Squid Man

The Viagra bargain seller

Is it me, or are dancing partners grotesquely mismatched in Mexican bars, not just in size and age, but for sure in dancing ability?

The bar I’m in has a certain reputation. It was a stranger at another bar who put me onto it. He was from Washington State, vacationing on his own. After a couple of drinks, and some poetic trust, he admitted he’d been coming for three years, looking for a wife.

The bar is shaded, not busy, and in the corner, three musicians wearing the ceremonial sombrero charro play mariachi. The trio are guitar, violin, and Mexican vihuela.

I can smell the sweat and feel the erotic tension in this place.

Several couples slide and shimmy to the music, the male partners looking down, trying to avoid injuring the señorita’s feet, mostly without success.

It occurs to me there is no right way to hold a female in this kind of bar, just move slow and close while moving toward a purposely darkened corner.

I watch a young woman with an older man move that way to the music. He’s taller, not handsome, not large, wearing a sleeveless white undervest tucked into his trouser, kept up by a large buckled belt, and revealing a mass of dark hair all over his body.

His hand slips casually between the open buttons on her dress, finding its way between her legs. She tries to maintain a rhythm, letting her legs open, swaying her hips onto his hand in time to the music.

I don’t know what each man pays for the pleasure, but this one girl I’m watching lacks the hard edge of the others — there’s a sweetness and vulnerability in her wistful Latino eyes and a question on her soft lips. Why does she need this kind of dance?

For two minutes, they sway, more than dance. It is a commercial transaction, clinging to each other until the song ends and the helper hustles back in.

Eager men stand around holding onto their five hundred pesos, waiting their turn.

It is inexpensive in Cabo San Jose to cup with your hand on the secret of a woman, five hundred, and a thousand pesos if the señorita is naked under the dress. All the women have a protective helper who collects the fee.

Such helpers take a wide variety of forms, an old man, a young Mexican boxer, a boyfriend, and if I were to become even more curious, probably I’d find a fairy godmother wearing a loaded weapon.

As the two-minute tune closes, the helper moves in. The hairy man remains with the woman and engages the helper in a discussion, which ends with the soft-lipped girl removing her under clothing.

It is a swift action, only for the keen eyes of an experienced voyeur, and the music begins again. The helper walks away counting his pesos.

Back outside, the great sky roaster is doing its thing. People are burned, seared, and turned over ten times. Covid is forgotten here, at least by the tourists.

I’m looking for Squid Man.

He sells viagra at half the price of a pharmacy. I tried yesterday, but through circumstances, not of my making, I was unable to complete a transaction. I’m not saying a supply of viagra is urgent, or critical, not life-or-death, as yesterday’s effort proved. But I like bargains. What is better than an erection? One at half price.

It’s an interesting story of how I came by Squid’s name. I explained my dilemma to the helper guy back at the bar. His answer, naturally, was to suggest I dance with the girl. I don’t know whether he thought she would cure my ailment, but if my problem were curable by a beautiful woman, I wouldn’t have an issue.

I paid up my five hundred pesos to dance with the Latino girl, but kept my hands visible at all times. I explained that touching her would not cure my lack of virility.

The girl immediately lay her hand on my crotch. Si Señor, she said, you see Squid Man and come back.

Whomever Squid Man is, he resides in a building down a street on the east corner of the Cabo San Jose Square.

I found him ten minutes later, not in a building but in a booth surrounded by what looked like his henchmen.

Remembering my sworn testimony to Jenny, I was determined to stay out of trouble. Buying Viagra in Mexico is supposed to be easy.

Picking out Squid Man was not difficult, he was wearing Oakley shades to block the weird light in his neon hangout.

See, that’s what I thought, but a little later in the negotiation, I quickly judged Squid to be nearsighted, though not wearing prescription glasses or contacts. He strained to see everything.

I felt sad because, for him, every night must be starless, black, huge, and empty.

He sat me in a seat, cracked lime-green vinyl, and started flipping through the pages, flip, flip, flip. Squid stopped flipping and slapped his hand down on the page. He turns his book to face me:

I felt a movement in my pants just looking at Squid’s prices. We did the deal and I headed back to the silver and gold store. Jenny was inside perusing.

Hi, honey. Is anything catching your eye? I asked.

No, I only come in because I remember how much mom loved these shops. She would spend days looking for a bargain.

Nothing wrong with looking for a good deal, love.

In the evening we dined at Jasmin’s, enjoying the warm evening and colorful streets. Ignacio was our server, say hello if you stop by. Jenny was starting to look rather yummy, and I had a secret stash of goods to make her happy.

Let’s take a walk around the square, it’s art night, Jenny suggested. The square was packed, with art, lights, dancers everywhere. Pretty Mexican girls swirling and clapping and stamping.

It was beautiful until one of the girls, the one with wistful eyes and soft lips, called out to me: You find Squid, you come see me tomorrow.

I looked at Jenny, who was looking at me. Squid? She said. See her tomorrow?

I felt suddenly limp.

It’s kind of a long story, I said…speaking to no one!