This world is not what it seems. There
are layers that you haven’t seen, that you’ll hopefully never experience. I am
one of the unlucky ones, who has to live with the knowledge that the monsters
are real. I envy you and your simple life. Some days it is hard for me to get
out of bed, to face a world full of people who don’t have to think about the
things I know. You can just smile and walk away from the truth, because my
truths are just fairy tales to you. The monsters don’t lurk around a corner for
you. Well, at least you don’t see it lurking. I have to face the evil of this
world. Creatures only alive to torture us. There is no place for sympathy,
those things are pure evil. I don’t care about humans and their strange wars
and fights. Nothing compares to the horrors that creep around at night. Be glad
you’re able to live in your world, mine is a never ending nightmare. I envy
your blindness, your problems and your fears. Seeing you walk around your world
without noticing mine, makes me wish I had the strength to finally end it, but
I still have a job to do. Someone has to be the nightmare of your horror. Look
at me! Take a close look and you’ll see the one thing your fears are afraid of.
I’ll fight for you, so you’re able to live your lives. So please, make it
In reality, I want to take a break. I had just spent a year and a half culminating "the trilogy" with the completion of borrowed flesh. With that said, I am already getting excited about my next work. A quirky story based on the event of William S. Burroughs shooting his wife Joan Vollmer in Mexico City. I had wanted to cool my mind and "play the fuck out of Fallout 3" through the winter to flush my mind of all that clutter, yet it seems I had already began jotting down notes and plot points. Haven't thought of a title yet and I don't want to go the hack route by using some Burroughsian term or word title. It will come to me. The working title I slashed across the first note page was Beat. How pedestrian is that?
One of the small quirks of my apartment is that it does not have a walk-in closet. I have been actually living out of my suitcase since I moved in. So, today I decided to go buy one. Here in Mexico, most apartments do not offer walk-in closets, so the furniture stores offer quite a large selection.
It was around noon when I headed out and wished to eat lunch before pounding the pavement in my quest. On Juarez Ave., I nabbed two burritos with diced weenies and beans from a tiny shop I frequented. The food is cheap and the people who run it are exceptionally friendly. I made my way through swirling dust and coughing, antiquated buses to a vast park which held a massive monument of former presidente Bonito Juarez. To me, the statue always seemed as if he was flipping off the city. I don't blame him.
As I walked over the dying grass, dodging massive pools of drying, black muck, a tall and quite handsome hustler dashed up to me with the worn-out ice breaker, "Hey, you remember me?"
Actually, I did remember him. The last time I drank at bar Buen Tiempo, he popped his head in the swinging doors, smiled at me with a curt nod of the head, and then disappeared back out into the night.
He introduced himself and stated he was from Honduras. Tall, athletically built, and masculinly handsome. His neck was spotted with an array of hickeys. His voice was stern and deep. I said hello and attempted to continue on my way to locate a bench to eat my lunch but it was too late, he latched on, following me and babbling with questions on what I was doing today in his broken English.
We began chatting about his wish to cross the border and him being reunited with his family in Los Angeles until the hustler's point turned towards sex. He watched a plump female waddle to the nearby bus stop.
"You like the womens?" He asked.
"Nope." I stated.
"You like the boys?" He smirked.
"You crazy. You like nothing?" He laughed.
I only wanted to eat my lunch. As I took a bite of my burrito, he looked at me and leered, "Let's go to your house?"
"That's okay," I said. "I've grown attached to the things in my house." I really didn't feel like being robbed, either.
There was a long pause and I stated, "I never thought you were homosexual."
"I'm not homosexual!" He blurted.
"You have sex with men. And obviously like it."
"Only for the money!"
"Then why don't you have sex with women for money?"
"They not pay!"
"Why? Are you bad at sex? You have a small dick? You cum too fast?"
The disdained look on his face stated he obviously had enough of my shit. Mumbling something I couldn't understand, he dramatically rose and walked away.
Finishing my lunch. I made my way to the markets where they sold used furniture and perused the outlets. I did notice several objects I wanted for my house but I couldn't shake the doubting urge to just pack my shit and get the hell out of Juarez. The thought looms constantly over me like a thick fog.
To alleviate that frump, as I was exiting the market district and making my way to the cathedral, I ran into someone I hadn't seen in almost a decade, my old friend Enrique.
We stood a bit under dusty awnings and shot the shit going over the what-ever-happened-to-so-and-so routine. We eventually wound up in a booth at Cafe Central sipping coffee and pleasantly chatting of days gone past. In the early days, I had such a crush on Enrique when I used to sit on humid nights with my friends in Plaza las Armas and he would saunter by all handsome and full of boyish smiles. He was and still is a great conversationalist as we whiled away the afternoon dunking cake and casually catching up. It was refreshing to talk to someone without the constant dread of it becoming a financial play.
We shook hands on the corner of Ave. Francisco Villa and 16th de Septiembre under the glaring light of a baneful moon making plans to meet for drinks.
As I returned home, my depression elevated as I thought, that is what I want. Not romance or love or recognition, but just good friends to hang with and talk and have a few kicks. Maybe Juarez isn't so bad after all...
A lucid, shattering portrait
of a life going down the tubes. Luis Blasini frankly reveals the exhilarating
true story of restless years wandering south of the border in the slums of
Mexico and across the United States from flop house to seedy hotel.
Blasini brings out the
junkies, hoodlums, prostitutes, sexual deviants, and thieves crawling in the
back alleys of the world. Transcribed from the notebooks he kept while on the
road and written in a distinct, hard boiled style, Borrowed Flesh composes a tough, yet funny narrative of his
adventures with drugs, homelessness and lifeless romance.
Borrowed Flesh is derisive, inventive, frankly homoerotic,
comical, serious, poetic, and ineradicably American - a fast paced quirky work
in which you are not permitted to laugh and yet, at times, will find yourself
My new novel titled Borrowed Flesh has just went into publication. It is a novelization of the blog and I think it turned out very well. It is written in a very beat centric style on which was a heavy influence. If you would like to own a copy, simply click the icon on the book listings to the right on this blog and enjoy!
Night blanketed the City and I was in a foul mood. I strode quickly as I usually do over broken sidewalks of tin cans and shattered beer bottles. Ranchero music drifted from a hundred cantinas as I darted past a foul smelling alley way that hosted a grungy hotel nestled in a block of vacant, gloomy buildings. A fat prostitute stood tottering on the corner blocking my way. I attempted to dash past her without incident. Nope. She wouldn't have it.
"Psst...psst. Fucky-sucky?" She croaked.
Normally I ignored these working girls, but as I previously stated, I was in a foul mood. I shot back, "Not my type, ya hippopotamus!" The retort was lost in translation because she kept up with the psst-psst as I darted around the next corner.
The reason for my nasty disposition was that through a series of ignorant circumstances, I had decide to stay in Juarez for another month. I was angry at my situation and regretted my decision. I sighed inward. Well, no use crying over spilled milk...
Walking towards the neon blasted cathedral, I thought of the outcome. My neighbors are down right idiots. Obnoxious, self-serving animals who care for nothing but their self gratification. Example: the building I rent is old. Obviously constructed in the late 1800's. With that said, the walls are thick stone made of adobe brick. In the summer, it acts as an oven, in the winter, a freezer unit. There are no luxuries like central gas or air. On the positive side, it is unique and has old style charm. However, on the right, resides an old fuck who blasts his ranchero music at full volume. It's so powerful, it comes right through those thick walls and drowns out anything I am attempting to listen too. I had asked him nicely once to please lower it in lieu I wished to watch and hear a program on television. Since then, he continues to do it only for attention. He'll sit out front waiting for me to burst out in a hostile rage. I never do, I simply leave and return much later. Machisimo fuck.
On the left side resides an ugly as fuck woman with four screaming kids. School of any kind is not free here, so the little darlings are at home 24/7 banging and hollering and crying all day long. Sigh.
The only time I have any peace to write or time to myself is when these retards are asleep. They all crash around ten at night and wake up - loudly - at 5am. The old fuck sits out front literally yelling good morning to everyone, even dogs.
My nerves have had it. I may or may not, but I have been checking out relocating to Boulder, Colorado. From what I hear, there is a large writer colony there and the Jack Kerouac School of Poets is nearby. I don't know. As of right now, I am one forlorn cowboy...
That night, I have a
vision. It comes to me at three in the morning, as I’m lying awake on Carlos’ (that’s what he said his name was at the bar. It could had been Wilhelm for all
I cared) anyway, I’m lying awake on his crappy pink futon, trying to figure out
how to get my arm out from under his head without waking him. I see an endless
string of Carloses stretching out before me, receding into the distance,
getting smaller and wrinklier, saggier, until at last they shrink down to an
invisible point and disappear. And when they disappear, so do I, dropping like
a pebble into the black pool of eternity without making so much as a ripple.
The Carlos I just
bedded snorts, coughs a spray of hot spittle onto my chest, and rolls away. New
blood surges into my arm as I pull it back across my chest. Outside his window,
a dog howls. I slip out of bed and dress in the darkness, silently, as if I
were already a ghost. Soon enough, I’ll be gone.
"Do you not have
anything to say?" His voice was a bit more than a course whisper.
"I have everything
to say," I replied. If this was a movie the music would be swelling and
he’d be striding across the room in four easy steps. He’d be brushing my hair
from my face and pulling me into a kiss. We’d mold in like a fireball. "I
just don’t think you’re listening." he said, and then he was walking away
and the fire was spreading and it wasn’t me anymore.
The night was dark and I prepped myself the best I could to hit the bars when suddenly my vecina was screaming at my door. Scared the shit outta me. I originally thought that it was the landlord to collect rent. He usually arrives early in the morning and I had to admit, I was slightly miffed waiting all day for him.
Except, standing in the gloom of my landing was a six-foot one young man with rippling muscles bulging out of tight fitting black clothes. Paranoia shot up my spine as I was certain he was a federale here to collect the $500 that the Peter Lorre looking asshole of a lawyer attempted to squeeze out of me last week.
With a devilish grin he announced, "Hey! It's me! Marlon!"
The last time I saw this character was six years ago when I last left Juarez, before my trip east to the Florida Keys. Back then he was a scrawny lad and the only claim to fame he possessed was a humongous eleven-inch uncut penis. What a horrible existence that the only thing you are known for was your horse cock.
I invited the now well-toned lad in, offering him beer. "I don't drink anymore."
"Okay." I said popping a bottle open for myself.
We delve into delightful patter of the previous years past and what we were up to. I spun my yarn of travels, insanity, and the fruit of being a published author. He stated he lives in the City of Chihuahua 400 miles south with his wife and newborn son.
Since it was Saturday night, he offered to take a stroll through downtown Juarez. Marlon mentioned he was visiting for a few days in lieu of financial reasons dealing with his father across the border in El Paso.
The square in front of the cathedral was a neon kaleidoscope as junkies, mayates, jotos, and lovers strolled the dry air under a baneful moon. Ranchero music drifted from cantinas pregnant with revelers as Marlon and I casually strolled prattling on about casual nothings. I did not mention the fact to him, but all the while I was enraptured with him. He was handsome back when and doubly-so now. We visited a few bars. I downed beer while he sipped tomato juice. He may not drink, but he wasn't shy about smoking up all my cigarettes. Luckily, Marlon isn't a 'disco' enthusiast. We briefly visited La Cavas (originally back in the day, it was a quiet little joint with sofas, a jukebox where you could lounge drinking beer and it's actually where we first met) but a few minutes after wading through the throng of queens, I muttered, "God, it's attack of the clones..." Marlon and I dashed across the broken street to a little dive where we sat on a pool table in the back, drank, and chatted some more. He invited me to come stay with him at his house in Chihuahua. It seemed that he had finally come to accept his bisexuality as a fact of his character without the macho culture getting in the way. I said I'd think about it. He did cause me many nights of anxious moments back in the day. I was head over heels about him, but he was dating a girl from his college named Zelma at the time. Unfortunately, with him and I, it was purely a one-sided sexual thing at the time. I simply wanted more and he did not. Now he offers me to live with him and his wife? I think not. However, the evening ended pleasantly enough at the door of my apartment. He stated that he was returning to Chihuahua the following morning and the invitation still stands. As I watched him disappear down the shadowy street, I told myself perhaps I will take a trip to visit soon...
Young and handsome
Sergio works the night shift as a trash collector in Lisbon, Portugal. He can't
force himself to connect with his pretty female co-worker Fatima, who displays
an avid interest in him, so instead Sergio roams the city with the trash company's
pet dog. Eventually Sergio becomes fascinated with a sleek motorcycle, and then
also its owner, João - a young man totally indifferent to Sergio. The
frustrated trash collector's surfacing sexual desires unleash his darkest
impulses, sending him down a dangerous path of violence, depravity and
A hellish report of post modern schizophrenia....smoke swirls in a grey thread towards the angry ceiling, empty high ball glass on a littered end table. Young Latin man turns slowly in the night, the neon strobe catches his innocence. He attains a look of apathy and dismay, fear of the barking dog down a dusty alley at night. Gunshots in the distance. Hobos scream obscenities upward to uncaring stars...a frustrated old queen fondles his sagging, decayed loins lost in fits of nostalgia. Where has my youth gone? Down long roads and dark mental passage ways that reek of clogged toilets, mildew, unwashed penis...where are you now, Dear Writer? What do you dream about when all the dreams shatter into horrible nightmares of reality? What has become of your borrowed flesh? Ten years ago on this day, this blog titled borrowed flesh was willed into existence. What began as an experiment to put down in an electronic journal of what was happening during those strange days of living in Tijuana, Mexico continued as a document of wayward traveling, loveless romance, and spiraling madness. I sincerely wish to thank from the bottom of my heart to all you readers who experienced these happy times and hardships with me during the past decade. Again...thank you!
I just spent forty-eight hours locked up in a federale jail in Juarez.
Three days ago, my neighbor woke me rapping at my door and asked if I could run across the border and fetch her three cartons of cigarettes. I didn't mind, it was an easy trip, I had nothing planned that morning, and plus she has innumerable times assisted me when the need arose. It was the same kind, elderly woman who had shown me the apartment in which I now reside. Why not?
I took the three-hundred pesos she handed me and made my way to the border only stopping to transfer the currency to dollars. Walked over the bridge to the duty free shop a couple of blocks away. Purchased the cigarettes - they were on sale, three cartons for $16.50 - and quickly made my way back to Juarez.
Crossing the Stanton Street bridge, the Mexican customs have an x-ray machine in which you place your bagged goods to be scanned. I have done this countless times and twice before with purchased cigarettes without incident. However, this time the female custom agent snatched my bag off the conveyor belt and asked if the bag was mine. I said yes. She ordered me to follow her to the customs shed, punched in some numbers on a computer screen and then demanded 1147.00 pesos ($120 American) for the entry tax.
I asked why and stated that I had done this several times before and was never asked for any tax. I added that I lived in Mexico and was the cigarettes were for personal use and not for sale. She didn't seem concerned and continued to badger me for the pesos. She asked for my passport and then was approached by her supervisor who then both went into a stream of how was I to pay for the tax. I explained that my bank card did not work outside the States (thanking God that I did have my bank enforce that after witnessing Tijuana cops drain a tourists bank account at an ATM) when the fact occurred that I had no way of paying, they escorted me to a truck and whisked me off to their main offices a few miles away.
There, I was processed and booked with embezzling contraband across the border. I was then taken to another truck, escorted by three, machine-gun toting para-military guards to lock up. Visions of being driven out into the desert, shot, and left for dead swam in my confused mind. Within two hours of crossing the bridge, I was behind bars.
My Spanish is limited. However, the more times I explained 'I didn't understand' the faster they spoke. In my cell, I was visited by several people who babbled quickly and had me sign reams of paperwork. I could had been signing a confession to murdering all those missing women over the years and I wouldn't had known.
As I lay on the cold concrete slab that served as a bed in the tiny cell, I stared out through the bars with only one thought burning in my brain: How long was my sentence? I received several convoluted replies from 48hrs, to three months, to being relocated to a prison in Veracruz for several years. Ok. I simply shrugged and accepted my fate with silent abandon. I had no one to call and the friends I did have in Juarez I did not know their cell numbers since everything was spoken through facebook.
I do have to admit concerning my own account: the federale officers were extremely cordial. Not the brutal, malicious overtly macho assholes seen in movies or told through American lore. One young one was actually a writer and we spoke often on the subject when he entered the cellblock to deliver food or to check up on me and the four other prisoners.
That evening, I was photographed and fingerprinted. Their fingerprinting was so archaic: the officer slavered my hands in black dye, printed everything, then smeared Vaseline all over them to remove the dye. It didn't work.
Again, I asked several times in my feeble Spanish how long was my sentence? blahblahblahblah, senor. Sigh. I did catch that I would be speaking with members of the American Consulate the following day and that raised my hopes a bit.
After a cold night of fitfull sleep on freezing concrete, I was awoken by my fellow writer/federale guard and escorted to a small room with bars separating me from a young woman. It was the representative of the American Consul. She explained that I would only be serving 48hrs or less. However, the fee for the "Municipal Police" will be between me and the judge. I asked how the police were involved and she stated that she did not know. Okay.
I was escorted back to my cell were I spent most of the time thinking or dozing in and out of stupor sleep.
The following day, my federale friend stated that I would be leaving that morning. "That's good news." I muttered. However, there was another ignorant American in another cell yelling obscenities and causing all sorts of problems. That was when I saw the federales become their stereotypes. I don't know what they did in that cell, but I heard a lot off muffled screaming and thumping. Later, the American (since now we were the only two left in the cell block) confided that he was caught on Mexican soil driving a stolen car into Mexico.
"The American Embassy will come and expedite me, right?" He asked, fear in his voice.
"I don't think so. You committed the crime here. So, you are pretty much at the whim of the Mexican judicial system."
He was silent after that. A while later, I was escorted out of my cell, signed paperwork, and led outside. Free! Free, at last! Nope. I was then taken across the street and locked into a barred room with piles of confiscated shoes. Yeah, don't ask...
This timid character comes to the door and introduces himself as my lawyer. He then explains that his fee is $500 American and I needed to cough that up, him going down the list of friends and family members I needed to contact to help pay the fee. I looked at him and said, "You obviously don't know my friends or family."
Since he obviously wasn't getting dime one, the judge showed up and said I was free to go - after more paper signing and finger printing.The judge escorted me outside and said, "I did a back ground check. Here in Mexico, you're record is clean. Up until now. It would be in your best interest if we do not meet again." With that, we shook hands and I was let out.
Does this wayward account of woe end there? Nope. Halfway down the street, my "lawyer" comes bounding up to me and asks how am I to pay his fee? I again stated I didn't have five hundred (I did, safe in my bank) but fearing this fucker was going to arrest me again, I commented that my neighbor might help. (After all, they were her cigarettes!) So, taking a city bus - not a car, a bus! - to my neighbors (he nor any other official know my exact house. I gave multiple addresses) My neighbor, after much crying and hugging - she really does care about me - told the lawyer basically to fuck off. And he did. He left after the fact I stated I get paid the following Friday in which he said he'd return.
I guess I'll be leaving Juarez next Thursday when my royalty check clears my bank. Ho-hum...
Dark and well past
midnight. A muted crimson from the cigarette illuminated his copper
colored-skin in the half light. Quiet. We could hear each other breathe. In the
near distance, down amid the obscure, long shadows off the empty street, the
sound of four gunshots. Somewhere a dog barked. Under the blankets, we drew
nearer, the warmth of his smooth skin, the softness of his hair, the pleasant
smell of his torso. It stimulated me - smoothed me out.
I felt unreservedly calm as we entwined. Arm
around my shoulder, head on his chest. I looked up, regarding the outline of
his attractive features in the crimson glow of the cigarette’s cinders. Hooked
nose, pouty lips, thick eyelashes, ebony hair hanging limply over forehead.
Outside the blankets, the room was ink black
and cold with clothes thrown about the tiled floor. The smell of sweat and
semen wafted in the stillness mixed with cigarette vapors - inside the blankets
it was warm and still and serenísimo. Not a word exchanged, yet the feeling was
there - a fellaheen feeling of togetherness as I had not felt since...
He put the cigarette out in the silver tray
on the table next to the bed. He embraced tighter, drawing me near, placing a
small kiss on my forehead. Slowly and surely, I heard his slight breathing as
he fell asleep. I lay there and stared into blackness, out in the still night a
lonesome train horn moaned - my hand gently slid up and down his thin side
coinciding with his slow, steady breathing.
He only smoked on
Sundays, snaking through the crowded pew his mother swore to follow Christ upon
and slipping out the thick oak doors into the unsoiled air as the choir sang
We’re Marching to Zion. His grandmother used to tell him smoking was the
devil’s habit; he preferred to breathe Old Gold’s scent while the church was
still fresh with prayers. His prayers for her were frequent and forgotten. On
her deathbed he ransacked heaven’s storehouses for an ounce of Samson’s
strength but the devil is named Delilah. Her funeral was full of black suits
and formality; he willed himself not to start a brushfire from the lighter in
his pocket. When the preacher spoke about the fragility of man he imagined
being a cliff diver, chasing pavement like a dog chases cars on a crowded
4:32am. Ciudad Juarez. The lonesome night train is
whistling. Making its way to nowhere yet somewhere. It calls out through the
night, touching the ears of all the lonely hearts. Beckoning for them to arrive
at the station in the dead of night. Because it is there that souls are brought
together. Looking for another to hold, looking for another to walk with.
Looking for someone to take their hand and take the jump. Looking for something
that is new. For something to remember. And it can see the smiles that are
mischievous and the smiles that are nervous but the glint of excitement is
there in their eyes…. It is the call of the lonesome night train and it calls for me.
I originally went to drink one beer. To calm my nerves from the very audacity of my obnoxious neighbors. Without warning, my pinche vecinos decided to throw an impromptu block party for their squealing brats. The straw that broke the camel's back was they flopped a huge-ass inflatable jumpy castle right outside my front door. Instead of bitterly tolerating these shenanigans, I dressed and walked over to that dive bar Buen Tiempo and sat it out the only way I could...by getting fucking plastered.
The bar was relatively empty for a late Sunday afternoon, so I at first sat in relative comfort sipping that bitter ale. Then HE walked in. All smiles and handshakes and hugs with the regulars and plopped on a stool right next to me. He stated his name was Alejandro and that he worked one of the shoe shine stands around the corner. Indeed, he did have black grime under his clipped nails.
He was charming to say the least. Introducing me to several of his workmates. Jokes and pleasantries. A couple games of billiards. Then the alcohol kicked in. One caguama turned into five each and we were both well on our way to hitting the floor. He confided that he was bisexual and somehow attained a wife and two kids. Meh, whatever was my response and the beer flowed...
Grabbing his impressive crotch, he blurted, "Let's go get a hotel!"
Why not? I mused and we found ourselves darting a block a way to a cheap fifty peso a night joint. I paid the stinkbomb at the reception and we strode down the long, gloomy halls reeking of mildew and unwashed vagina.
Once in the room - a mattress on the dusty floor and end table were the only furnishings - clothes were flung about and we found ourselves wrapped in several positions. Afterwards, catching our breathes, we lay in the gloom of the squalid room.
"You nice, guero...you seeing anyone?" He asked.
"No." I lit a cigarette. "I'm actually on my way to the West Coast in a few weeks. So. I'm not interested in finding anyone."
"Don't go." He snuggled closer, "I like you, though."
I flicked a cockroach off my big toe and said, "I like you, too, but plans have been made. I am definitely leaving."
After that it was anti-climatic. We parted on the corner with a shaking of hands. I have written a few times before, why is it when I am about to bail to somewhere else, my engines revving and raring to go - that I meet some schmuck who is actually attracted to me? Life is neither fare or compromising...so it goes...
My smile drops. "So
we’re only having coffee today?" We were supposed to fuck. See, ours is a motel
relationship. Once a week, two months and counting.
"I thought I told you."
"No you didn’t. You said to meet at 5," I
say. I have not seen him in two weeks. "I thought you just wanted to meet
"I thought you understood."
"Well, you weren't clear."
He frowns, remains quiet.
"What time do you have to leave?"
"Not now." He says it like a consolation.
I want to clobber him. "The dinner’s at seven."
"But we just got here." It is already 6.
He takes a sip from the steaming mug of
coffee next to him. He had been drinking with a friend until a couple of hours
ago. His eyes are still dazed.
Silence grapples me as I try to wrap my
head around a clear misunderstanding. There are barriers to tread in this "arrangement". Language, culture, age, preference. His English needs work. I’m
new in Juarez. He’s ten years younger. I’m the first man he’s ever slept with.
He struggles. "Are you free on Monday
A compromise. But it reaches my ears as a
begrudging favor. There is no remorse in his face.
We don’t fuck when we meet for breakfast.
Which means it’s another worthless and painful time of being near him without
being able to touch him, hold him, kiss.
See, ours is a motel relationship. He
picks me up, we check in, we cum, we cuddle.
"You should've told me you could only meet
for a little while," I say, trying to scrap 70% of blame from my tone. But
considering the size of my frustration, there’s still enough accusation to
We remain quiet for five minutes. It
stretches like an age.
"Are you disappointed?"
Fuck you. "A little." I look at the street
before me, behind him. It is rush hour. "I thought you had marked time for me." It is painful to say that.
"This is our time." He sounds angry. "I
still met you."
I don’t back down. "You know that’s not
what I mean when I say ‘time’. Don’t pretend that you don’t know."
Ours is a motel relationship. Without the
fucking, there is no point.
"I’m sorry," he says. "This wasn’t my
plan. I knew about the family dinner this morning only."
"Then you should’ve told me hours before.
I would’ve understood. I would’ve still met you, but I would know what to
expect. You knew I wanted to be with you."
"You mean sex?" he teases.
"Yes, sex." I try not to smile, despite
the fucknut of a pain that is humping my chest.
I want to make him understand how this
feels to me. But he’s drunk. He’s not going to remember this.
"Let’s just go."
"I’ll take you."
"I can walk." My house is five minutes
away on foot, but two u-turns on his moto (no one uses the word motorcycle here). "Besides, you’re drunk. That means your motorbike is a coffin."
"Everyone drives drunk in J-town."
I laugh. "That’s fresh."
He smiles. The idiot thinks my laughter
I let him drive me home anyway. He tries
to cheer me up. "I’ll see you on Monday or Tuesday morning, okay?" he promises,
starting with that shit again. It does not give me solace or reassurance. I
What does that mean anyway?
"You know, it’s okay if you don’t want to
see me anymore." I roll my eyes at the nonchalant way I said it and the fact
that I had just said that. In so many levels, I have become a douche. "Just
tell me." Get it over with so I don’t have to mull over this bullshit.
"Don’t think that."
We reach my apartment. I don’t say goodbye
or look back. He drives off.
What I hate is that he doesn’t care. My
feelings mean nothing to him.
He was always eating
small sugar cookies with a coffee at the cafe on Ave. Juarez at odd
hours of the night. And he always seemed tired as hell — with smeared war paint
for dark circles and a voice which sounded like a perpetual yawn when he placed
At least once a week, he
would be there, flipping through a black notebook in the corner of the cafe,
his eyelids bobbing up and down sleepily. I thought sometimes about starting up
a conversation with him, romanticizing the idea of two regulars developing a
friendship, but it wasn’t as though Hopper had painted us into Nighthawks or
Besides, the only thing
I would have had to say to him would be to ask why he didn’t just go home and
go to sleep.
I went in search for a ham sandwich. They call them lonches (pronounced launch-ez) down ol' Mexico way. Not really the same as ham sandwiches stateside, but they are tasty. After walking all over centro, never did locate one, so I settled for two burritos and a soda instead.
I made my way to Park Independencia - now called Park Benito Juarez, really...they should make up their fucking minds...to sit in the shade and enjoy my settled-for meal. As with all benches in this city, every one with any shade was taken up by the legion of loafers who are waiting. Waiting for jobs, permits, visas, money orders or simply passing time to return to their bitter, hateful wives.
Next to the monument of a long dead president, I lucked out and sat on one end of a concrete slab while the other end was occupied by a young, skinny lad reading the local paper. I mumbled buenes tardes, but he had headphones on and so I simply settled down to eat.
Halfway through my burrito, the young man uttered in perfect English, "Sure is hot today, huh?"
Slightly startled by his English - it is a habit of pride in Cuidad Juarez that if you speak English or not, Spanish is preferred - I stated it was indeed warm or something to that effect. This prompted the guy - Ivan, he said his name was - to go into a forty-five minute soliloquy concerning his personal woes and tragedies. He had been recently deported from El Paso. His ID and papers were stolen. He couldn't attain work (he purchased his meals with the money he made from washing cars) and he was shacked up with a jealous and vindictive "girlfriend". I sat patiently for the mooch card to be played, yet he never asked for money.
I looked him over as he spoke. Not bad looking, in a scruffy kind of way. I wanted to help this guy. Well, I always did mean to repaint my apartment but had been too lazy recently to do it myself, so I offered the job to Ivan with handsome pay. $100 to do the entire place. He lit up and agreed.
"Let's go to your place and I can check out what needs to be done." He stated.
So, we walked over the crumbling sidewalks and past the dusty, farting buses to my trap a few short blocks away. He scanned the place and mentioned that it could be repainted...and new tiles in the bathroom wouldn't hurt, either.
He flopped on the ragged couch, "Got any beer?"
"No. But, there is a market around the block, we can get some there and bring it back." I offered.
I bought three caguamas and we returned to my flat and drank in the stifling desert heat. I have a box fan, but it was useless. Feeling the alcohol, Ivan sprawled his lanky form the length of the couch and continued his woeful rant about his current life. I sat on the dusty floor with my back propped against the foot of the couch, smoking, listening.
Then the inevitable: "Hey, man...you think you can loan me six hundred pesos (roughly fifty dollars)? I am so backed up on rent...I haven't paid the landlady in two months and I think she's about to kick me out."
Damn, I thought. It had to come to this. I turned to him to reject the question, but he lay there rubbing his stomach with his hand. His nipple was exposed and I leaned over and began sucking and licking it.
"Woah, dude! What the fuck?!" He sat up. "What the hell are you doing?"
I chuckled sorry or some stupid thing and he lay back down with a look of shock on his face. "That was weird...you gay or something?"
I didn't answer. I simply smiled as I noticed his molested nipple was still poking up through his t-shirt. "Your nipple's still hard."
"I never had anyone do that. I mean, I sucked bitches tits before, but never mine done."
I lit a cigarette and returned to my previous sitting position on the tiled floor. "Sorry, man...I thought you needed the money."
There was a long, uncomfortable silence as we sat there and drank and smoked. I heard him shift positions when next he was kissing the back of my neck, "I kinda liked it." I van whispered.
Eventually, we found our way to my bed. Clothes were thrown around the room. He lay naked on top of my nude body kissing me passionately as we riddled each others necks and pecs with hickeys. Passion mounted. Both dripping sweat from the heat. I stroked his dick as it grew hard in my hand. Laying him back, I began kissing down his stomach until I reached Ivan's black, shiny pubic hair when I heard, "I don't like getting my dick sucked."
"What?" I asked as I held his throbbing organ inches from my face.
"Seriously, I...I don't like it."
"Oh?" I said. "You're the one."
"The one what?" He smiled.
"The only man on the planet that doesn't like getting his dick sucked."
I looked up at him and saw that he meant it. "Okay." I shrugged. I rolled off the bed and began to get dressed.
"Are you upset?" He asked, pulling on his briefs.
"No. Not at all." And I actually wasn't. If he don't like it, he don't like it. I wasn't going to force the issue.
He slid on his jeans and sneered, "You don't have to be a dick about it."
I stopped dressing and asked, "In what way am I being a dick about it?"
Seriously, what is with these people? I do not and never will force anyone to do what they don't want. And I sure as hell will not placate their already screwed up ego.
"Just forget it." He retorted.
"See?! There! You're being a dick, again."
"Maybe you should leave." I calmly stated.
He stood up, began walking to the door, "Can you still loan me those pesos?"
I glared at him, tight lipped, "Now I know you need to leave."
He muttered something derogatory in Spanish under his breath and exited with a slam of the screen door. I sat at my desk, logged onto my laptop and began editing my current novel. I paused and thought of how I loathe the fact that I am so alone. The current life I was leading in abstract boredom and the secrete desire I held for emotional contact. To have someone to love and love me back. Not these heartless skirmishes ending in empty orgasms, but a true respectful relationship. I began typing, thinking, One day...one day. Or maybe not...
Sunday morning. 8:30am. Awoken by my neighbor to notify me that he will be shutting the buildings water off "for a while" as he is installing some new fixtures in his bathroom. The neighbor on the other side next to me is up also bright and early. She rents the tiny studio with her four kids. All children are 5yrs old and less. She spends the next hour screaming and slapping at them. I guess she isn't under the impression that every sound can penetrate these thin, adobe walls. My front door is open (I am waiting for the first mentioned neighbor to give me the okay on the water so I can shower or at least make coffee), the neighbor across the street, a fat gimp with a mauled hand is blasting his stereo. The same obnoxious, twangy ranchero musuc you hear at closing time at millions of cantinas throughout the city. With my door open, I am forced to hear this music. Oh, he just walked out his door holding a mug half-filled with beer...tossing garbage from his place out into the street.
My patience has ended with this place. The romanticism of living south of the border has died. I have seriously been scouting other cities to relocate to. El Paso? It's cheap, but holds too many distasteful memories. Tijuana? Same as current situation but maxxed up 100%. I've been looking over info online concerning Boulder, Colorado or Seattle, Washington. What do I want? A relatively peaceful place to call home while I write. That is all I really care for nowadays. Not like I was in earlier entries of this blog, I have mellowed out substantially.
I have been setting my eye on Tijuana, though. Seriously pondering it. Renting a place on the beach so as not to endure the 24hr madhouse of downtown. I do have some good friends who still reside there (and a couple who I do not wish to see), but overall, it sounds promising. Who knows? I'll make my decision at the end of this month. And whatever I do decide, it can't be any worse than the predicament I put myself into here. Or could it?
2014 was one of those
years that started out like “THIS IS GOING TO BE GREAT!” and it's halfway
through and we have a war going on, a deadly disease has been spread, countless
shootings have happened, racism is alive, more people have been leaving living
things inside of hot cars, gays have become more PC than their homophobic
counterparts to one another, and Robin Williams is fucking dead.
The story so far:
A man admittedly
followed and killed an innocent teenager, and was declared not guilty.
States are passing laws
allowing guns in public schools.
Women are losing their
reproductive rights at an increasingly alarming rate.
Riots are tearing
through the streets in cities all over the world.
College tuition keeps
rising, sending a generation into debt as soon as they are entering the adult
Education funds keep
Privacy no longer
Corporations now have
the same rights as people, and the funds to actually protect them.
Through loopholes, many
U.S. Corporations pay a lower tax rate than middle class families.
States are now passing
more voter ID laws and similar laws that only affect the lower class.
The corporate giant,
Monsanto, has pretty much purchased and bribed its way into every grocery
product on the shelf, resulting in food becoming less and less like, well,
food. There are reasons Cancer rates are getting worse.
Likewise, Monsanto is
making sure small American farmers are ran out of business. Also, their constant
pesticide use is killing bees and other insects, causing dire environmental
The mass media is more
concerned with pop culture and trends, than the real issues the world is
Human population is
ever growing, and at rapid rates. It can’t just continue this way.
We have put so much
trash in giant landfills all over our world and in our oceans. We are killing
It’s a mess and I do
not foresee an improvement during the remainder of my years…
“Yo muy caliente, guero.
You make me very hot.” He rubbed his forehead against mine, smiled broadly. “Te
His body was warm like
an animal and I felt a soft tingle in my stomach and I say, “I love you, too.”
We remove our clothes.
There was a musk smell from his drooping, brown nuts. He brought out a little
tin of Vaseline he carried in his hip pocket because he confided how he used to
fuck tourists for money and in habit he had always carried it. I took the tin
and rubbed Vaseline on his cock feeling it jump in my hand like a frog, he
stood there teeth bared, gasping...“Vuelvete y aganchete, guero”...I turned
around and bent over, hands braced on knees and let myself go limp inside as he
slides it in. I could see out through a little dusty window the junk filled,
back yard and the setting sun on the tiled roofs like bits of silver paper, and
when I spurt the world seemed to stretch out and then snap back pulling my eggs
together and I am spurting out, silver spots boil in front of my eyes and the
window blacks out.
“Your reports must be
much more carefully detailed to be of any use to us. Your experiences must be
cataloged...with painstaking accuracy.”
I said it before and
I’ll say it again country simple: The Reader will frequently find the same
thing transcribed in the same words. This is not carelessness nor is it for The
Obsession With The Sound Of Own Words Dept... It indicates space-time
juxtaposition...a folding in and back (the universe is curved, whispers a long
dead genius)...point of intersection - PAY ATTENTION PLEASE! - point of
intersection between levels of proficiency where parallel borders meet...
Tijuana: Easy to get in
and hard to get out... ominous addictions on all levels stand at the controls,
the yammering rentboy indigence intercepts a fleeing queen’s rush towards the
Big Brother frontier, the INS warrant waits in San Diego...
Depression hits full
force, haven’t gotten out of bed all day. What is important when nothing is
important? Grey pictures on a grey screen, fading slower and slower (Was this
before or is it now?) ...Centro: rich yellows and blues in the streets like
deep stone canyons, blue doors, yellow lights...little cantinas where sad old
Mexican drunks sniff pensively ...Tapas and futbol scores on the wall...
The town is an
intricate decomposing concrete/wood construct. In some places six stories high
overhanging the street, propped with beams and pillars and bent telephone poles
to form porticoes where the inhabitants can keep out of the swarm of baying fat
tourists who crowd the disintegrated concrete...
“Hey meester, you wanna
see what’s in my shop?”
“You want some pussy?”
pimps flow beneath blistering humming neon sipping horchata under the obsidian
eyes of placas, lean against outcroppings of rusted steel and crumbling
masonry, speak in silent, rigid gestures, frescoes of elusive decadence, flat,
two dimensional, more over telepathic...plaintive boy-cries drift through the
night...“Saul. Pepe. Juan Carlos. Donde vas?” Stale patter of commerce: “A ver
Maburro!” (Look here, Marlboro!) “You want juicy pussy, Meester?” “Mexican
straw hats?” “Leather bullwhip?” (The best Mexican hats are not made in
Mexico.) A hideous mouth blows smoke rings into the night...“Fuck me, Meester,
soy muy caliente...”
The humid night invades
the city in great rank hustler infested parks where rats infected with putrescent
disease romp through ruined kiosks, the stone Emancipator, tired horse and
tired rider...stone generals resemble frozen lunatics who advocate liberty
under the ever-glaring eye of the withered Zonky, two old Mayan pedophiles,
fine as an ivory chessman, convene on an anthropomorphic limestone seat,
sipping limonada... scrutinizing the rent boys slinking past, hawking their
The smooth brown crotch
of a pimp swells and rots with syphilis, nacos blink in the sun, preteen boys
sit in long rows under shaded galleries reading manga comics - they do not move
their legs as people walk by...
There is something here
the casual tourist never sees nor finds, dirty undershorts thrown over a
disintegrating concrete balcony, blistering iron roofs where nondescriptive
florae in grimy plastic containers grow on perilous terraces, federale in a
black uniform and black glasses, the dull life-sick hate congested in his eyes
like scorpion poison... Smell of el Mar and the mud flats, sewage and drying
marijuana... There are sinister hoochie houses in Centro stocked with doped-up
whores, purposeful agents of disease - the doormen, expert pickpockets like all
in the area, can lift the generalissimo’s wallet with a macho goose and stomp a
drunken faggot into the asphalt...
A young man named Juan
Carlos moved in next to my room, asphyxiating me with futbol scores...thin and
sickly and continually fidgeting with candles and religious icons of that
condescending bitch Guadalupe, goes on and on about his novia and lack of funds
to support her...A cockroach crawls slowly up the blue chipped paint wall...I
look out my window to the hotel across the street. A dark-skinned whore of
Aztec descent with floppy breasts and discolored teeth stood in the door and
asked for a cigarette from a scrawny young man...She steps in and takes off her
pink slip and stands naked...the young man drops his ragged pants - erection
swinging free - and lies down on the dirty bed, smoking a Delicado, hard and
Cut to the Plaza...Spilling
out in abstruse cavorting and sudden static outbursts of violence, a young man
leapt to his feet brandishing a rusty machete and spinning around, scream...No
me toca, maricones!...His eyes light up, flicker and go out...he collapses and
shits his pants with fear, the police surround him and stomp him to dust.
Tourists are warned theft and murder are epidemic in Tijuana and usually go
unpunished...there are entire areas, blah blah blah ...tourists amble about
with the shadow of paranoid madness in their eyes...
Stroll through The Park
for borrowed flesh. An old queen consumed in frustrating passion, fidgets on an
iron wrought bench. Two young men saunter past him shirtless in the summer
heat, arms around each other’s necks and corrugated abdomens, the image
seducing his fading flesh to entertain young buttocks and thighs, loose balls
and spurting cocks. A boy turns, snarls at him and spits, “What are you staring
at, ugly faggot?” Their boy naiveté violently slashes across his sagging face
and drooping torso. Inside he screams, outside an enigmatic mask of dark
glasses and ashen face…
Until the age of
twenty-five, I held a particular revulsion for writing, the pretense of
retaining my thoughts and feelings down onto a piece of paper. Occasionally I
would devise a few sentences and stop, overcome with loathing and horror. At
the present time, writing appears to me as an absolute necessity and, at the
same time, I have a feeling my talent is lost and I can accomplish nothing. A
sensitivity comparable to the body’s knowledge of disease, which the mind vainly
attempts to evade and deny.
This feeling of
paranoia and apprehension is always with me now. I had the same feeling the day
my American boyfriend and I separated; and once when I was a child. I looked
out into the hall with such an impression of fear and despair washing over me,
that for no outward reason I burst into tears. I was looking into the future
then. I recognized this feeling and what I witnessed had not been realized. I
can only wait for it to happen. Is it some ghastly occurrence of the long gone
ex-boyfriend utterly breaking my heart, or simply the deterioration and failure
and finality of loneliness, a dead-end setup where there is no one I can
contact? Am I simply a crazy old bore in a cantina somewhere with my abhorrent
stories? I don’t know. Nonetheless, I feel trapped and doomed.