MY LIFE © - Chapter 41  - Rite of Passage

Thank Heaven there were no mobile phones for selfies in the 1960s.
We'll look back at the old days with nostalgia, but if we scratch the surface of that nostalgic mask, we could very well find many a rotten circumstance.

Because of this, Chapter 41 has no real photos to show you. As the writer of these chapters I feel a profound loss not being able to add the authentic visual impact. On the other hand, photos of this “rite of passage” would be very liable to injunctions from anyone who looked through such photos, including all the children and even grandchildren of those who lived that era..

What am I talking about?

I am talking about our neighbouring town of La Linea, and a very particular Street in it still called "Calle Gibraltar".

Probably since before the Spanish Civil War, but definitely in its immediate aftermath, that rather shoddy Street was the red-light district of La Linea, and much frequented by Gibraltarians who no longer had brothels once what is now New Street closed down.

Brothels spring up because of poverty in a given population, coupled with rampant sexual appetite repressed within a straight-laced society. Actually seeing how easy sex is offered in the libertarian society we have created today, I find it puzzling that brothels continue in business..... but that is for sociologists to discuss.

Calle Gibraltar had a very profitable number of clients from Gibraltar. Obviously when the fleet was in, any navvies who could cross the frontier in civvies augmented this quasi legal business, much to the delight and dire needs those who lived from it. Many an upright Gibraltarian availed himself of the services of these women. The abject poverty of Spain post its Civil War left many women unable to feed their families with a regular job. Within certain measures, working in a brothel was almost “easy money”. At its lowest, the rate of 100 pesetas for 20 or even 30 minutes sexual gratification worked well for both sides. 100 pesetas, equivalent to 10 shillings or 50p today, was quite cheap for the punter, yet it put food on some tables in our neighbour in town. La Linea was certainly not an exception. There were brothels in almost every town and city in Spain ....and still are, but having this red-light district at our doorstep was very convenient. Young men frequented it, older ones too. It was common knowledge that there was a sort of 'Rite of Passage' when a youth attained puberty, and certainly during conscription to the Gibraltar Defence Force (GDF), precursor to the present Gibraltar Regiment (GR) to visit a bordello and so "become a man!"

Incidentally the very common word we use when describing having a great time, "CACHONDEO", literally meant going whoring. Those of us of a certain age may remember when the word "cachondeo" was considered vulgar and not used polite society.

Actually that reminds me.....

I was 21 years old, "un hombre hecho y derecho" as the saying went, when I was having a bit of an argument with Mum. Considering that something she was telling me was ridiculous, I burst out with:

"Dejate de cachondeo, Mum!"

There was no faster gun in the West, nor the east for that matter, than a slap from my mother...... Her hand snapped up like greased lightning and she slapped my face.

We stood frozen in that seminal moment.

I was thinking: "Hey, I'm 21 years old ... too old to be slapped"

Mum was thinking: "I've just slapped my son, but he is no longer a child. He is a 21 year old man!"

For a few seconds neither of us knew what to do. Then, seeing how ridiculous this situation had become, we laughed nervously at each other, hugging and apologising, me for using that terrible word and she for having slapped me.

But back to the story.....

There are a million urban legends about escapades in Calle Gibraltar. Most are probably exaggerations but based on actual occurrences. Here is a typical one I heard which was apparently quite true in its overall sense, if not exactly in its details. The older guys, the Teddy Boys of that era ... would boast to their younger, uninitiated groupies about how fantastic a 100 peseta visit always was.

"If only you knew how good it felt...."

"When can I go ... can I go with you????"

"You?? Ha ha ha you are too young...."

"I am almost 17!"

"OK, OK ... next Sunday, after the bullfight, we can meet at Bar Pacheco on the corner of Calle Gibraltar ...."

"Si ... si si ... we'll be there ... "

"No .... not all of you ... You think this is a school picnic?"

“OK ... ok ... just us three and you ... ok?"

By then these Three Musketeers were champing at the bit. They were squirming in their tight drainpipe jeans, so fashionable then, with wide turn-ups, winkle-picker shoes, white baggy shirt with rolled up sleeves and upturned collar.........and, de rigeur, the Elvis quiff! 

"But ....."

"But what? But what?"

"But what would you do if the Guardia Civil burst in when you are there, with your y-fronts at your ankles?"

"Uufff the Guardia Civil?"

Guys, if you think the Guardia Civil today should be given the wide berth, in those days, they were practically a law unto themselves, truly to be feared.

"Of course, the Guardia Civil! ...And your mother would find out where you've been huh!"

Suddenly the drainpipe jeans were no longer that tight!

The older guys would play yo-yo with the hormonal hell the youngsters were constantly struggling with.

Another way of scaring the youngsters was the mention of venereal diseases (VD) which did exist and were relatively common.

"No, I will not take you to Calle Gibraltar! What if you catch VD? Or even "la illa" (Pubic Lice).. huh??? What then??"

If Guardia Civiles were dreaded, VD in all its varied selection was almost enough to make a youngster take vows of celibacy ... almost ...

But in the end a "guided tour" would be arranged.

At 100 pesetas a go, it was definitely not the Moulin Rouge in Paris. But the Rite of Passage would be travelled ...and spoken off in grinning whispers ...and only the first tour ever needed a guide!

It was fun ... cachondeo ... it made youngsters feel like men. And this was known about in all circles of our society, be that turning a blind eye, or participated by the older "gentlemen", or condemned by the righteous ... or less daring.

Like most phases, this too had a 'best before' date. Youngsters grew up, found a steady girlfriend and never needed to storm the willing ramparts of Teresa, or Margarita or Carmen again. 

And his is where I come into the story.

No, do not entertain bad thoughts dear readers..... I am now talking of an incident in the mid/late 1990s.

By then the red-light district of La Linea had closed down, or at least Calle Gibraltar had developed into an open, bright part of homes and shops, offices and stores. And all that remains are the urban legends, repeated ad nauseam in tantalizing conversations, of the times gone past.
 It was a warm summer evening at the chiringuito in Estepona beach.
We were a group of about 20 guys and girls, mostly Spanish but some from Gib, and I was one of the older ones there. I cannot remember exactly how the conversation started but the Calle Gibraltar of the past was mentioned. I commented jokingly about those days, some funny comment or other we all laughed at ... all except one.

She was a very good-looking woman in her early 40s. She did not smile. Instead she looked me in the eye, quite seriously and indicated she wanted to talk to me.

Oops!
Somehow, I have put my foot in it...  whatever "it" was.
The lady, whom we shall call Hortencia, worked as a nurse in the Gib hospital. She was attractive, quite intelligent, and I wondered what had I said she had found offense with. As the evening wore on we started drifting apart and she maneuverer me so she and I were alone, sitting on the beach, watching the crescent moon over a calm sea. Holding my face in her hands, she kissed me tenderly and whispered: "Tu no sabes nada David, de la verdadera vida en Calle Gibraltar"

("You know nothing about real life in Calle Gibratar")

And then she proceeded to tell me her story.

"My mother was one of those prostitutes in that street.
I make no excuses for her, she worked there because the money was easy for her. She was younger than most of the other women there and far prettier. You know the expression "Mas puta que Rita"? That was my mother and on top of it that was also her name.
Inevitably in that business in those days, where contraception was only a condom, where pessaries smuggled in from Gibraltar were prohibited by the church, pregnancies were common. Abortions were almost always dangerous, certainly illegal and unhygienic. When Rita got pregnant, she worked for as far into the pregnancy as she could, then offered even the cheaper 'services' to make ends meet. I was the first of her 'collateral mistakes’”' she said to me, lowering her eyes for a moment.

“But she enjoyed the money” Hortrensia continued. “She found it easy because of her incredible sex appeal and beauty. She abandoned me for to couple that ran a brothel there, in Calle Gibraltar, Antonio and Mercedes, and moved on to Rota, the American base where she could always find more than enough clients, all of whom paid for better than Yanitos or Spaniards.”

“Now and again she would visit me, bringing a toy as proof of her love. To my ‘uncle and aunt’, Antonio and Mercedes, she would bring some money for my upkeep and regaled them and the other putas with stories of orgies in Rota and how much money could be made there.
Rita fell pregnant again, ‘percances del oficio’ (goes with the job). She could never tell who was my father, nor the father my half-brother who was born a few months later. In fact, I have six half-brothers and half-sisters, none of us knows who our fathers are.

“My childhood in "El Patio" as that brothel was commonly known, was one of hunger, old clothes and work. Even as a child I had to help, first in the kitchen, then with the laundry. That was far more important than attending school.

At the age of 7, my ‘uncle’ raped me."

My jaw dropped!

"At the age of seven?"

"Si, David! What you hear in the news and read in the papers about paedophiles .... that was my reality"

I really did not want to hear anymore of her story. Yes, it was upsetting me, and it was obviously upsetting her despite the years that had passed.

"He made it seem like playing husband and wife in a play doll house. I did not know better. I played along with the kissing and touching until he hurt me. I cried out and his wife, my ‘auntie’, realised what was going on. I remember they had a huge fight, but in the end, they needed the money that Rita was sending them so they kept it quiet and I kept being his sex toy.

"I remember when I first managed to read and write. The whole universe opened up in front of me and I knew that my only way out was learning, going to school, listening to all the teachers said ..... and of course, while I was in school, I was away from my uncle, away from his is filthy games. David, these were the days when there were only books, magazines and radio. No TV, no computers..... Oh yes, cinema, but going to see a film more than once a month was too much of a luxury. I remember the films of Joselito and Marisol."

For a moment Hortensia lost herself looking through the windows of her childhood memories. Her face softened, eyes closed and I was sure she was hearing the songs those two child actors would sing in the films of those days.

"I would devour books! There was no money to buy me the books I wanted but some of the putas were kind to me because I would iron their clothes nicely and clean out their piss pots and bidets. From somewhere or other they would bring magazines and books for me, old ones, tattered, stained .... but all with a magic of stories that transported me to another world. By the time I started menstruating my auntie was making plans to sell my virginity to the highest bidder. Did you know, David, that there were punters willing to pay 1000, 2000 even 5000 pesetas to deflower child virgin?"

Actually, I did know of this practice. I also knew that a good brothel keeper would sell the same virginity two or three times by keeping that young girl away till she recovered from the first onslaught. Such was the life in "El Patio" ..... and there were many similar brothels working the same system.

"By then, my uncle was impotent. Did that stop him? No way! He whittled a wooden phallus for me. He would make me use it on myself for his gratification. But I had become a puta of my own then too. If he wanted to touch me he would have to pay, and pay he did. 2 duros, 3 duros even 5 duros (a duro was 5 pesetas)..... When I realised that I was his only means of achieving any type of orgasm, I kept raising my price and all the money I made I used to buy books. I realised that books, not sex, were the passport to my freedom! I was a little toughie by then. In that life only the tough survived. I also knew that even some of the very tough ones had lost all hope of being anything but an old whore. I was not going to be a whore, not young, not old."

I have seldom been as spellbound as that evening on the beach. Most of the time Hortensia telling me her story, she kept her eyes closed, as if narrating an old black and white film only she could see on the screen of her mind. Her eyes were closed but still the tears escaped, writing of a painful past in a rivulet of mascara across her beautiful face. I wanted her to stop ….. and I wanted her to carry on. My jokes and ribald stories of that era felt like vacuous, shameful memories I could no longer speak of.

" I took a job in a grocery store. No one knew my background. I was pretty, I was smart and I knew that a smile and a sweet word to a client would guarantee my job. Don't get me wrong, I was not vain, I was practical. Men like pretty women. Men like young, pretty women. Men like young, pretty women who are smart and I was young and I was pretty and I was smart! At the age of 18 one of the young guys that would hover outside the grocery shop just to get a smile from me actually took my fancy. Did I love him? There is no love when you are brought up as I was brought up. There is only self-preservation. I had no father that I knew of. I had no mother that I wanted. This young man, Pedro, had a steady job, seemed to wash regularly, shaved regularly too, and I knew I could make a good husband of him and hopefully a good father. I smiled at him I let him hold my hand, I let him kiss me, I let him fondle me in the dark but over my clothes never under, never naked. The way to get a man is to starve him of his desires but promise them all after the wedding.

"The wedding was obviously a very modest affair but I wanted Rita to see me as she would have wanted to be herself. By then she was no longer the sexy beauty of previous years. Time has a way of ravaging a face and uncovers the sordid lifestyle a person leads. Time had written volumes on the face of that woman and I wanted her to see that I would never follow in her footsteps nor want her near to me again. She bought us a big present beautifully wrapped and with white satin bows. When she gave it to us, I asked her to come with me to the kitchen and there are in front of her very eyes I threw the present in the dumpster. I turned my back on her then and have not seen her since.

"Pedro and I made a home together, but we lead separate lives. We have two children but after our second one, a boy, I no longer shared a bed with him. However, he is good to me and I am good to him .... but that is where it ends. Other than for my children I cannot find love in my heart for anyone. Having seen what I have seen, having been through those terrible years and I have been through..... somehow along the way love dies. 5 years ago, I took a course in nursing. It was very difficult to study again even though I had hardly studied ever. But I wanted to be my own self. I wanted to have my own value. I no longer wanted to depend on anyone for my bread, for my roof. I passed the tests and applied for a job in nursing. I have not looked back since"

She opened her eyes.

The tears had stopped.

The story had ended.

I wiped her face tenderly and wondered if there was any place in her heart without a scar.

We got up and walked along the shore. Curiously she held my hand and walked very close to me. We even kissed a few times, tender kisses unblemished by carnal desires. Two friends who had shared the intimacy and the agony of her history.

"Why do I kiss you, you ask yourself, David?"

A mind reader too?

"Because you will never hurt me. I know you want to make love to me but now you know I have no love to give back so we can be good friends nothing more, …….but definitely nothing less"

We kept on walking. It was one of those moments in life when you are part of the whole world, but separated, encapsulated in the intimacy of that shared moment.

"When my uncle was dying of cancer, I sat by his bedside, I cared for him, I was kind to him. Do you know why, David?"

I mumbled something along the lines of:
Because you're a kind person ....
Because you're a good person....
Because you have a warm heart....

"Nada de eso. (Nothing like that) That was my revenge!"

"Your revenge????"

"Yes. Instead of using the malice that he deserved, I was exceptionally good to him. I wanted him to suffer the guilt of knowing how he had destroyed my childhood. I wanted that guilt to accompany him to Hell!"