They Call Him Shy.

Life is cruel. Yet, once in a while you meet someone who is kind and that makes it all better.

Early morning in Tucson. I sat in the park adjacent to the library puffing on a borrowed cigarette. The bums and tramps and haggish alcoholics were out in full force. They waited like I waited. Every morning exactly at 8:30am, an Asian man arrives and doles out fresh donuts and delicious hot coffee free and gratis. Really...it is worth the wait.

As I sat watching that freak show, a shadow came across me. Looking up, it was a ruggedly handsome, blond boy. His tight, boxer physique was silhouetted by the glaring and yellow early morning sun.

"Hey, homie, you spare a cigarette?" He asked in a course voice dripping with a hard urban accent.

I stated that I did not but offered him a couple of puffs off of my own. I sat up straight to get a better look at him. He was young, late twenties, but I saw the worry lines and mysterious addictions have aged his face. A face that I was certain was once boyish and fresh. His stocky frame was a mass of prison and street tattoos. Blue eyes emitted warmth and compassion from an otherwise sad and grimacing face.

He grabbed the cigarette and took a couple of puffs, said thank you, and handed it back.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"They call me Shy." He croaked.

"Shy? Really? Is that what it says on your birth certificate?"

He laughed, "No. It's Kyle."

Kyle. How Anglo. It has been so fucking long since I heard a name that wasn't Gomez, or Rodriquez, or Lopez, or didn't end in a goddamn 'ez'. I commented on his name and he stated that he was full Irish. He pulled up a right sleeve and brandished an amateurish tattoo stating the fact that he was Irish. Well, there was a green clover embroidered in there somewhere. From his mannerisms he screamed of musty truck stop bathrooms and cheap, bed-bug infested flop houses, and dingy, back-alley grottoes. He was a poster boy for a legion of American male youths who were raised in the system and knew of nothing else. A hustler and a thief, a rentboy, and a breaker of old queens hearts. I really liked him from that moment on.

We hit it off quite well. Spent the entire day yapping and joking and confiding each others secrets. We spoke of my writing, his recent break up with a girl, my past trips to Mexico, his boxing classes, my love of travel, his passion for poetry, my homosexuality...Oops. Wait. Did I just tell him that? I did. Why not. Get it out in the open.

He confessed with a straight face, like a little boy who knew he had done something wrong, but at the same time wanted to come across apathetic about it, "That's cool. I don't care. I had dudes suck my dick before."

As we ate lunch at a sidewalk cafe, he mentioned that he had no place to stay. As a fact, he strongly needed to take a bus out to a nearby Indian Reservation to retrieve his personal items.

"What were you doing on an Indian reservation?" I asked.

He took a deep breath and stated that he was shacking up with "some old gay guy". Yet, the old queen was horribly jealous. He - as many shitty faggots do - went out of his way to break up Kyle and his girlfriend so as to have Kyle all to himself, slowly feeding off his youth like a spider in a trap. Through an intricate web of lies and deception, the old queen did succeed. Kyle left after the fact that he couldn't put up with any more of the old queens shit and continuously demanding sexual acts.

I agreed to go with him to the reservation. After I paid for lunch, we hopped on a city bus and traveled the 9 miles out of town. I sat silently watching the shrubs and pipe organ cactus pass until we entered the San Xavier Reservation. Departing the bus we clomped the mile to this old queens trailer. Two white boys out in the middle of an Indian reservation...no, nothing suspicious about that. Several Native Americans did give us a scowling look, other than that we both walked unmolested and unscalped.

The trailer sat in a yard congested with dying bushes and discarded junk. As we approached the door, that crazy bitch flung open the screen and tossed Kyle's bag at him. The blue duffel landing loudly at his feet.

"I told you I don't want your mooching ass around here no more! You goddamn gay-for-pay son of a bitch!" His scrawny, bird-like face turned towards me. His pony-tail tossed like a serpent. "And who is that? Your new cum dumpster?! That bitch gonna take care of you now?"

I stood there silent as the dried up, old queen ranted. Kyle grabbed his bag and mumbled, "Let's go. Fuck this faggot." We walked away as the old queen howled obscenities under that unrelenting Arizona sun.

As we waited for the bus, I inquired, "Well, Kyle. I stay at a hotel for the moment. My apartment through housing won't be available until the 3rd of next month, but you're welcome to crash at my place."

Of course he accepted. Once back at my room, he unpacked and asked if he could take a shower. I lay on the bed, smoking a cigarette, watching some damn stupid talk show as plumes of steam issued from the bathroom while Kyle showered.

As I smashed the stub of my cigarette out into the ashtray, I heard Kyle turn the water off and dry himself. He then walked out of the bathroom completely naked and stood at the foot of the bed.

I lit another smoke and grinned, "Well..."

"I want to show my appreciation of you letting me stay here." He said in the most masculine of looks.

I gazed at his torso. The tattoos. The hairless body. The blond trail leading from his belly button to a flaccid, circumcised penis. Those muscular legs. Those abs. All were burned into my retina in a flashbulb of certainty.

After we both came from sixty-nining with one another, he said it was too hot in the room. I laughed and quipped it was his fault. Kyle mentioned that he suddenly became inspired to write some verse and asked if I didn't mind joining him out by the hotel's pool. We dressed, sat and drank sodas as Kyle scribbled class conscious pornographic prose into his ratty book.

I sat smoking a cigarette and thought, this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship...

An Afternoon in The Park

Old queen sat cross-legged on the concrete bench cackling and guffawing under one hundred degree weather. She smoked her final cigarette and continued to confess her ailments: hepatitis, tuberculosis, schizophrenic sexual habits and anything else that would make you seem interested. She would flip her long ponytail streaked with gray and husk through a toothless mouth about being a hairdresser in Hollywood before it all fell to shit.

I explained that the mental clinic in which I spent the last three hours stated that they would literally bend over backwards in helping me get an apartment. She giggled and smoothed out a wrinkle in her cargo shorts.

"Call me Rodney! Everyone does!" She would coo at any swaggering ex-con who happened to saunter by and hit her up for a smoke.

She blew cigarette smoke and halitosis into my sweating, sun-tanned face, "Oh, dearie, thank you, oh thank you, for letting me read that book of yours! Oh dearest, how I related to every paragraph you wrote."

I had loaned Rodney a proof copy of Hobosexual and wanted to gage her/his reaction. Never thought it would cause her to react in such an over-dramatic emotional manner. Her rheumy eyes leered over the torso of young Kyle, the blonde skater slash street hood who had befriended me a few days prior. He stood next to me with hip out, puffing on a borrowed rollie, thick tattooed hand rubbing across his exposed stomach. His white Irish Catholic skin glowed in the mid afternoon sun.

"I'll be getting me apartment through housing tomorrow." Rodney drooled. "Why don't you and your friend come over for lunch?"

"Sure." I agreed. I wanted to see the place anyway because it would be the same complex I would be renting in. Kyle scratched his balls as a chunky girl with jiggling boobs lumbered by.

As Rodney and Kyle went into a heated discussion of the pro's and con's of the fair sex, I recalled how fast events had occurred this past week. I had accomplished all that I had set out to do and had attained benefits of my labor quicker than I had expected. So, at the moment, I think I will remain in Tucson for a while. Weather is pleasant and the people are nice. A 100% turn from that wasteland of El Paso. I really am glad I made that final decision to leave.

"I'm thirsty. Let's go to the store and get something to drink." I offered Kyle. Rodney declined on account he was yapping with a young Mexican cholo who had recently been released from prison and decided to be a "kind ear."

Kyle and I dashed across the street talking of horror movies - he stuck on Saw, The Ring, Paranormal Activity and me on I Spit On Your Grave, The Devil's Rejects, and Salo - we entered the liquor store and the joint was empty. Unnerving, like in a horror show. Eventually, this tiny, gray haired old lady hobbles out from a hidden room and greets us.

"I'm getting a water. Get whatever you want." I said to Kyle.

"Hmmm...I don't know what I want..."

"Ohhh, I know what I want." Husked the old granny checking out my friend.

We both laughed and said, "Whaaaat?"

"A hamburger from Wendy's, that would hit the spot, don't you boys agree?" She quickly added.

"Nice save." I mumbled.

I purchased the beverages and Kyle and I returned to the park. Rodney sat alone still on that bench, tan skinned shrink wrapped over crumbling bones. She looked like a mummy. I mentioned that, she didn't think it was funny.

A truck pulled up and a kind Korean family emerged and began handing out bag lunches to the homeless. Like pigeons, the tramps flocked towards them - some running, grasping hands extended, stomachs loudly rumbling. The father Korean doled out the bag with a "God bless you" to each one as a shabby, beat drunk pissed on a religious statue behind them.

I slowly nodded my head as I witnessed this frenzy and inwardly smirked, I may be insane. But, at least my life is never dull...

That Which Is Below

Cigarette smoke swirls up to a white washed ceiling as lights from passing cars create moving patterns of phantoms. Phantoms who laugh at us.

It’s 2:30 AM and you ask me why you’re so scared all the time. And I look at you and you remind me of an Indian headdress. You’re not scared, sweetheart. Your fears ride the wind but the feathers stay.

It’s 2:32 AM and you command I write about you. There is India ink on the nightstand and a safety pin on your pillowcase and I spend the next eight minutes marking you with the proximate vocabulary of how I want you.

It’s 2:40 AM and you can’t sleep. We’ve spent the last three hours crushing the sleeping pills into ash and we’ve blown it into soda bottles of strawberry cola but you say it still tastes of resigned escapism.

It’s 2:41 AM and time is a bag of bones that drags itself over cracked asphalt. It takes too long even though we’re not waiting for anything - but we’re the liars in room 618 because you’re waiting for the forest and I’m waiting for you to get out of it.

It’s 3:00 AM and I’m reading. You grab my hands and trace the folds in my fingers where the rhymes hide. I’ve been trying to put it on hold, telling you I’ve lost them.

It’s 3:17 and it’s just another night threatening to tear at the seams to reveal a morning I can’t will into being easier for you.

Neither of us have had much luck with relationships. For years he’s been on-again, off-again with the same shitbag, the same abusive scum. I would kill just to be “on” with anybody at all. Two lonely losers lost in a night of unrelenting sadness and paranoia. At least for now, we have each other…

It's Different This Time

…"It’s different this time."

Loneliness crushed his cigarette beneath his black boot and stared at the evening sky. It was still drizzling and the night had turned cold. I could see his breath when he sighed. "Have you ever stopped thinking that you are never enough? Have you completely exterminated the thought that you don’t deserve to be loved? Have you ever felt beautiful? More importantly, my good friend, when I started talking, did you ever stop thinking that you will lose again?”

I took a long drag of my cigarette, tossed it over the bridge, and watched it falter in the wind before disappearing in the river. I looked Loneliness in the face and saw the hint of a smirk. That damn smirk. I opened my mouth to present an argument. I had none.

"Don’t struggle anymore," said Loneliness, laying a firm hand on my exhausted shoulder, on my disenchanted and disintegrating soul. "Just give in. You know you eventually will. Why fight such an innocuous inevitability?"

Bath House Blues

I haven't been to a bath house in quite a while. I felt not only a little ashamed but also self conscious of my white, pale body. As I walked through the dingy corridors searching for a cubicle to get undressed and set my stuff, the few patrons in the building were so brown and fit. Or at least, that was how I saw them.

I located a small room near the back. It had a cot which was falling apart. The yellowish foam was bursting out of the ripped seams. Several hooks on a white-tiled wall which was covered in lewd graffiti in a language I didn't really understand. The light was not from the sole fixture up near the mildew encased ceiling, but from the row of glass bricks which ran above the cot. The entire room smelled of damp clothes, bleach, and sweat.

I undressed, folded my clothes, placed them on my shoes, and slid them under the cot. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I wandered out into the dark halls. Several of the doors to other cubicles were open revealing empty, sad darkness. No one was hardly there at this time of the day. Just us creepy creeps, I reckon.

As I turned a corner in the dank maze, I caught glimpse of a naked man lounging on his bed. He didn't seem old - maybe in his mid-thirties - languidly stroking his flaccid penis. His skin was smooth and copper colored - the way I prefer. Our eyes met and he smiled. More like grinned. The face lined up into a ghastly mask of twisted evil. Like the face of a tortured man. I continued walking, ignoring what I saw.

Casually strolling through the dingy, moist halls - above me mighty pipes hissed and gurgled - I made my way to the steam room. Dark and lurid. Barely discernible through the mist, I noticed two phantoms sitting on the tiled bench, gazing vapidly into space. Not moving, afraid to call attention to one another. It made me depressed. I sat alone on the other side off the room, removed my towel and relaxed. The door flung open and a young man in his early twenties walked in. Tall, handsome and with a scrawny physique. He plops down near me on my side and casually begins to fondle his drooping testicles. Then a flood of pudgy, grey haired vampires entered, flocking around him to devour their prey. I sighed, wrapped myself in my wet towel and strolled over towards the secondary sauna. That one didn't use steam so as you could at least see from one side to the next.

I sat alone for a bit. An obese man wandered in, lay on the bench opposite me and fell asleep. I sat thinking why I was here. It has passed the point where I do not even enjoy the contact of other people. For me it is bliss simply to be alone. Why? I kept asking myself why. How did I become this way in such a short time? I thought about how I wanted to just go away, far away from people and never to be bothered again.

At that moment, a short guy came in and sat a few feet away. He must've worked out, because his squat frame was in shape and he sported several tribal tattoos. I liked his hair. Shaved on the side and back, faded into short spikes on the top and black as the blackest night. We sat a few moments, I could hear him breath it was so quiet.

"Tan caliente?" He mumbled.

His timid voice shocked me out of my pensive revelry. Was I horny? Not as such. I just wanted to relax and think.

"Poco." I grinned. "Y tu?"

His thick hand reached over and landed on my right thigh, slowly slithering up until it wrapped around my penis. He casually stroked it. I couldn't get hard, but he slid over, bent down and placed my dick in his mouth. My hand caressed his broad, muscular back. I began to get paranoid at not being able to get an erection. He began to suck with gusto. That did it. My cock shot straight up. I reached down under his towel and messaged his foreskin over his engorged head. My fingers sticky from his precum. This guy was sucking and sucking good. I began to get so hot, sweat was beading down my face. Shit! It was good! Never had I'd been blown like that. After a few minutes, I stood up and splattered semen onto the wet tiled floor. I looked down at him, smiled. He sighed happily then got up and walked out.

I returned to my cubicle and lay down. Wow. I really wasn't feeling it. I wanted to go but I actually enjoyed lying there. Alone. With the door closed. An hour must've passed as I lay there swimming in depressed thoughts of loneliness battling with the want of solitude. I felt truly ugly. And not just in the physical sense, but emotional. Silently I screamed at how much I wanted to simply die. To end this mortal coil...all this angst, and paranoia, and doubt, and tension. I wondered if anyone had died in a bath house by suicide? How could I do it? Being the only white ass in the joint, death by gang rape, I mused.

Fuck! I shot up, wrapped the towel around me and headed back to the steam room. I sat in the murk and as I glanced to my left, I noticed some old, fat guy fucking that young man, his long feet rhythmically bouncing above the fat guy's shoulders, toes curled. Several ancient queens formed a semi-circle around them, tugging at their withering genitals as they watched the show. I sighed and stared down at the semen splotched floor. This shit is sad. There was a time when I sought out the bad in life, the over the top, the unseen, the outcast. Now I am becoming prudent. Detesting it. Or maybe not.

I felt a hand slither down my spine. Looking up, a skinny guy in his mid-twenties with classical good looks was smiling down on me in the mist. Wordlessly, he sat next to me, leaned in and began kissing me. As his tongue brushed my teeth, I thought how many cocks have been inside that mouth today. Millions? I reached down and fondled his short penis under his towel. He began to breath harder. He gently grabbed the back of my head and guided it towards his waiting crotch. Why not? I thought. I gave him the best I could which I guess worked because within minutes he was squirting semen across my tongue. I spat the matter onto the floor and as I was getting up to leave, he pulled me down next to him and said in broken English, "Hold me for a while...please."

We sat there not uttering a word embraced in a bath house surrounded by perverts and sex fiends and cockjunkies of all shapes and sizes and my eyes began swelling in tears and my heart sank as I came to the unmentionable conclusion that the way I was feeling - all that self loathing and doubt - I wasn't the only one. I wasn't the sole specter walking this world who was too afraid to reach out and touch someone in the paranoia of being rejected and hurt. To be simply held by another from someone who actually wanted to reciprocate.

We both remained entwined with one another, our breathing calming us, each others heart beats ticking away, counting down when this moment of wondrous, beautiful togetherness would end. He eventually stood and walk away. Not saying a word.

I remained silently on the bench surrounded by the gulps and slurps of random, broken lust.

I don't want to be alone...

the Death of Romance.

I knew today would be a good day when I stood in the mirror and slid my undershirt over my head, backwards.

It’s so hard to think that every single day you want to take a blade to your throat, but you never end it.

He was in my shirt and boxers in the other room, cup of coffee steaming in both hands. Like every movie you’ve ever seen.

It was another day and I couldn’t help but see them blurring together, him standing in that light, right before the doorjamb of the bathroom, his toes hugging the thick carpeted floor.

He looked so damn perfect I almost stayed. But I couldn’t.

I kissed his cheek as I passed, placing my hand quickly on his hip as I did, refusing his touch as I passed. He stopped and watched me walk away. He never does that.

He liked to watch me shave and would always be excited when I accidently nicked the skin on my neck. He liked to see the thick red dot smeared on the blade then mixing with the perfectly clear water from the tap.

He always remembers our first date, when I actually asked him out and picked him up and held the door and his chair for him. And my ugly thrift shop shirt, white with a kind of floral pattern, button up with short sleeves rolled up like I was from the fifties. I guess that’s why he liked me.

I remember his body playing with mine, allowing itself to be felt and held and covered and riddled with sweat. I remember his kisses and his sweet stare, the way he looked in my eyes as I enlarged myself inside of him.

He knew I was destined for disaster, I just wish I’d seen it first. His coffee once a day, to wake up, was diminished in the eighty or so ounces I drank a day. Plus a pack of cigarettes. And six or so beers to end the day. But he never complained about the smell of my clothing, the way the smoke clinged to it. He never questioned my alcohol and nicotine breath catching his in the small moments we had time to kiss.

So why haven’t you done it yet? Just killed yourself? What keeps you here?

I didn’t have an answer so instead I kissed his forehead and headed to the kitchen to make myself a breakfast of black coffee. He asked if he was the reason and I couldn’t answer that either, so I slapped his ass and told him I’d see him later.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d never thought about it until he mentioned it.

These Words.

My words have left me. I feel emptied and drained. The walls of this well are no longer moist with feeling and are already beginning to ache with the pain of drying. I wish the words would come back. They seem the be the most constant of remedies. the most effective of therapies. But I am an empty well that nobody visits anymore. Nobody visits you when you are no longer nourishing. Nobody wants to travel only to find emptiness; scream into you, only to hear their own voice echo off your aching walls. But I am going to be patient. My walls are not weak. They’re stone-strong and bruised. maybe I needed this draining, this emptying. maybe in time rose-scented water will fill up this body and every word I speak will be floral and beautiful, my scent kissing each passing cheek. 

I'm Tickled Pink...

To fully enjoy this report, please play the video during the following. Thank you. - the management.

Woke up in the hotel room with a shock of paranoia. I grabbed the phone and called Primavera, inquiring if they had any bunks. "Yes, we do." Oh happy day! Damn that was simple! After giving the voice my social security number, he then informed me that I was on a bedding list for yesterday and since I never showed up, I was marked as awol and cannot return for 30 days. In my mind I was screaming what the fuck as I calmly explained that the only thing I had signed up for since my arrival in Tucson last Friday was for housing. The voice stated, now that he looked over whatever paper work was in his hand, that what i stated was true and that I needed to come to the shelter at one in the afternoon for processing.

Checked out of the hotel, stopped for coffee downtown and made my way to the southside of Tucson to Primavera Men's Shelter. It hadn't changed much. A huge corrugated iron building housing 200 men on any given night. The building is centrally located with many shops, convenient stores, and fast food chains nearby. Unlike the mission in El Paso, Primevera is exceptionally clean and the staff are not only helpful but very positive. A far cry from the vindictive, hope-draining, soul crushing staff in El Paso.

After being process and receiving a bunk, mostly I sat around smoking and chatting with fellow residents. The first was Dakota - or "Cota" - a handsome, early twenties wing nut. His shaven head, blue eyes, black goatee, and slim body made you forget that he was nuttier than squirrel shit. Another was a small, white guy who's name I had forgot. But the aura of late night truck stop restrooms, back alley tricks, and flea-bag hotel whoring clung to him like semen on a pedophiles hands. After he bummed a smoke, the rough con look of him melted away as his inner faggot began to emerge. Lastly, there was a tall, thin black guy in his early twenties who definitely had the gift of gab. Very good looking, but there was pain and sorrow deep down in those big, brown eyes.

Dinner rolled around and I sat in the cafeteria eating as a slew of hobos around me devoured their meal like famished hyenas. It was some sort of gloop. Bread, broccoli, mystery meat, and gravy all mixed in together and surprisingly good. I even went back for seconds.

After dinner and after more smoking and chatting with my hobosexual friends, I lay on my cot and thought of what am I to do? I have already signed up for public housing through Primavera in which the caseworker stated that an apartment would be available in two weeks. I will save money for furniture and clothes - I definitely need new clothes! I like Tucson. It's small yet hip and progressive. And a thriving art community. Not anything like that laughable shit that was being passed off as art in El Paso. However, if Tucson does not agree with me, Los Angeles is always just a forty dollar bus trip away...

LOADS!!

It's movie time, children. I love old, independent films like this one sent to me by a friend. He thought it must of paralleled my penchant for straight street boys who have sex for money. Now, I'm going to share it with you, a little piece of celluloid nugget from a time gone by. Enjoy.

Some Day Soon..

As the late afternoon sun bathed the desert in a blinding yellow glow, I trudged from my hotel room at The Quail to Jack in the Box for some cheap dinner. Someone had just ordered thirty fucking tacos just as I arrived, so the three tweekers behind the counter where dashing around like chickens with firecrackers up their butts. Waiting for my order, old haggish woman wonders off the streets and starts drinking soda from the self serve dispenser. She did not have a cup, she slurped loudly with lips on tap. I looked away in apathy and dwelled on the days events.

The mystery on why Primavera wasn't answering their phone was revealed - their entire phone system is down. I learned this when I decided to visit their main offices. I spoke to a caseworker who processed me into their database via a shitload of paperwork. Being as insane as I apparently am, the caseworker at the main offices offered a plethora of services. I've said it once and I'll say it again, when you are homeless, you get a bunch of free shit thrown at you. I signed up and applied for one of their housing programs - it will take some time, but at least I am in their files.

I have decided that tonight will be the last night at this hotel. Tomorrow morning I will contact Primivera (the shelter) and attempt to get a bunk or I will stay at the Tucson Mission. Most likely I will sleep outside, but that is the fate that I have made for myself. remind me to change my socks, they are really beginning to smell.

On my way back to the hotel with my greasy burger and over boiled fries, I stared up into that big blue advance of post twilight sky, took a deep breath, and smiled. Things will work out...they always do. As I strolled down the sidewalk crawling with little lizards and cracked out hookers, I hummed Brazil to myself to lighten my mood...

Tucson.

And so here I am flat on my rusty dusty in the teeming oasis of Tucson, Arizona.

I had left El Paso with high hopes and stirrings of esoteric nostalgia, but as the old bard says "You can never truly go back to where ya been." Ain't that old fuck telling the truth.

Departed El Paso in a sandstorm and spent the next six hours listening to this bloated tweeker from San Diego spin horrid tales loudly for all to hear. He sat two seats back and the old tramp who was relocating from Florida to Washington kept mumbling "Shut the fuck up, wyoncha?" In which said tweeker continued his tirade using fuck after every other word. "I hid my fuckin' dope in the fuckin' fender of my fuckin' car when the fuckin' cops rolled up on me and fuckin' nailed me for a fuckin' shotgun I kept in the fuckin' back trunk." Ugh.

So, made it to fuckin' Tucson late, around fuckin' 12:30 in the fuckin' morning...ahem, sorry...and was saddened that not only they moved the station from downtown to the edges of the city, but there was nary taxi one waiting around. No big woop, I am used to this. I huffed it downtown dragging my little suitcase on wheels to the center of Tucson clack-clacking on the sidewalk. My intention was to get to the city bus terminal and make my way up to Oracle. It is widely known that there are a string of cheap hotels to stay in. Once at said terminal, and it being late, I missed the last bus by ten minutes. Okay. Off I went into the hot, muggy night. Found a reasonable hotel once I made it to Oracle Ave. (only sixteen short blocks, really) and after being checked in by the sleepy Hindi owner, I made my way to a convenience store for water and snacks.

One thing about Tucson: All the whites and Hispanics are spun out tweekers and all the blacks are on the hustle. And I thought Mexican hookers were ghastly, they do not compare with the flobby boobied beasts clomping up and down the Miracle Mile. Everyone wanted to fuck with the white guy. I guess living that pampered life the last four years had taken my street edge off. Need to get that back.

The following morning, I called Primavera men's shelter at nine o'clock as specified to attempt to get a bunk. For fifteen minutes that phone rang. Nothing. I tried three other times. At least answer the phone to tell me no beds!

Giving up, I set out to check out the downtown area. Great. Everything was closed on Saturday. Boo! I hung out in front of the public library to smoke and ask the general hobo population on the Primavera thing. Hell, what a knot of snooty, uninformative asses. Or maybe the fact that I looked like an undercover cop? I walked around downtown, mostly hipster bistros, art stores, and fusion restaurants. Returning to the hotel, I decided to nap before checking out this Folk Festival the barista at the cafe I had breakfast in told me about.

The Folk Festival was interesting, catering to the Sante Fe Art fetishes and mostly kids. I left to look for a drink, sure as shit needed one. I found a bar and had a ten dollar martini. The smug hipsters and short wearing college types gave me the jitters so I made my way to IBT's, Tucson's gay bar.

Typical American fag set up: crowded with screeching, gesticulating queens who sized everyone up on material gain. I really needed to find my ass a dive bar. But, Tucson went through some kind of renaissance, so all dive establishments have been wiped off the face of the planet or taken over by e-smoking hipsters. I simply returned to the hotel and watched Will Smith in I am Legend.

Next morning, I tried calling Primavera again. No answer. Went online and checked that I had the right number. Six websites all had the same digits I did. Maybe they think hobos don't need help on the weekend? Will go to their main offices this Monday morning. Need to act fast, this hotel is eating away my funds...

Days Gone By

My bus leaves for Tucson, AZ at five this afternoon. Here I sit at the Percolator Cafe in downtown El Paso for the last time. Yes. The last time! When I arrived three years ago I was shocked and saddened that all the good people I had known left for other destinations: San Antone, Austin, San Francisco, Tampa, other exotic countries. What were left was the dullest, most uninteresting lot of characters I could ever meet. And yet I stayed in a futile attempt to be responsible. I even left briefly to Tijuana on a miss-matched encounter to pursue a dead internet relationship which failed miserably and I still came back. It got worse. For me, anyway. To be certain, I had met a few people, yet they were never interested in staying on a close friendship basis, we still remain uninvolved friends via the internet. Not enough so to warrant sticking around.

I am quite excited on finally ridding myself of this insidious desert. I never liked the climate or the ignorant people. I will not return. There is really nothing to return to.

I remember back to yesterday, my last day in Juarez: A light wind rustled through green trees as I sat on a concrete bench munching on two burritos picadillo. As burly Mexican workers busied themselves constructing the various machines for the upcoming Cinco de Mayo celebration, lithe rentboys darted about through the dappling shade as the old men chased them. A stray dog, scrawny and with a look of utter sadness in its eyes stared at me as I ate. I threw him my scraps in which he devoured.

A smiling woman approached vending delicious packets of chopped fruit. I stated that I just ate and would have rather ate the fruit instead of those ill prepared burritos. She smiled and moved on.

While I watched the ever flowing stream of men and boys enter the Park’s restroom – a dark and vile place where willing cocks go unsucked under the lazy eye of the lounging attendant – a great gust blew plums of gritty dust across the vast park. A wave of absolute depression consumed me. Why am I leaving…again? Why am I here in the first place? I felt so severed – so utterly alone.

Here I am leaving a locale where I will not miss or be missed by no one. Under that sunny, azure Mexican sky, I felt so cold inside. I sat and pondered how I am literally throwing myself onto the streets once again to live in an existence of distrust, aloofness, and constant sorrow. I attempt to alleviate the decision by thinking that it is not how I get there, but where I wind up. That is the disturbing part – where am I to wind up? I am coming to the sinking acceptance that I truly am getting too old for this life. Too tired of living out of a suitcase from exotic locale to grungy grotto.

Though I have formed another wonky plan for this trip, I constantly weigh the other lines to travel down. Would I stay in Tucson and settle if they offer me a place through Public Housing? Will I continue on East to a far away tropical island? Or will I try to woo an ever suffering specter in Los Angeles to stay with him and pursue a fantasy inspired relationship with someone who I barely know?

Well, I have made the final step to go. Leave Mexico forever or at least the foreseeable future. I really don’t want to come back, anyway. There is nothing there for me. Though I will miss the open-mindedness on sexuality, the annoying attributes have out weighed the positive. Everyone staring in hostile contempt at my white gringo ass when I enter a public space. Rentboys banging on your door at all hours begging for pesos or being the obligatory free drinks guy every time I enter a bar really taxes ones enjoyment of the situation. Plus, my Spanish is not that good and I do miss having intelligent face-to-face conversations with people.

So, buckle up and see what fate will hurl at you, son – you made your bed. Sleep in it…

The Final Countdown to Perpetual Insanity

It’s a mad world. And for manic-depressives and schizophrenics a sad one, too.

The gears have been set into motion. I have made the final decision on leaving Mexico for good, never to return to this damnable desert. Gone will be the drunken nights of misguided debauchery and rampant alcoholism. For a time, I will walk among the double-standard, Victorian aptitudes of the United States where Home of the Free, Land of the Brave had been butchered oh so long ago that no one cares anymore. I have made the ultimate choice of stepping free of this paranoid existence and will become, once more, a hobosexual.

I strongly think I need this. A long time reader who I had become estranged from on account of no fault but my own selfish insanity, had put the finger on the proverbial nosey: “You are an outside cat, not an indoor cat.” That one shot faggoty retort had rung true all these years when first commented on a long, drunken rant from said reader.

My plan? Plans within plans, Dear Reader. I am debarking for Tucson, where I will enjoy that town for as long as my scatter brained personae will tolerate. Then, it will be off to New Orleans. I want to dig that city of ill-repute as I did decades ago. Afterwards, making a stop in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida to visit with an old High School chum and his wife who has so graciously invited me into their home. Then, ultimately, flying down into San Juan, Puerto Rico where, if the gods smile on me, I will make one final attempt to settle down. Retire, if you will, and spend the rest of my days drinking rum and writing horribly, unpublishable novels.

Am I nervous? Sure as shit, I am. I shouldn’t. I mean, I have pulled this cockamamie stunt countless of times. Yet, I feel all doors are closing, all cards have been dealt. Time’s up, sir. Last call.

Never the less, this summer promises a literal rollercoaster of bring downs and dramatic circumstances. You bought the ticket, Dear Reader, take the ride…

I Could Tell You Stories.

Oh, I could tell you stories.

Broken bones and battles lost and victories. I could tell you stories.

To impress, digress, or suggest – action stories, traction stories – how that time I almost slipped.

I could tell you stories.

How one of the neatest things I learned in college was a new way to tie my shoes. How the night city looks from the plank-platform in the tallest tree hidden in the neighborhood. How it feels to sleep next to a soulmate – then move 2,000 miles away.

I could tell you stories.

The teller wrestles with a curious why-mind. Where to go from here? Too much to siphon through – clogged filters just dirty water. No sense in trying to impress. Who likes to be impressed, anyway? Counter-girl won’t bat a lash for the holes in shoes. Nobody likes a show-off. Shove off, show-off. Yer kind ain’t welcome ’round these parts. I could tell you stories – but what’s a good story? Pin the tale on the Don Quixote. A good story needs reality, not facts. A connection. A laugh. A moral. That’s that. Tell me what made you laugh – and how it got you chortling.

One of my best friends I’ve ever had writes sentences on any sort of pad about anything that’s in his head. Later, he rearranges them into some sort of half-rhyme tale that tricks you into connecting. Tricks your mind into inventing timelines. Caffeinated nonsensical sentences blend together into metaphor and imagery. Emotion breaks through. A laugh, a nod, a cheer.  A new understanding, borne by the audience, alien to the creator. A religion – began and lost again in a moment. Amateur poetry can be the most sincere.

And the next time we’re there – we steal a goddamn pillow because it had the exact same pattern as his only shirt. Red and white flannel. That square pillow was three months of laughter. I can’t recall the words written or spoken, but I’ll always remember that dumb pillow. It wasn’t me, officer. It was we. We regret nothing!

Maybe the real purpose of writing is to weave together like-minded troublemakers. Maybe the words don’t even matter. Matter the words don’t even, maybe. So probable that it’s probably so – I could tell you stories. So what?

So could anyone. So can everyone.

The real trick is making stories. The real trick is living them.

Love Lost in Springtime Doldrums

Spring is in full swing down here in ol' Mexico. The air is warm, the sky is pleasant, and the boys saunter around half nekkid in pin-striped tank tops. They stroll with that macho swagger of machismo that drives pasty skinned gringo wild with passion.

I awoke with a fucking morning boner and attempted to relieve myself but I felt all shades of nasty because the neighborhood kid, he of only seven, was screeching outside my door playing with a young mate out on the sidewalk. Fine. I'll just go for some coffee and maybe cheesecake for breakfast.

Showered, dressed, and made my way past dusty, crumbling adobe buildings to Cafe 656. The street was already teeming with youthful vigor as doe-eyed, dark skinned men dashed to and fro in their various affairs. Hell, even the workers who had taken over a three block radius around the cafe re-constructing the streets seemed hot and secreting sexual pheromones for all to pine over. Sex hummed in the air like a Buddhists chant.

As I was coming to a corner, there was a lone car parked at the curb. I had that funny sense that I was being eyed. Indeed. As soon as I passed the car, the driver rolled down his window and called me by name. Holy shit! It was Rigo! I had not seen him in eight years! Rigo and I had an off again/on again romance during one of my stays in Juarez before. That ended when he attained his passport and high-tailed it to Santé Fe, New Mexico to be with family.

Like any whore, I leapt into the front seat and after a firm handshake followed a long, detailed conversation of what-ever-happened-to-so-and-so. For some giddy reason, Rigo decided to drive around as we caught up. I had to admit, the years had been good to him. He matured from a wild-eyed street urchin to a strapping young man. He stated that he was in Juarez visiting his mother, but he lived in Puerto Vallarta. He had a ranch or something. I said that was nice.

I mentioned that I was on the way to the cafe and invited Rigo for coffee and a light brunch. We sat in front of the large plate windows as the pedestrians busied themselves and the monstrous construction machinery chugged away beyond.

After a hearty convo over cheesecake about our mutual triumphs and foibles during the past eight years, there was nothing else to do but return to my place and sixty-nine for old times’ sake. His suggestion, not mine. Seriously. No lie.

I missed his penis. There are very few men I have met in my life in who I judge my attraction soly based on the beauty of their erect member. But, Rigo's is up there with high marks. I like the fact that, without even touching it, clear pre-cum constantly dribbles from the head, glistening like nectar. After a pleasing session of gulp-n-slurp in the coolness of my ratty trap, Rigo and I joked around and laughed at casual things. Then he got stupid. He asked if I would move to Puerto Vallarta and be his partner. Just like that. I croaked, "To quote Rosa Park...."No." I explained that the following Friday, I had already planned to go on a wacky road trip that will culminate in me settling on the island of Puerto Rico. He stated that it made him sad that I could never settle down or even wished to hold a long term relationship. I answered, "How do you think I feel? I'm the one who has to live with my decisions."

We showered together - much giggling I think my neighbor heard and didn't need to hear that faggoty shit - and afterwards I walked him to his car. Shaking hands and a brief hug later, Rigo was gone. I was feeling bitter sweet, because of all the people I have met, I really did like him. And now I lost him. Again.

Because...

Darktonia

The other wise pleasant day had turned ugly. As usual in the Great Southwest, especially during spring, dust storms can kick up at a moment’s notice. As I hurried to the International Bridge from running errands in El Paso, I noticed the great undulating, tan clouds rushing in from the North West. By time I had reached the bridge which spanned the Rio Grande and scampered halfway across, the winds gusted at such ferocity and the dirt in the air so think; I could not see the mountain range which lay on either sides of the border. Nothing but whipping tans and khaki colored dust and debris which stung the eyes and caked the lips and nose.

I had to stop and darted into Café 656 on Juárez Ave. and 16th de Septiembre to squeegee the gunk off my face and take in a nice cup of coffee. I had been sick with some sort of virus the previous week, yet as the sun turned everything a hazy tan outside the large plate window, I really wanted to go out.

I paid my bill and trudged through that ghastly maelstrom until I reached my flat. Nice. Just swept yesterday and there is a new film of dirt covering the red tiled floor. I swept bitterly and lay down for a spell. I was still feeling blue and sniffling from that cold. Fuck it. Took a shower (brown mud spirals down the drain) got dressed and headed out.

I did not want to go to Bar Olympico on account that the big, buff waiter had become a fucking booze hound and expects me to buy his ass beers all night while he works. Nope. No more. Bar Buen Tiempo? No, it has devolved into a boring den of shady queens - a gaggle of butt-ugly jotos who simply sit around and rag on each other. As I stumbled over the dusty, broken sidewalks jumping out of the way of dashing citizens, my mind began to wonder. Why am I here? Originally it was to re-kindle old friendships with several people I had left a few years prior. They are sight unseen. I had gone out of my way to look for them, but they have either moved to other parts of Mexico or perished in the raping of Juárez by the cartel.

Earlier that day, I had confided to a long suffering friend my intentions on jetting out of the desert for good. I had written about it, thought about it, but that was my first time ever saying it out loud. And my heart soared. As I heard my voice actually confessing out loud my intensions, it all seemed so right. I can make no excuses to stay. There is absolutely nothing here for me. I plan on going to Tucson awhile just to see what's what. I actually liked Tucson. But, we will see.

Anywayz...I found myself in front of Bar Calletias. A notorious dive on the outskirts of the main market and skid row. I know, I know, all of Juarez is a skid row, this area just more so.

I was let in a metal door by a grinning lesbian. She beamed in Spanish, "Come in! Come in! You are welcome!" The bar was full. On first entrance, it is like that cantina in Star Wars, a long bar on one side and small booths along the other wall. But, instead of an assortment of aliens and starpilots you get fat lesbians, junkie cholos, horrifying transvestites, and squirming rentboys. Meh, I thought, the beer is cheap.

I made my way down the counter and stood between a gay cowboy and a drag queen who resembled Fred Flintstone in drag. Ordering a chilled caguama Sol, I scanned the long dank room for a familiar face. Nothing. Where did they all go?

As sudden wave of alienation splashed over me. A complete feeling of being severed from the human condition. I made no eye contact with anyone as I sipped my beer. Heaven forbid I get wrapped up with the How Do You Like Mexico crowd. That doesn't bother me, but at that moment in time, I did want to drink, I simply didn't want to be bothered.

On the second bottle, I was approached by a scraggy little lad in baseball cap and worn jeans. Shaggy, black hair fell out from beneath the cap and cascaded down over much of his dark, Indian features. Short but skinny, he obviously was very poor and probably lived in a cardboard house in the barrio of Anapra. He was real cute, but already intoxicated. Others scowled at him in derision. I couldn't figure if it was his social standing or him just being drunk in public. He wasn't bothering anyone from what I could tell. I saw him as just another guy who wanted a night out and tried coping with his hardships like anyone else, through alcohol. I sighed. People can be such hypocritical shits.

As I stated, he approached me and slurred timidly if I was German. I smirked and said no, I was American. The following thirty minutes were the standard dialog of How Do You Like Mexico questions. He was adorable, even wavering drunk, so I had to comply. He confessed that he indeed lives in Anapra, that section of Juarez were the very poor and cast out dwell, with his family. Mother, sister, wife, and child. When he mentioned that he had a wife and child, I asked why was he in a gay bar?

"I just walked in off the street." He slurred. "I had no idea. But, men, women, it does not matter. I love everybody!"

He never asked, which was a plus, but I chose to drink with this guy, who said his name was Alfredo. He was twenty-two and worked parking cars in a parking lot. For almost nothing, he sustained off of the meager tips from washing the vehicles and guarding them against police who have a habit of stealing license plates and selling them. He stated that he wasn't queer and actually had never had sex with a man. Leering at me he smiled that tonight he might want to change that. I laughed and said calm down tiger or some stupid shit in a vain attempt to be coy. As the beer flowed, his slender, tough hands began to read my body like braille. In the mensroom, Alfredo somehow found himself next to me and we sized each other up. (He won, dammit!)

Back at the bar, Alfredo asked what I did for a living. I mumbled, "A writer."

"A writer?!" He snatches a napkin off the bar and pulls a pen from his pocket. "I don't believe you. Write something."

I smirked, grabbed the pen and scrawled out in English, "His eyes were stone. Sadness. Yet a spark rose from the ashes with a sudden burst of lust that was likely to drive a man mad. He eyed me as he ran his fingers gently back and forth across the stubble on his chin. His mouth was slightly open, his lips plump and soft, with a glint as though he had just ran his tongue across them. He wanted something. Actually, he wanted it all. And one day he would have it."

He glared at the scribbles and howled in Spanish, “I can’t read that!!” We both burst into laughter and more beer was ordered.

The crowning moment was when he began to kiss me at the bar. Onlookers looked on and drag queens cooed. It was a minor spectacle because I was the only fair-haired gringo in the joint and here I was slobbering with a person of a lower caste. I swear, from my personal experiences, Mexicans are so obnoxiously prejudice against their own kind. More than Americans.

Things were going good and pleasant until Alfredo threw up. Right there at the bar. A cascading flow of pinks and yellows splattered onto the cigarette butt littered tile. The vicious lesbian behind the bar ordered the young man out. Two thuggish cholos grabbed the lanky lad and tossed him out on the street. I followed them to the curb and picked Alfredo up out of the gutter, handing him his hat.

“I want to go home.” He said, wobbling.

“I’ll walk you to your bus stop.” I stated.

“This late? Not running. I need a cab.”

Thoughts of dragging this lad to my house and doing all sorts of nasty things flashed through my head. Literally using his anatomy as my own personal amusement park. But, I digress. I am not a monster. I agreed to find a taxi to take him back to Anapra. One surly fucker stated 100 pesos and before I had time to protest, Alfredo climbed into the back of the cab. I handed the smirking jerk of a driver a red peso note, waved goodbye to Alfredo and headed back home.

3:26am. I exhale a breath and look around at the still buildings where I see darkness and light. I bet most people are in bed right now sleeping or reading a book or novela while some people are on the phone, watching the television or maybe there’s a few in love couples laying beside each other carrying on a conversation while sleep beckons for them and the smile and voice of the other encourages them to continue to ignore the sleep.

I walk the long, lonely way. Nothing out on these dark streets. Not a soul. I feel the beat tide of depression consume me. I seriously do not know what to do...

Glory Hole Confessional

This picture single handily sums up the entire history of this blog.

Karma-a-go-go

The highlight of my weekend was I got shit on. Not just little bird droppings, but a cascading sludge of diarrhea which seems the pigeon had been accumulating for over a period of days.

Wait. Let me back up to last Friday. 

I had been feeling sick. The weather had changed from 80 degrees to 53 overnight. I awoke with a scratchy throat and sore lungs which wheezed and rasped with every intake. I felt like crap. During the day, I wrote some more in my book, walked over to Cafe 656 on Juarez Ave. for lunch, hung around the park near my house and people watched. I wanted to go out. I had a meet with Julio from the other night. I had met him waiting for the bus and he mentioned he and Luis were going to be at Bar Olympico that evening.

As the sun set over this dreary town and while I sat in the park scowling at the multitude of rentboys prowling between the trees, my illness really began to kick in. I had zero energy and returned home to rest.

I boiled me a cup of tea and simply settled in the evening to watch television. Around ten that night, I couldn't keep my eyes open and fell asleep.

The following morning, I awoke feeling horrible. I needed spicy food. I showered, dressed and tromped over to Cafe Central for some coffee and menudo. The place was crowded and since my nerves were on end, I wasn't in the mood to tolerate the orchestra of crying babies from the large family who took up five tables near me. Enough of this shit, babies need to shut the fuck up and get a job!

I paid for my breakfast, walked out and across the street to Plaza las Armas to sit in the shade, smoke a cigarette and stare at the cathedral.

It was good to be alone and collect my thoughts. As the sun heated up, I began to feel better. Until Julio walked up with some friend who introduced himself as Joaquin. After a brief chat of pleasantries, they both confessed that they were going to try to cross the border illegally that night. They obviously had family in Wisconsin and was hell bent to get there. I wished them luck and gave them a few pointers. Like I know anything about crossing borders illegally.

I said goodbye and returned home to rest. I was feeling so crappy. I slept until six in the afternoon. Bored beyond reason, I showered, dressed and headed over to Bar Olympico. Lo and behold, Julio, Luis, and Joaquin were there. We stood at the bar and talked of things, mostly on how the three - three! - where going to attempt to jump across the Rio Grande into the American Dream. Poor lost bastards.

As midnight hit, I was feeling both drunk and sick, so the three bid there farewell as I said I was going to stay and finish the bucket of beer I had bought. Priorities, people!

I drank what was left, said goodnight to a few friends and headed home. In the quiet dark of my street, as I was approaching my door, I heard someone softly call my name. I turned to see Joaquin appear out of the shadows. He stated that he had chickened out. It was too late to take the bus back home, so he asked could he either have 100 pesos for a taxi or simply stay the night and catch a bus tomorrow. Of course, I invited him to stay the night.

However, after we undressed and lay under the covers, I began to sweat and get chills. Joaquin said I was running a slight fever. I lay on my bed curled in a fetal position, shivering and sweating under the blanket as Joaquin lay spooning behind. His thin arm drapped around my chest as he casually stroked my sweat drenched head.

The following morning, I felt a little better. I invited Joaquin to breakfast at a restaurant called El Meson across the street from my apartment. As we sat drinking coffee and nibbling eggs and chiliquilas, Joaquin went all gooey and stated that he wanted a relationship. I said no can do. At the first of May, I am jumping to Tucson to save money for my move to Puerto Rico. He dramatically stated that I should stay in Juarez and be with him blah blah blah...

I walked him to his bus top and shook hands goodbye. Why is it every time I am about to move on account of I am completely bored, lonely, or pissed of at my current residency, some over-heated, romantic waif wants to start a relationship? Oh well. I simply shrugged the matter off and returned sniffling and coughing back home. I know, I should had taken Joaquin up on his offer, give Juarez more time, but I believe in fate and karma. I continuously watch for signs and signals from the Powers That Be and act on them accordingly.

Oh, did I mention that a bird shit on me as I walked home?

fear is the mind killer

Dead Trees

Paul slowly toked on an unfinished cigarette. The rain came down in sheets. The morning was dark and wet and sordid. The young man stood under the awning to the adult novelty store – glanced up and down the street with that hazy, cloudy look of intoxication.
   Unfinished cigarette. Paul stood near the corner under another canopy, silently watching the cars splash by, waiting for the cascading rain to disperse. The rain bounced up and hit his pants leg under the awning. Paul glared at the young man with the look of a predatory lizard.

   “I don't think they’re open yet.” Paul stated.

   The man shrugged. Looks at Paul, then away. He was tall and dark skinned with the color of mocha. Paul thought he was black, but his facial features were somewhat Asian. His combed back hair was slightly wavy and cut short on each side and on the back. He stood in blue jeans and a blue, work jacket was draped over a lanky body. His hands were firmly in his front pockets with hip jutted to one side in the universal stance of rentboys the world over.

   “Wanna go get some Starbucks?” Paul’s voice boomed in the silence of the early morning. Maybe a little too loud. The row of closed shops frowned. Paul felt awkward.

   The man faltered, then smiles, “Yeah. That’s sounds good. You buying?”

   Wind sounds like whispers through dead trees as they slipped into the café and are served hot coffee by an imperialist fag. Julio read the barista’s name tag. Stupid American queers.

- hobosexual, a work in progress

I've hit a conundrum. This novel was actually written over a year ago. Well, kind of. It was a 57 page short story which I had penned over a year ago for an online publication of gay short stories. I actually submitted another, shorter story in lieu of this one. It sat in my harddrive waiting for attention. The problem was, though it related a tragic tale of a homosexual transit and his trip from El Paso to San Diego, I really wanted to elaborate on how vicious and cruel the homeless system was to the general client population - i.e. shelters, Human Resource Departments, and the life in general. Shelters are generally ran by horrible, greedy people who steal the meager possessions of the clients, embezzle the donated funds, favoritism, and rampant sexual harassment. I wanted to elaborate those issues from my first hand accounts through hobosexual. One thing that I had decided was, I wanted to cut down on the sex. That was hard. Homosexuality runs rampant in the homeless circles. I had added a "sex scene" to the novel. Previously it did not include one, but the pick up of the hustler actually fit. Now I have a second piece concerning the protagonists romp in a nearby adult theater. My choice is difficult - add it or delete it. 

Drunktard Nights at The Bottom of A Bottle

They said their names were Julio and Luis. I could care less, they were buying the beer. Before they decided to sit on either side of me at the counter, I had been throwing back cervezas Sol for a good two hours and was already feeling it. They were quite chatty. Well, Julio was. Luis simply smiled and nodded at much of what was said, but generally they both were good drinking company.

They kept insisting that they were both heterosexual. Same old macho bullshit. Julio attempted to verify the fact by whipping out photos of his two kids, a boy and a girl. Fine. You're off limits. I get it. So, the evening was wiled away mostly by conversations and off-kilter gay jokes. Like I said, I didn't mind. They flipped the bill which, as we all know, Dear Reader, is an impossible act of God down here.

Around midnight, the bar began to thin out. Mostly towards the disco which was thumping next door. The beer was really hitting Julio and I and of coarse his hands began to wander. As we talked and laughed, he began with the massaging and light squeezes of the my leg to accent a point as he garrulously talked. I realized then and there that I may have a chance with at least Julio. Luis was busy yakking with some female with bad breathe who sat next to him.

That was until he walked in. I say he, but it was a vampiric drag queen who didn't even attempt to pass as a woman. If you grabbed Phyllis Diller by the throat and held her under water for five minutes, what emerged gasping for air was this ghastly thing in gold lame and frills.

He swishes up to me and my two acquaintances and introduces himself as Lupita. I kept saying Lucy and that became a running joke. He spoke fluent English, Julio and Luis did not, so Lupita and I actually had quite the humorous conversations about Mexico, my writing and of Julio and Luis, who would best benefit from receiving a rim job.

Lupita/Lucy somehow got me to stand on the little stage by the jukebox and sing karaoke. In fits of ignorance, I belted out Boogieman by KC and the Sunshine Band. I tell ya, I cleared the room!

Before I knew it, they switched the fucking lights on and hollered last call! Yup, clock on the wall read 2:14.

As Julio, Lupita, Luis, and I stumbled out the door onto the shattered sidewalk, we hugged each other goodbye, shook hands, and for some drunktard reason, I allegedly squeezed Julio's crotch as he man-hugged me. Expecting a macho flared reprisal, he simply smirked and said, "It's big, huh?' I smiled and said, "Not too shabby." Yet, Luis El Cockblocker barked "Vamanos" and grabbed Julio by the arm, dragging him into the darkness. I said goodnight to Lupita or Lucy or whatever and stumbled the few blocks back to my sordid flat...