|I found this picture googling. I couldn't find the artist so as to ask him for proper permission. This story is based on a great short story by Gerardo Sanhueza, which you can find HERE (spanish only) —FO.|
We were a couple of lads disappointed of life, love and our ex-girlfriends; especially our exes. We tried to make our way as the soap opera heartthrobs we thought we were, but all we got was to go back home alone, drunk off our asses and with no money. It was then that a single thought struck my head as a divine revelation: “Why don’t we go to a whore house?” So we gathered some money and by the next weekend we were walking down the red-light district.
It was a gloomy neighborhood, scarcely illuminated by a few lamp posts and some cracked neon lights outside the dives. Even though the air was cold and dry, most people were barely dressed, as if the only thing they wanted to do was to rip them off as fast as they could. Some whores were outside the hovels. Most of them wore a satin sheen top with mesh leggings and rolls and rolls of fat were leaking out. Many were smoking a joint and their eyes were red and irritated. A few had babies on their fat arms and most seemed very sad and weary.