I was only 16, and still a virgin when I had the accident that left me disfigured forever.

A shotgun blast that removed half my face and my left arm below the elbow.

Some people say my chosen profession is as ugly as my face. I’m a smuggler; a smuggler of human beings.

We have been a lot in the news lately, the coyotes as we are called. We get a lot of bad press, but we’re not all completely evil. I make sure my clients get to their destinations, or their money back.

I have good reputation now. I’ve been in this business for more than 20 years. Clients come to me, and they know that they will have to pay dearly for my services. Sometimes it’s all they can muster, but my job is dangerous and I’m not in it for the thrill. I feel that my profession is honorable, and I feel no guilt about what I do. But having said that, I do my job for money, and like every professional, I expect to be paid for my services.

Defying the United States Immigration and Naturalization Service is my joy in life. One of my only joys, since love is something that I will never have.

I’m ugly.

How ugly? People cringe when they see me. Polite people pretend not to notice but in their eyes there is revulsion. Babies cry, less decent people tell me that I should cover my face when I’m in public. Yet the horror that is my face is also my identity. No one can pretend to be me, nor can I pretend to be anyone else. That is sometimes useful in my business.

A lot of people come through my office here in Mexico.

Sometimes, we come to an arrangement for passage. Sometimes not. A lot of people come through here, and sometimes there are women. Normally the women of families traveling together; Wives, daughters. Because I don’t transport slaves; it’s policy. Those people have their own routes.

This woman came in. a young woman. A beautiful woman. Her name was Yolanda. Uncharacteristically, she came alone.

“My name is Yolanda Rodrigues.” She said to me, “You may remember my aunt, Elisabeth Rodrigues. Fifteen years ago you took her and my uncle across the border. She has sent me to you.”

Elisabeth Rodrigues. How could I ever forget? The first woman I ever had, the first one who was not a prostitute.

She was married; she had two small children and a husband with her. They didn’t have the money for passage. They had about half, but not enough. They tried to bargain me down, but even then, my heart was as hard as my face.

“I will take you,” I’d told them, “And my work is guaranteed. But you have to meet my price. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. Perhaps one of you should go first, find work and save some money.”

“But we’re so poor, sir. You are so rich. Surely you can help us.”

I had heard this little spiel a thousand times. Everyone was trying to get something for less. Sometimes it was just a bargaining position, they had plenty of money. Other times, it was true, the people really didn’t have enough money to meet my price.

I had ceased to care. The fact was, there were more people who needed my services than I was able to help. Therefore, I’d had decided long ago to help those who were able to help me. In other words, those who could pay my price.

There’s no use debating the merits or demerits of this policy; that’s how I felt, and that’s how I still feel. My services are in demand; I want to help people, but there are too many, there are millions. I am only one. And I am a professional. Usually that is.

But this time, the little speech angered me. These people had the one thing I would never have; Love. The small family was wealthier than I could never be. I could become as rich as John Paul Getty, and I would never attain what they took for granted; love. You could feel it in the air when they entered the room; love from the man for the woman, the woman for the man, both of them for the children. They were a wealthy family in my eyes. It didn’t matter where they were, because they would have each other.

“You say that you’re poor, and I’m rich. But I would trade places you in a moment. In fact, it I will make you this offer; if I could have the love of your woman for four days, I will take the four of you across the border and deliver you to your destination.”

To my surprise, they actually discussed it. I had thrown the proposal at them out of anger and jealousy, I hadn’t been really serious. They spoke in Portuguese, which I don’t understand.

“There are other possibilities,” I told them, interrupting their discussion. “There are those who work for a lower price than me.”

“Yes, we are aware of that sir.” The man said “But we have been warned of them. We are told only to trust you; you will do as you say, when you say you will do something, you will do it. The others, we have heard some very bad stories. We cannot take a chance.”

My competition is not evil as many make out. There are some that are, but there are other people whose work is not completely bad. They are not as good as me, but they are about half my price. They do not guarantee; first you pay, if the movement doesn’t succeed, it’s your own risk. But they aren’t like they are portrayed in the movies, taking the money from the customers and killing them in the desert. That would not be profitable. We all work by referral.

I was very surprised when they accepted my offer; I actually regretted having made it. After I reflected upon it for some time, it occurred to me that if they would accept my offer, either the woman was a whore, or I had just made her one. Then what was the difference between her and the prostitutes that I saw regularly? And the fact was, it would take me nearly a week, end-to-end, to make preparations, move them to their destination, and return. If I took a job normally, I would get paid enough money to keep two prostitutes for a month. At Mexican wages, of course.

Some of these prostitutes, they are not bad women, not to me. Some of them are my friends now. They cannot love me; I’m under no illusions about that. But they treat me kindly, and give me good service for the wages I pay them. And of course I transport many to the US, they get better wages there.

We discussed the details; he shouldn’t see his wife for the entire four-day period; neither shall the children; he may call once a day to be sure that I’m not abusing her.

And I should not abuse her. That was the deal. She was to be my woman for four days, and then I would fulfill my end of the bargain. My word was my bond; they knew that, it was my reputation.

Those of you in the normal world probably do not understand the value of reputation in mine. Reputation is everything; it’s all I have. My trucks with the hidden compartments, my safe houses, they are easily replaceable. But my reputation, once soiled, can never be replaced. My reputation is my business. That’s why these people had come to me. That’s why all my customers come to me. Everyone knows, the half face man will do what he promises.

50 miles north of the border, that’s where I drop. One suitcase included, a fully charged phone, no restrictions on cash but no narcotics. That’s another business and we smugglers have boundaries. I don’t piss off the drug smugglers and they leave me to my work. My rules, charges, and services are made clear to each new customer.

The man took the infant from the woman, and taking their young daughter by the hand, left my office. These people were not peasants; they were dressed too well, even if their clothes were worn. Their English was very good.

You might think all the migrants are penniless uneducated laborers. Many are; as I’m in the upper end of the market, most of my clients are from the better paying sections of society. Drug dealers, prostitutes, out of work politicians, doctors, dissidents, a lot of bankers and financial people who wished to avoid prison.

Her name was Elizabeth, and during those four days, she did try her best to honor her side of the bargain. But the reality is, love cannot be traded, love cannot be sold.

Oh, sex is no problem. Sex can be performed, but love is more subtle, it does not bend to the will of man.

Elizabeth cooked for me, she washed my clothes, she cleaned my house. She performed the duties of wife. Yes, all the duties of wife.

That first night, I had sex for the first time with a woman who was not a prostitute. Not normally a prostitute, anyway.

She was extremely nervous, as you would expect. She went to the bedroom, and undressed, and covered herself with blankets before I entered.

The expression on her face as she regarded my horrible visage coming through the door was ambiguous; I often thought afterwards that she should have been a poker player.

I knew she was horrified inside, as were all human beings are at the sight of my face.

I had resolved that by the end of the four days, at least she should not hate me. Love was out of the question, I’m not a fool. But if I could keep house with this good woman for four days, and at the end she should not hate me, that would be something. Something small perhaps, something insignificant to you readers, whole of body and mind. But for me, something to cherish.

The undamaged parts of my body were ok; I was never an athlete but I wasn’t overweight either, and I was always particular about personal hygiene.

Gently, reverently, I removed the blankets, uncovering her body. I was only 25 years old at that time, and she was at least 10 years older. Her body had born two children, two children had suckled at those breasts. But to me she was phenomenally attractive. My own mother had abandoned me when I was born; perhaps that will explain why I found Elizabeth so beautiful. She was a mother, functional and loving. A mother who would sacrifice everything for her man and for her children. The mother I never had for myself.

She didn’t have the full breasts of an adolescent; nor the drooping sleeping bags of an old lady. They were fine breasts, medium-sized and with enough flesh in them to give them shape. But her nipples were large and dark. The nipples that had already done the work that God had intended them for, but that I intended to use for my pleasure, nonetheless.

She closed her eyes, and tried to relax as I ran my one hand over her torso. I had not yet uncovered her below the hips. I was saving that, both for my own pleasure and to allow Elizabeth to become accustomed to what she had resolved to endure.

Her skin was very smooth and fairly pale for a Brazilian woman. She was very lean; her hips were wonderfully slim. Later, when I uncovered the rest of her body, I would see what a lovely small ass she had.

The stretch marks from her two pregnancies were visible, but only if you looked closely. Her hands were very soft, and I realized over the next day or two that she was unused to manual labor herself. These people had had servants in their home. She would wash and clean for me, but in fact, she had not done that for own family.

I caressed her breasts, running my fingers gently over them, appreciating this woman’s fine body.

I had shaved myself closely, in preparation for this treat. I now brushed softly across her belly, across her breasts, across her nipples, with my cheeks. At first with my smooth right cheek, then with my lips. And then with the most sensitive part of my body; no, not my penis. The mottled scar tissue that made up the left side of my face. The touch of her smooth skin against my scar eased my pain. Her touch was like a salve upon my wound. And as she shuddered with horror and loathing, I shuddered as well; as the tensions left my body and my mind.

I knew what I was doing was wrong. Evil. The only reason I desired her was for her goodness, her purity. The very purity and goodness that I now defiled as I caressed her smooth cheek with the scared stump of the end of my left arm. She didn’t open her eyes, and she knew not which of my appendages was caressing her.

By the end of her stay with me, she would be able to bear my touch. But on our first night, it was all she could do to keep herself still while I had my way with her.

She was passive as I spread her legs and explored her sensitive parts with my rough fingers; as I crudely worked my penis into her insufficiently lubricated orifice.

But there was some response after a minute; I felt her fluids enter, easing the situation. She was patient with me as I screwed her, fulfilling her side of our indecent arrangement gracefully. She stroked my back and head, and made no complaint. I came.

The young woman who had introduced herself as Yolanda had a strange shape.

She was short; about five foot two inches. Her hips were very narrow, and her breasts appeared to be too large for her small body. She was very well groomed. Her straight black hair was very short, but thick.

She wore no jewelry; her clothes were simple, and new.

She was wearing no makeup. She had large dark eyes, high cheekbones, and a cute square little chin.

“Do you have a passport?” I asked her.

“No. I have no papers at all.”

There was something unlikely about all of this. Frankly, I didn’t believe her. She didn’t look like someone who was on the run; she didn’t act like somebody who was desperate. Still, I kept my doubts to myself, for the time being.

“Tell me exactly what you want from me, miss.”

“I...” she hesitated. “I want you to take me across the border.”

“That’s a very expensive proposition these days.”

“How expensive, exactly?”

“It depends on the details. How far north of the border I am to take you, whether you go alone, or as part of a group. But I charge between 5 and $10,000 for that type of job.”

The expression on her face was hard to judge. She didn’t look particularly shocked at the figures. But somehow, she just looked shocked generally.

“I ... I don’t have that much money.”

“Well, I’m very sorry. Perhaps you should just invest in some false ID, and try to cross on the bus.”

“You ... you came to an agreement ... with my aunt.”

Her large chest was heaving, and she seemed to be supporting herself against the wall. I thought she was some kind of INS agent sent to entrap me at first.

“How do you know about that? Did she tell you herself?”

“Yes.”

That seemed very unlikely. Elisabeth was a Catholic woman, I’m sure her time with me was her darkest secret. But Yolanda clearly knew of it. Just mentioning it seemed to fill her with anxiety.

“Are you proposing the same arrangement?”

“Yes.” She replied. It squeezed out of her in something between a whisper and croak. She was trembling visibly, and she appeared barely able to stand unaided.

“You must think an awful lot of yourself if you think your charms are worth that kind of money. You’re a very attractive young woman, but $5000 is a very attractive sum.”

“Please. You must help me. You must accept! It’s taken me a long time to find the courage to come here. You mustn’t send me away now.”

I really wanted to screw her. There was something about her that reminded me very much of Elizabeth. Despite the fact that her story was full of holes, there was something real about her, something I wanted very badly. It wasn’t just those oversized knockers. Young girls with big knockers are available in town at bargain rates these days. But there was something special about Yolanda. Besides, business was slow that week.

“Very well then. Take your clothes off.” I told her. At least I could be sure she wasn’t a cop if she went through with it. Well, if she was a cop, and she went through with it, it might be worth the price.

Her eyes were closed, and her jaw was set. But she hadn’t moved.

“Go on, Yolanda. Take it off. Start with that shirt.”

Slowly, and without opening her eyes to look at me, her fingers worked the buttons. It was a long sleeved checkered shirt, like a man would wear. As she removed it, she revealed smooth olive skin, a flat belly, a reinforced white bra. Her breasts were magnificent, even if they looked as though they should belong to a larger woman.