EL HOTEL ECONÓMICO

El Hotel Económico is as rundown as the prostitutes who trek up its stairs before they plunk their wasted bodies on springless beds in unairconditioned rooms and wait for you to consummate the deal. The hotel, situated on the second floor after a steep ascent through a dark stairwell, branches into two halls running perpendicularly from the front desk. The entire complex reeks of urine and cheap cleaning fluid. There are bathrooms at the ends of both halls, but no toilets in any of the rooms. The rooms themselves are spartan quarters with beds of miscellaneous sizes crammed into the living space. There are even cots squeezed into the closets. Downtown has become overrun with second-hand stores and the spreads draped over the beds must be the best bargains El Económico's proprietor can afford. As you climb the stairs and walk past the immodest rooms, you feel you should catch glimpses of cowboys resting with their barmaids at the end of long cattle drives. In a world of ying & yang, the Immaculate Conception Cathedral rises majesticly next to El Económico. It could be a scene from the New Testament with Jesus walking past a beggar. The cathedral is the most beautiful building in South Texas. Built by the Oblates, French missionaries, in the 1850's, the Gothic structure is more intimate than imposing. The church fulfills every Catholic's version of the perfect place to worship. On insufferable summer days, I have rested on the wooden pews and listened to the recorded Gregorian Chants echoing throughout the nave. I gaze at the 150-year-old chandelier overhead, the stained-glass windows, the gilded tabernacle and a tortured and bloodied Jesus Christ hanging from a cross. I remember well when Catholic mythology ruled my life. I don't believe in much except that you have to maintain your health and source of income and you don't want to abuse today to such a degree that you can't enjoy tomorrow. And, of course, there is no life after death. There is only an eternity of absolute nothingness for the individual. More than a few times a streetwalker strolling past the sacred grounds has hooked my interest and I have escorted her up the creaking stairs of El Económico. Unlike the poor shrimpers, I'm not so desperate that I need to fuck her. Who knows how much detritus has passed through that bottomless pit. But she is a mere $20 and I'm the master of the cheap thrill that requires no dangerous touches. I have her disrobe. Skinny or fat, young or old, all these pathetic creatures have droopy tits. I'm more intrigued by their pussies. I have her lay on her back and spread her legs. I'm curious about the meaty innards, but I don't plan on penetrating that morass. I scrutinize her battered cunt. "I always use a condom," she says. "I'm not going to fuck you," I say. "I want you to masturbate yourself." I masturbate and ejaculate on her belly. When she discovers that I'm a harmless customer whose kinks don't threaten her health or her life, she finds my company tolerable and greets me on the streets with the anticipation of another easy $25. I disappoint them. They have used up their 15 minutes of infamous fame. When she departs, I sit on the bed and look at the cathedral next door. Sex used to cause me guilt when I was young. I would have to mumble "I did some bad things" in the confessional and pray that the priest didn't interrogate me. I haven't been to confession in more than 40 years. It would take a confession the length of a Russian novel for me to recite all my transgressions. And those would only be the mortal sins!