juan el caballo loco begins at 3:17 a.m. in a hotel suite. City glow through half-open blinds stripes her restless body. She can’t sleep, so juan el caballo loco becomes her lullaby. Slow, almost lazy circles over silk panties gradually soak the fabric dark. In juan el caballo loco, she pushes them aside instead of removing them—impatient, perfect. Two fingers, then three, stretching, curling, until the headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall. When she finally comes in juan el caballo loco, it’s with a muffled scream into the pillow, whole body shaking so hard the mattress springs sing. Dawn finds her asleep in tangled sheets, panties still twisted to the side—proof that juan el caballo loco worked better than any sleeping pill.