Living in New York, I thought I’d never visit the homeland of any Spanish-speaking woman. Why go to Puerto Rico when I can hop a train to the Lower East Side? Dominican Republic? No thanks. Washington Heights in Manhattan has all the Dominicans I need. Ah Latinas, I’ve dated many, and undressed a bunch with my eyes. I mean, really, who with New York’s selection at their fingertips would even think of breaking the bank to see more anywhere else? I now stand before you, a new man.
I tried flying south to Miami for a taste of the imported Cuban flavor. Sadly, the only ladies that put out were tourists. I need authenticity dammit! And I got (almost) just that in Spain. Yes, Spain my dudes. Far, but as close to good as it gets.
Calling Spaniards simply white girls with bigger butts is an understatement, aside from an insult, depending on the person.
I personally consider them a little more polished than your average American WGs, which are all good in my book. But I digress. From the moment I stepped off the plane, I was blindsided by everything of all ages. I’m not ashamed to say it either. 16 year-olds looked 32, and 40 year-old cougars looked 20. But guess who was on the prowl.
Yours truely journeyed to the home of Christopher Columbus, damn near fluent enough to negotiate the price of controlled substances, and humbly charmed some of Madrid’s finest into posing for Complex a la Street Detail. In the two weeks I spent traveling Spain, ogling country sides, and three-dimensional backsides, I luckily never landed myself in jail, nor impregnated anyone. That said, enjoy the souvenir.