Dominican Republic: The Malecón
By Dane Huckelbridge

The casa de chicas was by the malecón, not too far from the sea, but far enough that you couldn’t smell it.  I didn’t know the place was a brothel when I went in, although the neon sign, moth-clouded and winking in the night, gave me my suspicions.  I had asked the taxi driver to take me to a bar where I could sit and drink beer. 

“Do you like girls?” he enquired casually, flashing me a jaundiced glance in the rearview mirror.

“Yes, I like girls,” I told him, afraid he had mistaken my lost look and foreign manner for something other than they were. 

“Is this your first time in the capital?” 
 
 “Yes, it is.” 

“There are very pretty girls here, you will like them.” 

 “That sounds fine,” I said, but all I really wanted was a beer.

I walked into the empty club, greeted by a crisp Dominican in a tuxedo who led me to the bar, painfully polite.  Other than him and the bartender, I was the only man there, if you could call me a man at twenty-something.  I certainly didn’t feel like one. 

I knew what it was once I spotted the girls, lining the walls and skirting the dance floor, all painting me with their gazes.  They were attractive.  But awkward in a strange way that I couldn’t quite place, like little girls playing dress-up with their mothers’ clothes.  Most of them looked younger than I was.  The urge to leave swelled in my gut, but I had already sat at the bar.  Leaving to me seemed more embarrassing than staying. 

I asked for a beer, but it was early in the night and the bottles they had weren’t cold yet.

“Rum, then,” I told the bartender, who was well-dressed and professional looking, but missing a finger on one hand.  I started to get out my wallet, uncertain how much a glass of Brugal would cost. 

“You don’t pay now,” he said, “you pay afterwards.” 

I almost asked after what, but then it occurred to me.  I settled back onto the stool and sipped my rum, while the jagged chips of ice cracked audibly in the glass.  Merengue, brassy and fast, came on in the background.  The prostitutes tapped their high heels and fidgeted in their black cocktail dresses.  Once the music started, they were just country girls who wanted to dance.  But I could still feel their eyes on me, expectant, full of intent.  Twenty minutes with a foreigner was food for a month.  Their different perfumes mingled into a singular scent of sex, masking their desperation, and provoking a guilty arousal on my part.  I tried to drink quickly so I could leave.

A tap on my shoulder turned me around, staring right into the face of one of the girls, the only one who approached me.  “Can I sit here?” she asked, although it was as much a statement as a question. 

“Sure, go ahead.” 
 
She had eyes like a cat and smelled faintly of cinnamon.  She was beautiful.           

“Do you need a date tonight?” 

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