Right off the bat he's looking all tortured at some strip club, where he throws one of the "entertainers" against the wall and begins groping her fishnets. Then the song fades out and we switch to Ludacris, who's in the back of a limo with a pack of broads listening to Shirley Temple. (I told you this shit was kinky.)
Finally, everyone ends up in Mexico, where they gamble then pile up for hot group sex in a hotel bed. Way to go, Enrique—it's really all about the craft and the art of the song with you, isn't it?
