The Case Of The Suspicious Pink Taco

It was 3 AM on a random weeknight and I was starving. Under such conditions, there is only one solution: Taqueria Mexico, an enchanting, ramshackle authentic taco shop that is open 24/7. It specializes in filling the stomachs of stoners, drunks, losers, winners, and community-college students at the bleak hours of the night. Because of its utter deliciousness and bang for the buck, it’s not uncommon to see tatted-up, freshly released-from-the-state-pen vatos sitting next to preppy, Penn State-bound rich kids from Huntington Harbor.

As I stand in line and examine the social zoo that is Taqueria, I see her. From behind I noticed her hot pink dress, which ends barely low enough to cover up her firm, well-shaped ass. Her blonde hair is wild like that of an 80’s glam-rock video whore. Her skin is dark, but not darker than mine. She’s wearing high heels that show off her long, muscular legs. “She must have just come back from a club,” I think to myself.

My heart starts beating quickly. I have a personal rule of always hitting on a girl I am attracted to, no matter how awkward the situation is. I wasn’t expecting to see a hottie at this hour, so she caught me off guard. I don’t want to lose my place in line, and it doesn’t look like she is going to leave anytime soon. But personal history has taught me a valuable lesson about hesitating: While you’re trying to muster your courage, some other guy always hits on her first.

Self-doubt started engulfing me. I was in gym shorts, a dirty faded T-shirt, and flip-flops. I hadn’t shaved my spic-stache in a few days, so my face looked like I was a 15-year-old boy going through puberty. My hair always looks glorious, so no worries there. I look around and analyze the competition. If I noticed her, I’m sure the other bastards eating noticed her, too. I see other men checking her out, giggling, and possibly teasing their friends about not having the balls to hit on her. “Fuck them. Fuck it,” I say to myself, leaving the line and confidently approaching the pink-clad vixen.

She is standing and facing away from me, so I tap her on the shoulder. She turns around and I begin to say, “Excuse me, I just noticed you from across the room and I had to come talk to you.” I start to examine her face, which I hadn’t seen before. While it wasn’t ugly, it wasn’t as pretty as I thought it would be. It was very heavily covered in makeup and there was something off about it. I do a quick half-second inspection of her cleavage and notice the perky breasts are definitely fake.

She responds: “Awww…that is sweet, I’m Monica” in a gay-lisp.

Then it clicks. This hottie is a fucking man. I notice the strong jaw and the Adam’s apple. While some may say they would have just walked out, I’m not a dick like that. I didn’t want to hurt her/his feelings, so I did the socially decent thing and proceeded hitting on her/him. After a couple of awkward minutes she had to leave. I took down her number on my cell and went back in line and ordered my food.

When I got home, I became curious if she was truly a he or if my mind was playing tricks on me. So I sent her a text:

Raul: Hey, it’s Raul, I met you at Taqueria about 20 minutes ago.

Monica: Heyyyyy Handsome.

Raul: I have to ask upfront, are you a guy?

Monica: Ohhh baby, don’t you know what I am? I’m a call boy, I charge by the hour. You interested?

Raul: No. I don’t buy hookers.

I didn’t hear a reply for about 30 minutes and then he sent me a text:

Monica: I’m very horny and you’re very cute. How about you come to my hotel and I let you try me out for free.

Raul: I’m sorry, I’m not gay. Thanks though.

Monica: That’s too bad. :(

And that was the end of that, so I finally ate my carne asada tacos. At least with the food at that place, I know what kind of meat I’m getting. Thought Catalog Logo Mark


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