


 

We drank a bit more in Hong Kong. He said goodbye to his girl. And then left.


It was still day time. Nearing sunset.

 

He wanted to see more. So I took him through Zona Norte. We didn’t go to La Nueva Pachanga, but I was more confident about where to walk in the area. He wanted to see the street girls.

 

It was DR this. 80s New York that.

 

He fucking adored Tijuana.

 

We walked by where the transsexual hookers stand.

 

“I’ve seen a lot of transformers in my days, you know, and let me tell you, those transformers are some of the best transformers I’ve ever seen.”

 

I never heard anyone called them transformers. I know it’s derogatory to call them trannies, shemales, ladyboys, or many more… but transformers.

 

I think transformers is just fucking hilarious. 

 

I’m pretty sure they find offense in that. They should find it empowering. Transforming oneself is some difficult shit.


Sorry trans community. That was Rudy talking. 


 

As we walked back to the border, he asked why so many farmacias. I explained the giant medical and dental tourism we have at the border.

 

Suddenly, Tijuana was not an interesting thing for him just for the girls… 

 

Rudy needed dental care that he had been neglecting because it was too expensive.

 

He said he planned to come back in a couple of months, get dental work, and go find the exact same girl in Hong Kong.


 

Sorry, mom. Sex sales.


 

Rudy crossed back to San Diego and it wasn’t even night time. I charged him $25 for the tour, but he was so happy with everything that he learned that he gave me $50 tip. 


 

I made as much money as the prostitute he slept with. I was conflicted, but I made money. Sleazy money. 


 

I called my mom to tell her my first tour was a success and that I made more money than I was expected. And told her that I was sorry because sex sales…


Rudy did come back. It was almost a year later. And his adventure was similar to the one above, except dental work, and he lost his keys in a taxi cab.

 

Not sure if that story is worth telling.


If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas

Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 8 — Life Low Points. 

If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas


Chapter 8. Life Low Points. 

 

I am waiting for nightfall just so I can start drinking. It’s Saturday so I don’t feel like doing any actual work. I almost didn’t do any actual work all week. Just some photography.


 

The editor forgot to pay me for the morgue story. Rare mistake, he usually pays me quickly. I’ll have to wait two more weeks for that money. I should be working on my stories, but I’m not sure what I’m doing or what to start writing next.


 

So I wait for the sun to go away so I can have an excuse to drink. There as a soccer game on TV in a couple hours and I want to watch and use it as an excuse to start drinking, but I can’t. I have little family errands to do at the same time. Once I accomplish those, I can start drinking.


 

Despite not working much, the week was semi-productive. I did photography work more than anything. One paid gig. Two unpaid. The unpaid was photographing pretty girls. I barely just started doing that. I took pictures of many Victoria Secret models and some of the most beautiful women in the world back in my paparazzo days. But this is different. Much different. And I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I’m having fun.


 

If you are wondering.

 

No. The psycho stripper was not pregnant with my baby.


 

Turns out she was trying to get pregnant from her boyfriend plenty before. And not only him, but she was also hooking up with an American guy and also trying to get pregnant through him.

 

Why would anyone want to get pregnant is beyond me. But she was trying.

 

She tried with me.

 

But I’m not dumb, she had condoms.

 


 

This didn’t stop her from pinning it on me. I felt horrible. I didn’t want a child. Much less with a stripper that I didn’t really care much about. 

 

Drama occurred. Obviously.

 

The kid wasn’t mine.


 

I did the math.


 

She was around three weeks pregnant when our encounter happened.


 

But wait! There’s more!

 


 

Nah. There’s not more. That was the last I heard of her. Until five years later. That’s going to come up at some point in these diaries of an old man.


So back to it. 

 

I was broke. I just had one of the wildest nights of my life. I coined “Tijuana Adventure” because of it even though it’s FUCKING blatantly obvious. 

 

Now Tijuana Adventure is about craft beer and street eats. I still get bachelor parties and shit gets wild. But that’s what the embodiment of Tijuana Adventure is.

 

It just happens.

 

The city absorbs you and you have a Tijuana Adventure.

 

My adventure in the city was turning dark.


 

The stripper wasn’t the only Tijuana girl to tell me she was pregnant. Remember the curly hair girl that came over to me and just declared her love? 

 

Well… yeah.

 

I hooked up with her as well. 

 

Before losing my apartment….


 

Thing was… she was way too young. She was 18 and still in fucking high school!

 

And obviously infatuated with me.


 

She made up the pregnant story and I called her bluff. She showed up in her fucking high school uniform outside my apartment to confess that she had lied.


 

Just to be clear, I was 25 at the point. So it wasn’t that creepy. Still… 18. Way too young.

 

I met her at a bar. If I meet someone at a bar, I’m hoping they have somewhat a mature mentality….

 

Well… not anymore. I rather not meet most people anymore…


 

Her lies were enough for me to not see her again. Fuck this shit. Drama for the sake of drama. 


 

I couldn’t pay rent. I had already sold my car. I had no job or prospects for a job. I was losing it all.

 


 

My parents moved to Playas de Tijuana a few months after I moved into the city. I got evicted from my apartment. I borrowed my sister-in-law’s Jeep and moved all my shit to a small room in the small house at my parents.


 

Speak about low points in your life… moving back with your parents with no money and no job.


 

I cramped all my shit in the tiny room in the backyard of my parents’. It was a very small three-bedroom house and I didn’t want to be in a bedroom immediately next to my parents.

 

So I chose a tiny room that wasn’t much bigger than a shed.

 

And I locked myself in there.


 

Decided to become a writer.

 

I was going to write stories about my time as a paparazzi.

 

But I didn’t know how to write at all.


I decided a blog would be a good start.

 

And that’s when I started writing for the first time. My word vomit. The blog. 


 

I also created the TijuanaAdventure.com page and started working on what would become the tours. 


It was bad at the start.

 

I got some attention from Reddit but a lot of negative reactions as well.

 

I was just trying to write and make a living with my stories.

 

Silly me.


 

In less than a week with my parents, I found the motivation to work and get the fuck out.

 

But of course, it wasn’t that easy.

 


 

It took me around a month to find a job. And I landed exactly what I wanted, a writing/editing gig. They needed cheap writers/editors with decent English and knowledge of soccer.

 

I knew a bit about soccer, but not enough to be a writer about it. I started studying a lot. Not only the sport but how to write about it.


I was producing over five articles a day about stupid shit. 

 

Game reviews. News stories that were just translated from other pages.

 

Content.

 

Stupid fucking content.


 

And once or twice a week I would get inspired on something. And I would write that something. 

 

Every once in a while, that something was well received. 


 

But for the most part, it was just producing constant content on the sport around the globe and updating the website.


 

I was getting paid $800 a month for working almost six days a week. It was a few months working from home, then it evolved into going to the office on a daily basis.


After a couple of months on the job and plenty of fights with my father… I was ready to get the fuck out again.


 

That’s when I first moved to downtown Tijuana with a strange girl who I met on the street. She told me her name was Palida Hortaliza which translates to something along the lines of “pale vegetable.”

 

I don’t know why I was okay with that. As if that name existed.

 

She was indeed very pale and had a very weak chin. Almost grandmother-like even though she was very young and as white as a Minnesota chick. Her eyes carried torture and sadness. And she spoke on a weird soft voice with an accent.


Needless to say, that was a mistake.

 

But it was better than my parents.


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Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 7.5 — Hong Kong with Psycho.

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Chapter 7.5 – Hong Kong with Psycho.

I did errands and some work and got distracted on purpose because I didn’t want to write what I’m going to write.

 

It’s not even that bad. This was years ago. I was 26-year-old and was YOLOing harder than ever.


 

We entered Hong Kong drunk and high at around 2 a.m. on a Tuesday. The place was not as lively as it usually is. Still a lot of naked women everywhere, but not the insanity of weekends in the sex emporium.

 

Before we even found a place to seat, psycho chick was saying hello to some women excitedly. She knew a lot of the dancers but didn’t know they worked there or never seen them work. She ordered a bucket of beer and gave me a $20.

 

Then she said, “wait, I’ll be back.” 

 

The bucket of beer arrived and she was nowhere. There goes not only the $20 she gave me, but the only $20 I had that was supposed to last me more than a few days.


 

First beer out of ten and I’m sitting in Hong Kong by myself with no money. Trying not to look at all the naked women around me because as soon as you give them eye contact, they’ll approach you.

 

There’s nowhere to look.

 

Stimulation overload.

 

I’m so over it.


 

For now.


 

Second beer. I’m drunk as fuck. I don’t want to drink anymore. But there’s a bucket of beer that I pseudo-paid for so I’m going to drink as much as I can.


Fuck. Third beer. This is boring now.


 

And there she is! She came back. The psycho chick.

 

With $400 in her hands.

 

She handed $200 to a waiter and told him to break it for $20s and singles.

 


She then handed me a fistful of singles and said: “I want you to spend it on my friends.”


Yep.

 

My luck turned around. Psycho chick just handed me a bunch of money. She was telling her friends to come over and be with me while at the same time she was with me… It was… magical? 


But wait. There’s more!


Much more…


Sorry, mom.


It took us less than an hour to spend the couple hundred. I kissed and touched many naked women while kissing the psycho chick at the same time. And they did the same to me.

 

The waiters were treating us like royalty as psycho told him to break another $100 and bring another bucket of beer.


 

The waiters had no idea psycho chick was also a stripper but just from Adelita’s and not Hong Kong. She was dressed in regular clothes. Tight jeans, tennis shoes, a regular shirt, and little makeup.

 

She gave me a fistful of singles again. Beer was ignored at this point but was still there.

 

And then she decided she wanted to dance on stage.


 

Waiters didn’t care. The other girls encouraged it. 

 

She got up and started stripping for me and for the general audience.


 

I helped her strip. I started throwing money that she gave me on stage. Took off her jeans and left her with just her panties and put more money as she danced… for like another second. 


 

Then she helped me strip…


 

Then I was on stage.


So there.

 

Secret out. I had sex with a psycho hooker in public for a moment. 

 

Again, Hong Kong wasn’t very lively, so it was just some waiters, other hookers, and dozen other customers that were entertained by their own naked girls on their laps.

 


 

We didn’t finish, but I was naked on stage (boxers only) with her totally naked and two other naked girls there. I think I had a moment of consciousness when I was like “dude, you can’t keep going.” I’m pretty sure we were taking it too far, but at some point, I was on the side of the stage putting my clothes back on.

 

Her, the same.


 

The other two girls that were on stage came to us and gave her back some of the money. 

 

And she still had plenty of money.


 

After what happened, waiters kept treating us like royalty.

 

They started ushering us into the VIP room where they told us we could keep it going with more girls.

 

We laughed at each other and said no thanks.

 

Then they ushered us into some private fancy rooms with a jacuzzi shower with glass windows and four-poster bed with translucent curtains and soft clean sheets. It pretty much looked like a set of a porno. And porno was playing on TV.

 

Again, we said no thanks. 

 

They tried ushering us to another place that was basically the same, with more promises of girls, champagne, and other VIP treatment.

 

I think they thought I had the money and not her. Because I kept looking at her like “what’s your choice.”

 

She again said no thanks and that we wanted to go back to the main area.


 

There we sat with her friends again trying to finish the rest of the bucket of beer.


We didn’t finish the beer when she said it was time for tacos.

 

She handed me the rest of her change. $50 some dollars. I put them in my right pocket of my favorite green hoodie.


 

I lost that green hoodie. I miss that green hoodie. That fucking hoodie was perfect.


 

We stumbled down the street for tacos. It was near dawn time. We were beyond wasted. Her, more than me. I had time to sober up after the actions occurred. 


 

She got three adobada tacos with everything. At the time, I was a “vegetarian” so I ordered nothing.

 

Also at the time “I would never be with a prostitute.” Too late to go back on that one. 


 

I still never have paid any money for it. And I don’t think I ever will. So hooray my morals!?


 

She was so drunk that she was eating the paper that came with the taco. I helped her fold that paper back so she wouldn’t eat it. Nah. She kept munching on that taco drunkenly eaten the paper and all.

 

I was hungry, so I grabbed a piece of the meat ever so carefully picking a not so greasy piece that didn’t touch the guacamole that was piled on top (I hate that green booger shit). 

 

Vegetarianism over.

 

Give me a taco without that green booger shit.


 

Almost ate it with paper and all.


 

I took money out of the right pocket of my beloved green fucking hoodie that I miss so much. Paid the taquero. And down the road, we go to her place.

 

Her place?


Oh yeah!

 

There’s more!

 

I said there’s more!


 

Her place was Hotel Velario, a hotel near all the prostitutes. And guess what happens in that hotel?!


 

It’s a really nice standard hotel. She had a room on the bottom floor. The building is weird, is sort of a labyrinth and it goes down a few floors instead of up. 

 

The room was also pretty standard, except she had all her shit there.

 

I remember I saw her official ID on the night desk. Shit. I learned her real name and her age. She was 21. I thought she was older than me at the time.


 

She opened her closet and tried opening her safe to show off her money. She was too drunk to open it. She left her purse and money on top of it. 

 

Then we had sex for hours.

 

For way too many hours.

 

I was tired. I wanted to sleep.

 

She wouldn’t let me. She wanted more and more and more.


She went to other rooms to show me off.

 

Other girls that worked with her basically also live in the hotel. The girls would come into her hotel room and play with me. 

 

Yep…


 

I was so embarrassed. But at the same time YOLOing. She just kept telling girls “you gotta see this guy’s cock. It’s perfect.”

 

So more girls kept coming to check it out.


 

I just wanted to fucking sleep. She wanted more sex and got obsessed with not being able to open her safe.


 

At some point, she called the front desk to tell them she couldn’t open her safe. Security came into the room to help her. Security dude seemed to be friendly with psycho. They couldn’t reset the fucking password so they welded that shit down and told her they were going to bring her a new safe.

 

She had over 20k in cash on the safe…


 

At some point I did sleep. Because I woke up and suddenly there were several fruit juices JUMEX on the room’s table as well as shitty Mexican pastries. At some point, she went to the store and bought breakfast. 


 

I had no idea what time it was.


 

I slept some more after breakfast. But she kept touching me trying to get my tired penis to do something. I told her I needed sleep. At least a couple hours.

 


 

I woke up no idea at what time. She was asleep but felt me waking up.

 

And started touching me right away.


 

After what seemed the 7th time I had sex in one day, I left her hotel room.


This circles back to Chapter 1

 

This is when I stumbled out of Zona Norte after the craziest fucking night of my life. I reached for my pocket to call my friend Brown. “Dude, you won’t know what just happened.” Those were my first words.

 

Tijuana happened.

When I was talking to him giving him a rough summary and telling him to meet me for beers soon, I reached inside my right pocket on my fucking beautiful green hoodie.

 

$37 dollars.


 

I told him I’ll call him later.

 

Turned around and headed back to the hotel.


 

Shit. I didn’t know what room she is in. Her first name was very common and I forgot her real last name. I couldn’t just ask for “psycho chick.”

 

I turned back around and went back to my place. 


 

I messaged her later that day to let her know that I took some money from her by accident and thanked her for the wild night. She told me not to worry about it and to buy her beer one of these days.


And wait.

 

There’s more.


A month later she texted me that she was pregnant….


If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas

 

Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 2 — First Time in Hong Kong in Tijuana

If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas

 

Chapter 2. First Time in Hong Kong in Tijuana.

I started doing Tijuana tours before I moved to Tijuana. I remember thinking that my brother was crazy for moving from San Diego to the shittiness of Teejay. The first bar that my sister-in-law took me was a horrible preppy bar called Red Lion. It was shitty, but beers were cheap as fuck. I was disappointed but intrigued. Nothing dangerous ever happened, which was my main concern. The only thing that was scary was hearing police sirens and see police trucks rushing down the street on a group of four or more, running the traffic lights.

 

Tijuana is the ugliest city I’ve ever been, it’s even uglier than Pachuca. My sister-in-law got infuriated by that comment. But it is. Even now that I have grown to love it, it’s an ugly fucking city. 

 

Streets crisscross randomly and traffic signals tend to not work, there’s garbage everywhere, people are constantly out on the street doing nothing, the whole city smells, at night there is little to no light, the neighborhoods make no sense, big luxurious houses are next to poor looking shacks, it’s a shithole.


But I kept visiting my brother, and escaping to have my own Tijuana Adventures here and there.


I remember the first time I walked into Hong Kong. Tijuana’s most luxurious strip club. It’s more luxurious now than what it was back then. The city has changed so much in so little.

 

 


 

My co-brother-in-law took me to my first strip club ever, and HK is much more than that. It was after a game of bowling with the family. We had been drinking and my co-brother and I stayed longer in the bowling alley by ourselves drinking more. I told him I wanted to check it out… The Zonaja.

 

His eyes lit up. Let’s do it.

 


 

Going to Hong Kong is a crazy experience. And taking people there for the first time is like introducing them into a new world that you didn’t know it could be possible.

 

It’s like walking into the internet. Your desires materialize in front of you, except the porn isn’t free. 

 

I didn’t have much money with me in my first visit. But I was still visiting from Los Angeles  where everything was expensive. Paying $3-4 per beer with naked women all around was nothing. Buying my co-brother some beers was no problem either.


“Give me a dollar,” he said as soon as we walked in. 

Two naked girls covered in shaving cream were right at the entrance. The layout back then was different, but the “show de espuma” is still as prevalent as ever.

My co-brother slid a dollar in between one of the girls legs while looking at me. 

HOLY FUCK! You can touch their pussy with just one dollar.

“Go ahead, your turn,” the girl looked at me with her legs spread. 

One dollar gone. One pussy touched.

Two dollars gone. The other pussy touched.

I didn’t have that many singles. That was my first impression at my first strip club ever.

One more beer and let’s go. I couldn’t deal with what my eyes were seeing.

I don’t remember what else we did that night. But I remember I didn’t have more than $40 and that went out quick.


I’ve been to those places so many times now…


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Brasa Taqueria and Sal de Maple (and much more) – Keep up on Instagram! Rarely posting here…

Sorry for whoever follows this blog looking for food posts in Tijuana…

I am mostly posting a lot under my Instagram: Tijuana Adventure.

Last place was Sal de Maple and I wrote:

Bennies are one of my favorite brunches, so you bet I am going to be picky as fuck with them.
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This comes from @saldemaple .
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Yes. Good Bennies. But… not by very much.
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It’s rare to complain about “creaminess,” but I am going too. They were drowned with cream. Bacon and the pretty veggies on top barely made an impact. It was all dominated by the cream.
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Again… not bad, but not great. Muffin needed more of a toast factor. .
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Again… I am an asshole when it comes to reviewing food.
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For 115 pesos it’s a great deal. The place is small but cozy and fashionable. And HEY! Nice bathroom. I like nice bathrooms.
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My buddy got the grand slam. I ate his sausages (no homo). They were good (no homo). .
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Overall: decent cozy brunch place. .
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And then there’s this place that I love:

So… I have been coming to this place almost weekly: @brasa_taqueria .
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There’s a reason for it. They are fkin good. 90 pesos (around $5) for two arrachera tacos topped with a bone marrow. It’s a thing of beauty. Both the marrow and the arrachera are a delight. Salsas are spicy (beware). They have more stuff, but this is my highlight and recommendation. Don’t forget to drink a beer at @barrica9 with your tacos (ample menu of crafts for 65-80 pesos).

 

That post gathered a lot of natural likes on Instagram… and I might give it a sponsor to see how far it can go…


THERE HAS BEEN A LOT WAY MORE POSTS…

But just no time to post on IG and then here. Afterall, I am not making money from all this crap, just doing it for the love of the city.

At some point… perhaps I will go back to doing tours.