Thursday, August 16, 2018

purely psychosomatic



A social obligation lead me back to the city where once I was the happiest man on earth; where I found out I had a heart and soul, only to have them both irreversibly ripped from my chest in an act of great spiritual violence. And so it was with great reluctance I went to this city of ghosts. I paced to the bar-restaurant like a chased animal, scared and agitated – this was the city in which I escaped death for days and days on end until I ultimately fled with my tail between my legs – each step on the cobblestones was a step on hot coals, and as I looked back to the place of our first kiss the whole of me trembled and my knees turned to wax; a body on the verge of genuflection. Almost stumbling in the bright light of an ironically beaming sun; kept upright by the deepest of sighs and the clutching of a doorknob. Yet in the city of ghosts no refuge is offered. Inside the establishment was only the droning voice of Ian Curtis, reminding me that love, love will tear us apart…again; taking me back to the one time I cried about a loss where no one died; taking me back to that attic room where he took me by surprise as I found myself staring at the ceiling woodwork. I shook my head noticeably. Scoffed a smile. Fate, you wretched spinster; as if I had forgotten, as if I had to be reminded so blatantly of a time where I must have aged twenty years. There, I once was the happiest man on earth. There, I took a plummet of which I’d never recover. Here, far away from that soul sucking city, I can think with a mind much clearer. Here I wear this pain with pride, for I know there are so many people who will never encounter a love so vibrant and all-encompassing in their lifetime. And even more so, what I brought home from all this mess is the final answer to a years-long question, ‘Would I do it all over again?’ It never felt so simple and genuine.

Wednesday, August 15, 2018

Thursday, August 02, 2018

new words; new work


Ten miles west of Las Cruces on a stretch of desolate highway, Stephen Foster began to realize hitchhiking was not as alluring as portrayed in romantic anecdotes he had read in those beat novels from the 1950’s. An adventure, he supposed, yet a negligible one at best. Definitely in no way an inspirational form of art. He came to the dire conclusion hitchhiking was more an act of reckless freeloading. Borderline parasitic. Even so, it was a decision he purposefully opted into and as Charles Bukowski once wrote, If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start.
The sky radiated a brilliant cloudless blue of a late September common to the Great American Southwest. Whispers like the sound of long dead Indians and the forgotten frontiersmen who exterminated them, the ever present wind hissed across a seemingly endless prairie of yellowed and desiccated scrub. A monotonous and otherwise flat landscape was broken with an occasional tilted power pole or rusted billboard splashed with faded advertisements of by-gone products. The glaring sun beat down on the two-lane black strip of lonely highway stretching both east and west. A stunningly panoramic horizon of low-slung biscuit colored buttes to shimmered in the rising heat.

Tuesday, July 31, 2018

quick...

white flash...mangled insect screams...
I woke up with the taste of metal in my mouth back from the dead.
         trailing the colorless death smell
         afterbirth of a withered grey monkey
         phantom twinges of amputation...
"Taxi boys waiting for a pickup," Eduardo said and died of an overdose in Madrid...
         Powder trains burn back through pink convultions of tumescent flesh...
         set off flash bulbs of orgasm...pinpoint photos of arrested motion...
         smooth brown side twisted to light a cigarette...
He stood there in a 1920 straw hat somebody gave him...soft mendicant words falling like dead birds in the dark street...
"No...no more...no mas..."
A heavy sea of air hammers in the purple brown dusk tainted with rotten metal smell of sewer gas...young worker faces vibrating out of focus in yellow halos of carbide lanterns...broken pipes exposed...
"They are rebuilding the City."
Lee nodded absently..."Yes...Always..."
Either way is a bad move to The East Wing...
If I knew I'd be glad to tell you...
"No good...no bueno...hustling myself..."
"No glot...C'lom Fliday"
Tangier, 1959

Saturday, July 28, 2018

me? i'm nobody



In the dry desert heat, I ambled across the street toward a 24 hour café near the old Greyhound station. I found the neon lit, brown brick restaurant relatively empty. I entered the diner dizzy with heat and loss and despair and made my way to the counter. The café was small, offering four worn leather booths running along a set of large plate glass windows dirty streaked with soot that looked out into dark and empty streets. Along the counter were beige faux leather stools (the leather cracked and peeling) bolted to the checkered tiled floor. Along the walls were tacked hundreds of amateurishly designed garage band flyers and invitations to local art shows. The café was occupied by a middle-aged and obese couple who were poured into a booth and a tall, read headed guy who sat at the counter staring perplexingly at the television set mounted to the wall over the cash register.
I sat at the counter and ordered a cup of coffee from a sullen, green-haired waitress with a nose ring. Following a news clip of four police officers violently beating a Latino homeless man with batons, the image switched to an arthritis medication ad.
“If you think Arbitol is right for you, consult your physician.” The images displayed smiling elderly frolicking in a pastoral park as a calm voice rapidly stated, “People who have used Arbitol have noticed the swelling of legs, hands and feet; capillary leak syndrome; fever; muscle pain; unusual bruising; dizziness, blurry vision; rash; hives; blisters; nervous system and blood disorders; lymphoma; swollen tongue; dry mouth; weight gain; inability to fight infections; nausea, diarrhea; constipation; depression; dehydration; suicidal thoughts, and death.”
Gawddamn! After all that shit, who the fuck would wanna take any?” Spat the red haired man sitting next to me. In his late thirties, dressed in Levi’s and a plaid shirt, he sported a dull orange mullet and his face and arms were covered in freckles.
“Old people with arthritis problems, I assume.” I mumbled as I tore open a sugar packet and emptied it into my coffee.
“Buncha bullshit.” The man snarled as he scrapped his fork in the sloppy remains of egg yolk. “Everything in this fucking country is designed to snatch up what little money you got.”
I took a sip of my coffee and chided, “It’s fear. Fear is the most valuable commodity on this planet. Look on the TV. What do you see? People selling only products? Nope. They’re selling the fear of having to live without their products. Fear of aging, fear of loneliness, of poverty...of failure. Fear is the single most basic emotion we have. And most importantly, fear sells.”  
The man slowly glanced over at me, ticking particles of food from his teeth with a serpentine tongue. His stare was both predatory and ominous. Gray eyes of a dead animal. Frowning puzzledly, he sighed, “What are you? Some kinda fucking intellectual?”
“Me? Nah…I’m nobody.”

Wednesday, July 25, 2018

"where my free shit?"


I have lived in abject poverty. I am perfectly aware how dire life can become when you hit rock bottom and I mean rock bottom when all options have been depleted and there are only two avenues you can follow: either change your situation or die. Now, this can apply to many things: addiction (all levels), mental stability, and/or financial stability.
With that being said, I’d like to focus on what happened earlier today. I went to change over my mailing address to my new apartment from the building where, if you are homeless one can receive a multitude of services…all free of charge and receiving mail is one of them. As I stood patiently in line among the insane and unwashed, there was an obese bull dyke on a phone apparently abusing her underpaid caseworker. That wouldn’t had bothered me until she snarled, “I want the things from you that I am entitled to!” In which I casually turned to her and stated, “Lady, you aren’t entitled to anything. Not one damn thing. These people don’t have to do anything for you.”
“Why don’t you mind your own business?” She snapped at me.
“Since you decided to yell and include everyone in you dilemma, you obviously made it my business!” I stated.
“Fuck you!” She barked.
“Nope. It is you who are obviously fucked.”
She rose red faced and faux hyper-ventilating, “I need someone to talk to! I need to calm down! This fucker….this fucker can’t talk to me like that!”
I sighed, “Look, lady, I’m not your therapist. Pay me $250 an hour and I’ll tolerate any asinine bullshit you can spill forth and then tell you all is okay. But, you don’t, so I’m not.”
Eventually, a case worker whisked her outside and I finished my business and left.
On the walk downtown, I was approached by an elderly woman. In a timid tone she asked, “Could you help me? I need food for me and my kids…could you spare anything?”
I explained calmly to her I just left staying at a shelter (her attitude dissipated quickly) and when I informed her of the family services provided at the Primavera Foundation (food, clothing - all free), she mumbled okay or something else dismissive and sulkily walked away.
That and that alone is why I never assist anyone in this country. For one, I know for a fact that the homeless or near homeless in The United States receive benefits free of charge that would be envious of anyone in other countries who work and toil for their meager possessions. As a matter of fact, years ago when I resided at the St. Vincent de Paul shelter in San Diego, during their lunch a kid from Central America was appalled and shocked at the amount of food wasted by the clients who ate – for free – in the cafeteria. His comment being the amount tossed into the garbage could feed the people in his village for an entire year.
The homeless of America – generally – are spoiled and over privileged. They believe they are irrefutably entitled to all free benefits and do become quite irate when those benefits; i.e. food, financial, or housing – are not provided at the given moment requested. They expect everything without any effort to work on the situation themselves. Please recall, I lived among them and witness this time and time again, so save your ignorant comments.
I for one will never assist anyone down and out in this country unless I knew them personally. There are far too many organization who will assist with food, housing, clothing, employment, among many other things most people take for granted.
As I have mentioned, I have lived in other countries and witnessed unassisted poverty at its most insidious. Most, and I refer to most and not all, Americans are in it for the short con…I ought to know, I did it for decades…

Thursday, July 19, 2018

the bad touch



The bar itself was out of the way, I mean, it was downtown, but hidden. Located in a dusty, cobble-brick alley from the main strip. For me that worked, I didn’t particularly care to be around a bunch of loud tourists…or students, for that matter. I ducked into the door, a battered, metal one plastered with flyers of bands no one ever heard of and after my eyes adjusted to the dank I took a seat at the counter.
The bar was small. The counter itself only offered about six or seven chrome stools bolted to the concrete floor. There were four booths lined along the opposite side of the bar. A large, dusty plate glass window shrouded in dead neon tubes. The bartender, a flabby, balding middle aged man with a ponytail, attended to a group of four University students who sat at the end corner of the bar.
I ordered a beer as I scanned the dank room for a familiar face. Nothing. Everyone I hung with previously in this town, where did they all go? An abrupt wave of alienation surged over me. An absolute feeling of being severed from the human condition.
I took a napkin and began jotting down notes for the novel I was working on. I made no eye contact with the group of raucous male students as I sipped my beer. Heaven forbid I get wrapped up with the Are You A Writer/What Are You Writing crowd. To be sure, conversations of that ilk don’t unsettle me, but at that moment in time, I simply wanted to drink, not to be bothered.
On the second bottle, I was approached by a scraggy little lad in baseball cap and worn jeans who apparently stumbled in from the heat. Shaggy, black hair fell out from beneath the cap and cascaded down over much of his dark, Native American features. Short but skinny, he obviously was poor and undoubtedly lived either on the streets or South Tucson. He was actually ruggedly handsome, but already intoxicated. The group of white, male students scowled at him in derision. He wasn't bothering anyone from what I could tell. I saw him as simply another guy out for a drink and managing with his life’s hardships like anyone else, through alcohol. I sighed, glancing at the students. 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. He never asked, which was a plus, but I chose to drink with this guy, who said his name was Stephen. 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 thieves who have a habit of stealing license plates and selling them. He stated he wasn't queer and actually 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.
Noticing my scribblings on napkins, Stephen asked what I did for a living. I mumbled, "A writer."
"A writer?!" He snatched a napkin off the bar and plucked a pen from his pocket. "I don't believe you. Write something."
I smirked, grabbed the pen and scrawled out, "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 said in mock surprise, “Oh no! That’s about me?! It’s good, though.” As he folded the napkin and placed it in his front pocket, we both burst into laughter and more beer was ordered.
Things were going good and pleasant until Stephen threw up. Right there at the bar. A cascading flow of pinks and yellows splattered onto the cigarette butt littered tile. The students and the bartender reprimanded him as Stephen stumbled back into the mensroom.
After a bit, the bartender snarled at me, "Go check on your friend."
I rose and when I entered the toilet, I found Stephen passed out in the urinal. After a couple of are you all rights, I succeeded in pulling the young man out. Unfortunatly, a student witnessed this and repoted this fiasco to the management. Thanks, snitchy.
The bartender behind the bar ordered the young man out. Two of the students grabbed the lanky lad and tossed him out on the street. I followed them to the curb and picked Stephen up out of the gutter, handing him his cap.
“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 South Tucson. One surly fucker stated eighty dollars and before I had time to protest, Stephen climbed into the back of the cab. I handed the smirking jerk of a driver four twenty dollar bills (all I had left), waved goodbye to Stephen 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 novella while some people are on the phone, watching the television or maybe there’s a few in love couples lying 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...

Monday, July 16, 2018

i don't want to be like you


My God, this is becoming fucking unbearable and I am not being overly dramatic. I realize it has been only two weeks since I moved into my apartment, but it has been three months since I have been living in the States and that is what is irritating me. Americans…Jesus Christ you are a bunch of sulky, arrogant, foul mouthed self important assholes! That is all that I have come in contact with since I returned...and the one's who put up a front of being kind and or considerate? I see right through your fake asses. In a few years when this country is laid waste from full scale atomic annihilation, all ya'll definitely got what you deserved…
Fuck! Let me calm down. I was all set to get the fuck out of Dodge and live an exciting life in the manner I saw fit and yet I found myself tempted and seduced into choosing a life path I had so many times before mocked – an uneventful existence of debt and hate filled paranoia. I literally cannot take this shit anymore. Everyone is fucking arrogant and hostile…why? What purpose does that serve them? I realize Americans always attained a shitty reputation, but goddamn, they really are pushing the envelope. Is it because the asshole warming the Presidential chair is such a pathetic role model? Can the masses not realize that ideal of base hate is all wrong? Is the concept of common sense a dead medium?
I seriously do not know how the fuck I let myself sink this low. I definitely do not like it here and I will be damned if I remain…

Thursday, July 12, 2018

wrong side of the road


I am bursting with artistic energy at last. Spending long hours in the middle of the night at the 24hr coffee shop near my place writing out the new novel invariably titled The Algebra Of Melancholy. Here is an excerpt from the opening chapter. Young Ford Davis is hitchhiking from a small New Mexico town to find excitement and adventure from the stories he's heard of the city San Diego from a mutual friend. On the way, he is picked up by a smooth trombone player named Otis Hampton. Please keep in mind this is the first draft and will be open to much revision:


“Where’d you go, homie?” Otis Hampton’s question knocked Ford out of his revelry. Otis glanced over at the scrawny youth. He was too pretty, too delicate and fair-skinned; each of his features was shaped with a sensitive accuracy, and a girlish tenderness softened his eyes, which were brown and very large. His brown hair, cut short, was streaked with pure yellow strands. A kind of tired, imploring expression masked his thin face, and there was an unyouthful sag about his shoulders. Otis smiled.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah…sure.”
“You gay?”
Ford thought. What does that have to do with anything? Is this guy homophobic? Am I gunna find myself face down in the desert on my stomach, beaten to a pulp with my underwear around one ankle turned inside out?
“Oh…uh…” Ford finally said.
“Look…I just want to give you a heads up. You one of them pretty boys with no experience in life whatsoever.” Otis Hampton took a long drag of the joint, never once diverting his eyes off the interstate ahead. “When I was younger, I played around. Had my fair share of homosexual experiences across the Great Southwest. Grew out of it, that’s all. I like pussy now. But, I remember.”
“What do you remember?” Ford asked.
“Not much. Only a hundred godforsaken motels across the country, most of them in the middle of nowhere. Black hair glistening in the syrupy air and somehow sweat looks beautiful on him in the neon glow of the “vacancy” signs. Lying awake on smudged sheets, wearing each other’s jackets because you aren’t brave enough to share each other’s skin, your fingers desperately snaked through his hair, lips on his pulse so you can measure just how much he loves you. But you are more addicted to each other’s scent than an old man smoking a cigarette, contemplating his imminent death by lung cancer, and so these shared sweaters will have to do. There are rental cars you learn to love more than the Toyota you owned growing up, because it is only in those anonymous vehicles you can roll down the windows and watch the wind play with his hair the way you want to, and brush hands across the glove compartment, and catch a glimpse of his barely-crooked teeth when you try to sing with Stevie when she comes on the radio. Because you can blame it on the little towns, the diner food, on having to share the same motel room when a convention has taken over town and it’s the only one left. Because you can say it’s not your fault that you went and fell in love, because who doesn’t want to break their heart against a steering wheel while “Rhiannon” plays in the background? Who could stop themselves, when he is the most beautiful man in the thirty-two states you’ve run through; because you know what he looks like shaken from sleep in the morning, stumbling to the front desk for a cup of instant coffee; because you know your heart still trembles embarrassingly even with his forehead pressed against the car window, soft snores filling the silence of a lonesome car on a deserted highway. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll learn to feel the same way if you keep driving long enough, if you try on enough different lives, if you bury your real name just deep enough beneath the surface…”
Ford chewed his lip, and was silent a moment. He was crazy with questions he wanted answered, but the idea of asking them embarrassed him, for to be so ignorant of one’s own seemed shameful.
Otis Hampton shot his car into the city limits of Tucson as the sun sunk below the rocky mountain range in a fiery rupture of reds, purples, and pinks. The city spires, with lights now on, reflected the darkness of the desert surrounding it. The air was still ungodly hot and the dust choked the throat. Ford coughed as Hampton pulled into the parking lot adjacent to the Greyhound terminal.

Saturday, July 07, 2018

no sé esta vida



I can't do it. I simply can't. As Bukowski once stated concerning the extravagant apartment he was awarded by a friend to write his first book, "It's a gilded cage. A locale where I simply stare at the walls and rot as the world passionately lives around me. It's nothing but a fancy mausoleum."
I feel the same way.
I was so headstrong on relocating to South East Asia and then touring the world, writing about it, experiencing life no matter how good or exceptionally bad, I wanted it all with a mad passion. And now, I am holed up in a fancy uber-modern apartment with all the trimmings, been there less than a week, and I am already bored and mired in loathing. I took a walk along the main strip last night along Congress Avenue and down 4th - Tucson's hub of night activity, neon splashed bars and clean cafés occupied by bearded, man-bun sporting hipsters and their summer skirt wearing female dates. I felt so severed from them…like the proverbial fish out of water. Definitely a college town of mostly contented, privileged white kids. Not my cup of tea, really. They come across as so…phony. I can’t really blame them, they know of no other way of life.
Perhaps I have been living as I do for so long, I am the one who knows no other way of life. I suppose I should give Tucson a chance…stay long enough to make friends and perhaps grow roots. I mean, it is what I had secretly wanted. Right? Right? Ugh…the notion fills me with depressed horror. To become a lonely, pot-bellied gay American who wiles his middle-aged time away watching reality television and arrogantly brags to other deaf ears about his attempts to bag the homeless guy down at the Greyhound station. A life of advent paranoia and condescending abhorrence.
Speaking of paranoia, the foremost reason I do not wish to remain in the states is the current political climate. How dire it has become. A functioning police state on the verge of totalitarian control. I simply do not wish to remain on this soil when the trap finally snaps shut.
So, here we go again. I will assemble plans to leave the turn of the year. As I previously mentioned, I have begun to pen another novel, so that will occupy my time. Also, I have some personal matters to tie up and quite frankly, I don’t want to be in a rush and botch this up unlike last time…and the time before that…and the time...oh, you get the picture.

Monday, July 02, 2018

all good things


And so, fate it seems have thrown me a smile. For uncounted years I have dwelled in sorrow and confusion at what this life of mine was supposed to be about. Then again, perhaps it was supposed to be about nothing. Don’t get me wrong, I have enjoyed most of it. Though I find myself cringing when I hear someone remark “Oh, your life is so exciting, I wish I could live like you.” I invariably shake my head in shame and answer, “No. No you don’t.”
Well, my original plan was to remain here briefly in Tucson and prepare for my eventual sojourn to South East Asia, but in the middle of last week, I was notified that my name had come up on a waiting list for these uber swanky modern apartments I had apparently signed up for as far back as 2012. I had completely forgotten all about it. Since traveling is in my blood and I had done my fair share the past few decades, honestly, I was becoming burned out on it. Internally, I secretly desired a stable home I could reside in the remainder of my years. Honestly, I thought I would never achieve that dream and was destined to traverse this world as a homeless phantom writing about my misery and trails for your enjoyment. I moved into said apartment yesterday. It is over. I will attempt to retain this place the rest of my days. It will be my home. Home. I really do enjoy saying that.
And what of this blog? It was began as an exercise to unleash all the horrors I dealt with on a daily basis, to vent the strange and unusual out of my spinning head. That, too, it seems is over. I don’t know if I am going to continue to write here any longer. All good things come to an end and it has reached the terminus point.
I would like to thank all the readers over the years for hanging on and tolerating this travesty I waywardly endured, nevertheless I am tired, both mentally and physically. It is time to stop.
Thank you and see you down the road...

Monday, June 25, 2018

babalu bebop


For most of the day, I tromped around in 110 degree heat gathering the necessary paperwork to be prepared with my appointment with the housing office this Wednesday. Completing that, It was time to go home. My boots crunching in heated gravel, I wearily approached the large, steel barn-like structure of the shelter. Squatting in the shade of the awning were three or four hobos sweltering on wooden benches and silently puffing on rollies.
It wasn’t three in the afternoon yet, the entry time for the place. I stood there waiting, my shirt clinging to me like a wet condom and craving nothing more than to enter and drink some water. At three, the goober who was working the afternoon shift swung the door open and after a mandatory breathalyzer test, I headed straight to the kitchen for some much needed drinks. Quenched, I resignedly returned to the pungent dimness of the dorm room which held up to a hundred men. I obviously got a new neighbor, for the withered old thing with a walker who slept next to me was replaced by a goofy fat bald guy.
I lay there quietly, but then….he wanted to talk.
He went into an extensive and confounded diatribe on how the government was hunting him down, frozen his bank assets, and caused his life in general a conspiracy laden hell hole. He divulged from a folded swath of Chinese rice paper a little glass pin with some type of electrode on the end.
"You see that?" He breathed breath which smelled like sour mop water. "You see? This is what they pulled out of my ear. For years they could see what I see...they saw through my eyes!"
Enough of that weirdness. I laid down amongst the smell of sour feet and unwashed bodies, doubting my own sanity. Am I all right? Am I losing my mind? What if I am crazy...sane people don't do what I do. I really began doubting my actions the last few weeks.
Then he walked in.
Shaven head, trimmed black goatee, hazel eyes, and baggy street clothes with a boxers build. He brandished a tattoo of a tear drop below his left eye. This short cholo was extremely kind on the eyes. And he was placed in a bunk right next to mine! Right away I introduced myself and he said that his name was Luis Valenzuela and recently released from prison. After he made up his bed, we made our way out to the little smoking patio to talk. I told him my story and he thought it was pretty funny. I said I wasn't worried about my situation that much in lieu I had some money left in the bank.
"For reals?" Luis said. "Let me have thirty dollars." His smile, though both sinister and scheming, a dimpled grin displaying a row of short, white teeth, caused my heart to skip and my mind to travel into places both mischievous and deviant. He continued his spiel regarding these sneakers he wanted.
"What do I get out of it?" I coyly retorted. Nothings for free...learned that from my days in Tijuana.
"What do you want?" He asked.
Without batting an eye, I said, "I want to suck your cock."
Naturally, he looked flabbergasted. I thought he was going to punch my lights out. Then a sly grin crept across his handsome lips. "Okay. But where?"
"Follow me into the restroom."
He followed me into an empty men’s room. We went into the back stall, closing the door behind us, I sat on the toilet and Luis pulled out his erect penis. I sucked that thick uncut cock like my life depended on it. A couple of hobos did enter to use the urinals, but in our position down on the far end of the long, white tiled room, they were unaware that malicious goings on were afoot! Luis was letting out breathy and whispered moans and I was nervous some old hobo might hear us and report us to the facilitators. Finally, when Luis was close, he pulled his glistening cock out of my mouth and sprayed down my hair and right side of my face with gobs of thick cum. As I wiped my face and hair with toilet tissue, he stated that he hadn't cum in three months.
Odale.
After paying my end of the bargain with Luis and his well-earned thirty dollars, I returned to my bunk. Luis decided to go into the T.V. room and watch the football game playing on the communal television. At nine, they shut off the lights, but I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned amid the high decibel snoring and farting. I am so excited about getting that apartment.
At five o'clock in the morning, the lights snapped on and everyone made a mad dash to the restroom sinks to wash up. I felt like shit...like I was hit by a ten ton truck. My throat ached, my back hurt, I was feverish. Luis looked so adorable wrapped up in his blankets. I wanted to reach over and glide my fingers down the happy trail that lead into his blue striped boxers. I invited him to breakfast at a downtown café, but he said he had to meet his cousin for something. He is so goddamn handsome. Who knows? Perhaps something will come of this.

Friday, June 22, 2018

the algebra of melancholy



After an extensive interlude of writer’s block – two years, I believe – I have begun the writing of my next novel. Something I am quite passionate about. It concerns the wayward misfortunes of Ford Davis, a twenty-three year old aspiring writer as he hitchhikes from a small southwest town to San Diego and his quest for more lucrative opportunities and perhaps even the most elusive, love. Occupied by awkward and mundane peoples during Ford's trek and set against the backdrop of a country leaning towards the threat of atomic annihilation by newly elected president, a former game show host/Chicago slum lord named Wink Scottsdale, this new book is a somewhat dystopian tale with marginally homosexual tendencies. The working title: The Algebra of Melancholy. I like it, it fits.
In further news: Six or seven years ago, I applied for admission into a very modern apartment here in Tucson. Through mischance and various unfortunate events, I thought I had lost it. Well, as I was checking my e-mails yesterday, I received an invitation to rent at the very exclusive complex located in the heart of downtown Tucson. I actually thought years ago the deal was botched, but through a miracle of God (and really, that is exactly how I see it. Wouldn’t you?) I am now attaining the paperwork for the admission interview next Wednesday at 9am. Originally, I was simply passing through Tucson to return to Tijuana and an unknown future. What does this mean? No more travelling, no more living in junky ridden grottos mired in fear and debasement, no more uncertain days of where am I heading or what am I doing.
Do not fret your little head none, Dear Reader, I will certainly maintain this blog. It simply will be different. I will focus more on my writing and thoughts and perhaps – perhaps – a little wayward absurdities here and there.

Thursday, June 21, 2018

Monday, June 18, 2018

the weed kid


“No, you see, it holds fifteen clips. You just aim it and…” He performed a gesture of swishing his cocked hand back and forth while making a rattatat sound. “Just spray and pray. I have a huge selections of semi-automatics. I love guns.”
They sat across from me during the slow bus ride downtown. Save for us three, there was no one else on the bus. The gun aficionado was a roly-poly built goober with cascading black hair that reached his ample hips. He looked like the actor/director Tom Savini had really let himself go. Clad in double denim, his nasal voice reverberated throughout the stale air of the bus.
“Just love them. I really, really do.”
“And what kind was that?” Asked his slender companion. He toted a small black terrier on a leash. A yappy and over excitable mongrel who darted about at the tethers length. The scrawny man wore tinted aviator sunglasses and acid was denim jeans with sandals. His chinless face was smooth and pale, he had a small mustache and his hairline receded.
“A Colt .45 automatic. You ever seen it?”
“It’s a pistol?”
“Yeah. You ever seen it?”
“Nah. I don’t really carry guns. I carry knives.” His lanky friend interjected without really hearing the question.
“Have you seen The Expendables? There’s a dude with a Colt .45 automatic…”
The one with the dog retrieved a nasty looking machete hidden in the deep recesses of his acid washed back side. He nonchalantly flashed it toward his friend. A silver and curved blade attached to a black leather handle with light green highlights.
“Woah. That’s sweet. You think that’s a knife? This is a knife!” He nasally repeated in a horrible Aussie accent  as he chuckled.
“Yeah. No one under thirty is going to get that reference. It’s a stupid movie, anyway. I mean, it was okay…but it was bad, too.”
I hit downtown on a tranquil Sunday morning. It already being 11am and everything still closed. On deserted sidewalks, I dodged glistening pools left after the day’s prior monsoon downpour. The most upsetting aspect was the silence…the solitude. Years ago when I was in Tucson, the downtown area, especially around the Public Library, was abundant with homeless people milling about. Where have they gone? With any indication of the over populated shelter, there is no shortage of bored tramps, I find it simply weird there are not as many congregating out on the street. Is the government abducting them and hauling them off to desert concentration camps for liquidation? Have they been swept away by some unknown virus? Aliens? I simply find it odd, that’s all.
Anyways… I made my way through those echoing streets and over toward The Z Mansion. A historically hysterical château of baby blue that stages a hobo brunch every Sunday morning. Passing through ominous spiked iron gates, I entered the back patio covered in shady trees with about one hundred or less people milling about.
As soon as I entered, some crippled slob thrusts a leaking trash bag at me and gruffly orders me to “take out da trash, my leg hurtin’!” He obviously assumed I was a volunteer. Befuddled, I carried the dripping plastic bag out back, leaving a slimy trail in my wake across the hardwood floor of the stately manor. When I tossed the bag into one of three dumpsters in an alley, an ancient and pinch-faced nun poked her head out of a window and said, “Hey! That trash is for plastics and recyclables! Put the bag in the other dumpster!” She sneered and rolled her eyes at me like I was guilty of molesting one of her favorite choir boys. I hollered back up into the window, “Why you looking at me like that? Shit, this ain’t even my job, lady!”
After washing my hands in the co-ed bathroom (opens door to a wrinkled, smiling hag squatting with dingy panties around her ankles on the toilet “Oopsies! Forgot to lock it! Tee hee!” Slam!) I attempted to find a chair at the thirty or so round tables spread throughout the patio. I noticed a handsome young Latino sitting alone. I had seen him before at the shelter. A couple of days ago, he was outside in the fenced smoking area of the shelter toking on weed and ignorantly offered to a shelter staff member. Anyone that stupid should make good conversation.
“Hey…how’s it going?” I casually asked, brushing fallen leaves from plastic and aluminum folding chair.
“All right. This is my second time here.” He smiled taking a sip of lemonade offered by a prowling volunteer. He was elfish in his looks. Thin, aquiline face, a splash of light brown freckles across a thin nose. Jet black hair cut short on the sides and back but moppy on the top.
“Yeah? I recognize you from the shelter. You’re The Weed Kid.”
The Weed Kid? Ha-ha…I’m now known as The Weed Kid?”
I divulged a humorous and detailed account of the gossip concerning his faux pa.
“Well, I thought…” Slam! A ruddy hand slammed a styrofoam cup of whiskey scented soda onto the table at me left. It was one of those large cups from a convenient store which held cheap fountain sodas or Slurpees.
I glanced up to see a drunk as fuck white man in his fifties towering over me. He stared out into the jostling mob. I turned back to that charming lad, “I thought you knew he was a staff member. The good thing is, nothing dire came of it.”
“Yeah, I got off with a warning.”
“You could had lost your bunk, perhaps…” Slam!
Again, the lanky drunk took a sip and slammed his styrofoam cup down onto the table. He began to wobble away.
I uttered at him, “You can slam that cup down all you want, it’s not going to make the ice any colder.”
“Wut?” He asked cross-eyed.
“Why do you keep slamming that cup down on this table?” I asked slowly and clearly as one who would attempt to confer with a retarded child.
He turned and inebriatingly lumbered back towards me, vainly attempting to appear menacing. “Cuz this is me and muh frens table. We went out ta smoke an we were sittin here first…”
I smirked and stated calmly with my palm out and up, “Man, that’s all you had to say. No need for b-movie dramatics.”
“I thought I told ya that…” Again, he was attempting to test me.
“No. You simply kept slamming your cup down while we were talking.” I said matter of factly.
“Well…anyway, get the fuck up an find anudder seat.” He interjected with a fist and thumb jerking up over his shoulder.
“Okay.” I smiled. “You want your seat?”
“Yeah.” He glared. His breath smelled of stale beer and Cheetos.
I smiled and nonchalantly got up and as soon as I did, I grabbed the plastic and metal chair and hurled it at the miserable fucking drunk. The metal leg and hard plastic back smashed into his chest and chin, causing him to reel back into potted ferns.
Take it fucking back, then!” I shouted in pent-up fury.
The old drunk floundered akimbo in the plants as all hell broke loose. The Weed Kid faded into the crowd as several nuns raced out of their warrens and ordered me to leave or they would call the cops. I left. Fuck them. Fuck all those bitter, insufferable slobs.
I sat discontent at a nearby bus stop bench under the shadow of an awning. There wasn’t a car or soul on the street. The afternoon sun was bright and beat down through a cloudless blue sky. Next to me, silent and cool as a mannequin, lounged a boney black man in wrap around shades and straw fedora. He seemed very old as his trimmed facial hair had turned white with age. He clasped both ashy, gnarled hands onto the glass orbed handle of an ornate cane made of smooth wood.
I sat and smoked my last cigarette. For I was now broke without anything to my name.
After a bit, he rasped, “You smoke weed?”
“You got any?” I coughed.
“Yeah. Wanna smoke?”
“Sure.”
We sat the remainder of the afternoon at that lonely bench smoking harsh weed and recounting lurid anecdotes of where we had been and where we were going. His name being Steve, explained his recent relocation from Buffalo, New York to Tucson in lieu of him being anemic and constantly being cold. That may be true, but other points of his narratives revealed a nasty crack habit and a mean spirit so I think he was simply escaping to start a new.
But, then again, aren’t we all?
Higher than shit, I thanked Steve for the smoke and, strictly from the case of the munchies, darted into a sandwich shop for a cheap hoagie. Afterwards, I ambled about Old Tucson taking snapshots of adobe structures inhabited by the ghosts of cowboys and indians...

Wednesday, June 13, 2018

this unholy place



I recognize the life I chose to live is somewhat on the eccentric side; categorized a pariah. Even by my peers. Once heralded as a freethinker, an adventurer, a sexual outlaw. Now, I am hated, despised, spat upon.
In this New Millennium based on paranoia, judgment, hatred, skepticism, and solidarity, I am more than a dying breed. My ilk are considered extinct. Perhaps the only option is to fade into obscurity.
Nope. I will remain diligent. I will not change. As a matter of fact - fuck you. Fuck all of you. Quite frankly, I have grown weary living by your approval, by your boring ass, social accepting, politically correct standards. I will step out of this quivering, frightened flesh in which I have placed myself and abide by my own standards, my rules mired in what you term filth and sexual perversion. I'll revel in it, bath in it, suck the marrow from it.
With that out of my system, let’s move on, shall we? I am in Tucson for the time being sorting out past maladies and insolvencies: paying the piper, so to speak. I had a meet with the shelter’s caseworker and been allotted, beginning July 1st, an apartment. The program consists of them – the party in the first part – in paying for the deposit and first three month’s rent with me – the party of the second part – forking out 30% of my pay after the third month free and gratis and with them paying the rest. Sounds too good to be true? Probably is. Yet, I am going to hang around Tucson to see how it pans out. If it falls through, I definitly will move on...
Two facts about Tucson come to mind:
It is a lesbian hub. Ambling down 4th Avenue, Tucson's equivalent to Hillcrest or West Hollywood or Castro Street, I was stupefied at the amount of frumpy boot wearing, checkered shirt sporting lesbians who clomped up and down the boulevard. Almost all the cafés, book stores, and vendors were teeming with stubby mulleted denizens. I was filled with a sense of imposing dread. This is definitely a lezbo controlled community.
Second thing. Hopping the bus to and fro, I have observed the general population has no fashion sense what so ever. Over-sized t-shirts (with the never ever cool 70’s band logo on the front), khaki shorts, and Velcro strapped sandals. Almost everyone gives the impression of being a deranged Vietnam vet or perhaps most commonly, a meth addicted hobo who just rolled out of a dumpster. A look that is tre chic, I suppose, for sloppy desert dwellers.
Nearly every city bus line I had taken at least once a drunken Native American had stumbled on and luck would have it, always sat with me.
"I hate fucking white people!" One hissed halitosis and beer into my appalled face.
“How’s that working out for you?” I would say, me unblinkingly meeting his unfocused, squinting gaze.
“Fuck you…” He passes out onto the dirty floor while pissing himself.
“No. It’s obvious you are the one who's fucked.” I mumble as I watch the trickle of pungent urine make its way along the carriage floor until it pooled under the sandal covered foot of some bloated lesbian.
When I first arrived in this town I always felt overdressed and self-concerned. I still do. These people can use some tips on dressing in public. Then again, it is acceptable for these assholes – these fucking proto-hipsters – to walk around a store in their fucking flannel pajamas and slippers.
This society as a whole is doomed….

Friday, June 08, 2018

speak quietly and listen


Awoke amid farting, snoring, and coughing at the break of dawn in a surprisingly positive mood. My left leg, which had been giving me so much pain since I fell, seemed better. A little tender when I made sharp turns, but other than that the throbbing ache had subsided.
I was going to remain at my bunk and convalesce, but the obese blob who sleeps next to me was the day prior released from the hospital for some physical malady and spent the entire night and early morning snoring and belching into my face. Well, not to allow that to dampen my mood, as stated, I rose, showered, dressed, ate a couple of bruised bananas from the kitchen and headed out into the blasting golden desert morn.
I stopped at the local convenience store for a small coffee. Most wretched swill I drank in some time. I tell you, the quality in goods in this country has been flushed down the shitter and that toilet has been backed up way too long. Best get some coffee at a café downtown. While waiting for the bus, I gave the full cup of coffee to an elderly bum who shuffled up to me tattered and half blind from the nearby bushes. He sincerely thanked me as we sat at the bus bench chatting over nothing.
Later as I exited a downtown bagel shop with a decent cup of joe and a toasted bagel, I ran into two acquaintances from the shelter. A tall lanky black guy named Mike and his friend, a squat elderly Native American named Marvin. After being asked what was on my agenda and my answer being ultimately nothing, the two invited me to go find a quiet spot and smoke weed and drink. Certainly. Wouldn’t you?
In the dusty mid-morning heat, we found ourselves ambling down garbage strewn alleys and along blackened railroad tracks behind long vacant and decrepit warehouses. Eventually, we came upon a small hobo camp occupied by two others: A sunburnt and withered old white man named Larry and his friend an equally sooty old codger with a man of white hair and beard called Carl.
In the shade of broken factory windows, we sat and rolled fat joints. Marvin took donations and disappeared to return with four bottles of cold 40oz. of liquor. The conversations, stilted at first, became more and more liberal as weed and alcohol passed weary and dirty hands, hands shiny over the dirt.
Long and exuberant tales were spun by the each of us. Stories concerning past travels, past loves, past hopes and let downs. These were free men. Not tied to time schedules, bothered by regulations and political acceptance. These were the last of humanity. If there was hope for mankind, the hope lies in the deeds of like-minded individuals who do not heed to the Doublethink of today’s general population. To go as one pleases, to live as one deems fit. Not concerned with the notion of being held a prisoner in a gilded cage and a slave to debt, as most people are. What I am attempting to say is, I felt completely content with these men.
The group were quite fascinated by my tales; especially my stint in Mexico. I of course omitted the faggish parts, but then again, I do not think it would had mattered. When I stated that my intentions were to continue to Cambodia, the general query was why?
“Why not?” Was my only reply.
Why not, indeed? What am I living for if not to go where I want, do what I want, and say what I want. I realize this aspect pisses a large number of individuals off. Fuck them. Apart from a select handful of friends, I never cared to placate the sulky, whining shits who I mostly come in contact with. They don’t approve of me or how I live? Too bad. The best part is they are never in any position to do anything about it.
As time passed and the weed and booze were eventually depleted, I bid my farewell. Old Carl was already curled up snoring beside a concrete parapet and Larry was happily incoherent, singing old rockabilly tunes to himself as he rolled cigarettes in which he delicately placed in a dented aluminum case with nimble fingers. Mike and Marvin stated something to the fact about getting cheap pizza. I wanted to be by myself, as I often do, and think.
In the blistering afternoon sun under a bright blue sky of 105 degree heat, I shuffled through downtown scoping out the small shops. I darted in as smooth and inconspicuous as possible into Johnny Gibson’s market and purchased a roast beef sandwich with a side of tots. Sitting in the cool shade of the back patio, I chomped my sandwich as, through the back entrance, blew in an attractive young Latino man. He was higher than shit incoherently mumbling and bumping into furniture. I silently watched his lithe yet jerky movement like a lizard watching the path a delicious insect. He made his way to a row of sofas against the wall and began undressing. A tattoo covered, copper colored torso was offered to anyone who cared to ogle. My eyes, slowly and lasciviously, followed the row of six pack muscles of his abdomen to the jet black happy trail which disappeared down the front of dirty, sagging chinos. He, of course, continued his undress oblivious to the silent abhor of the other lunchers. Fuck them. Snooty assholes. The moment he pulled his chinos down (boxers were candy striped and grimy) to change into black track pants, the manager or some apprehensive employee burst from the sliding glass door of the store and shooed him away. Laughing and shirtless, the young Latino swaggered out of the patio and disappeared down the back alley.
Returning to the heated streets, I took the bus back to the shelter. Before walking down that dusty unpaved road toward its entrance, I found a stump under a poplar tree and lit a cigarette. I thought of current events…what I have done since myself exile from Tijuana. Do I hold any regrets? Nope. Not one. If anything, it has cleared my thoughts. Fresh and clear as a spring morning. I have never been more coherent or positive in far too many months. I was filled with…hope.
In contrast to my satisfying vibes, I returned to the stale unpleasant air of the shelter and once again lay in my bunk, listening and not listening to the empty patter of the 100 or so hobos around me…


Thursday, June 07, 2018

culture trip



The bar wasn’t particularly busy. At this late mid-day hour, the Tucson heat was brutal. I stepped in with my shirt clinging to my body like a wet condom. I stood a moment in the dim coolness, sponging the ever present beads of sweat off my forehead, tossing the damp napkin into the waste bin, allowing the minute for my eyes to adjust to the murk. A sports game blared from the small television mounted to the wall, a bloated middle aged couple took up a booth as a gang of five or six students from the local University occupied the far end of the long counter. I sat at a stool close to them.
“Whatcha havin’?” Asked the bartender, a scrawny and withered woman with a scowl that wouldn’t quit. I am certain she offed a few husbands in her day.
“What do you have in Mexican beers?”
Eye roll in an attempt to think, “We got Teecatee, Carona, and Es Oh El.”
“Es Oh El? You mean Sol?”
“Whatever you call it. I don’t speak Spanish.”
“It’s Spanish for sun. It’s on the logo.” I smiled.
“You want one or not?” She sighed.
“Yeah.”
After begging for a salt shaker and a lime slice, I sat and sipped my beer. The cold liquid felt good going down. It made me nostalgic for other times…better days. The group of students were in a heated debate over the new theory of the earth being flat. This idea came into fruition a year or so ago, was all over the internet.
One of the snap-back wearing jocks glanced at me, “You believe that, mister?” He pointed to the pinch-faced red headed girl who sat in the group. “She actually believes the world is flat? That retarded or what?”
I took a sip and asked the girl, “I wouldn’t say retarded…but let’s look at it logically. You believe all the planets in the solar system….the moons, the asteroids, the sun and the stars…all the 1500 plus other worlds located by astronomers….they are all round?”
“Yes.” She stated.
“And yet, the earth is the only flat one?” I asked.
“Well, they all revolve around the earth. The earth is the center of the universe.”
I paused, looking at her and stated as if speaking to someone possessing a mental deficiency, “Everything you just said is wrong. I understand it’s acceptable in your generation to say the first thing that pops into your head for the vain attempt in garnering attention…no matter how ludicrous. However, I assure you, this rock you’re sitting on is round and is not at the center of everything.”
“That’s your antiquated belief.” She began, “You see, obviously it was your generation and the one’s before that screwed it for us all. This planet is polluted, over populated…this planet is dying. And we have you old folks to thank for that.”
“That may be true. But, at least we were never ignorant enough to claim the earth was flat merely for attention. On the opinion this planet is dying, I agree in most of what you are saying. I am a writer and an extensive traveler. I have experienced much in my time. There is no more originality. No more ingenuity.  Everything is a copy of a copy of a copy. I don’t blame you for grasping at what you may deem as an original idea to feed your lifeless ego…but this flat earth nonsense, it was proven wrong centuries prior and it will be proven wrong again.”
The guy with the snap back chimed, “You a writer?”
“Yeah.” I croaked. His friends turned their attention toward the red head and continued their empty debate.
“What do you write?”
“Garbage, apparently.” I looked at his perplexed face. “Novels. Published.”
“I’m studying journalism at U of A. You have any tips?”
I slowly took a sip of my beer, “Tips? Tips…you best be comfortable sitting for eight hours staring at a blank page on your monitor. Never force it. It will come out as crap. However, when the muse does hit, write it all out – raw, unedited, savage. Let your thoughts and ideas flow. When you are done and you have told the story you want to tell, put it away. Forget about it for a few days. Then go back and read it as if you are a reader. Then you edit, see what fits, what to add, what to dismiss. The first draft, you write with the heart. The second and continuing edited versions, you write with the head.”
In response, I received befuddled silence.
“Indeed.” I finally said. “Well, I’m stepping out for a smoke.”
“Mind if join you.” He stated with the enthusiasm of youth.
"It's a free country," I said sliding off my stool. "Or at least it used to be..."
Out back of the bar, the air was stagnate and hellishly hot. True, it was a welcomed reprieve from the bone chilling climate I endured up in Flagstaff, but still there are limits. I fished a cigarette from my pocket, placed it in my mouth, lit up.
He teetered from hill to toe with hands in his jean pockets, with an almost coy smile he ask, “Hey, can I get a smoke off you?”
“Uh…yeah. Sure.” I handed him a smoke.
“You from Tucson?” He asked, blowing grey fumes to the dry and dusty alley pavement.
“No. As a fact, before a previous month’s stint in Flagstaff, I was staying in Tijuana.”
“Tijuana? In Mexico?”
“Is there another one?”
“Nah, it’s just…isn’t it dangerous down there?”
“Not at all. In fact, I feel safer walking down the streets of TJ at three in the morning than I would in any major city here in the states. Americans are a vicious. They scare me.”
“You don’t like the United States?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s that I don’t particularly agree with the direction it seems to be heading. Too Orwellian.”
“Orwellian?”
“Read George Orwell’s 1984. Good book. Kinda wish I never had. Everything will be explained within those pages. And A Brave New World by Aldous Huxley.”
“I really don’t read that much.”
“What?! How can you not read books when you want to be a writer? That’s ignorantly pointless. Read, kid. Read everything.”
“Well, I want to be a journalist…not really write novels. No one really reads books anymore.”
My heart sank. In a way, he was right. The only thing people read nowadays are tweets, and Facebook posts. If it is more than 250 characters, it is too long. I felt like a useless dinosaur.
We finished our cigarette and returned to the bar. The afternoon turned into evening as the college group remained and drank. I sat staring at the silent television screen nursing one beer after another. My eyes relentlessly bombarded by one media atrocity via news cast ticker tape and subtitles after another.
I turned to the snap back kid next to me, “Hey…what did you say your name was again?”
His eyes were slightly crimson and he smiled, “Johnathan.”
“Johnathan,” I said pointing toward the screen. “Is that what you want to write? News journalism?”
“Hell yeah!” He stated, breathing stale beer across the counter, “Working for a big media company! That would be sweet!”
I gave him a sincere glance, “Just make it count, man…make a difference. Use your common sense and none of this fake news shit.”
“Ha! Fuck that! They pay good, I’ll write whatever they want me to write!”
I am a dinosaur. Extinct. I glanced at the red head who found a tall, lanky Latino to cling onto. She was right. We are doomed. This is our future in front of me. We are the dead, Winston.
Eventually, with my drink, I found myself up on the roof patio smoking on a cigarette and feeling melancholy. There was no one up there and it felt good to be alone. I glanced toward the navy sky. Born too late to explore the world, too early to travel to the stars.
Suddenly the door swung open and Johnathan, with drink in hand, stumbled out. He was obviously inebriated. “Hey, man, can I bum another smoke off you?”
I handed him a cigarette. He stumbled and stepped across the alley. “Shit. Think I drank enough.”
“You can never have enough.”
Johnathan flopped onto a large concrete seat. I leaned against the roofs guard wall adjacent to him.
“Hey,” He slurred. “If I was to move to Tijuana, what advice can you give me?”
I took a puff of my smoke and said, “Well, assimilate the culture the best you can, learn the language, and never refuse a blow job.”
He nervously laughed, “Never refuse a blow job?”
“Indeed. The best outcome of never refusing a blow job is…well, you’ll always get a blow job.”
“Damn. Wish I had some bitch here now to suck me off.” His hand nonchalantly slid across his crotch. “Wonder if I can get Megan to do it.”
“Megan? The red head?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, I think that Latino guy’s plowing that field tonight. What about the other girl?”
“I think she’s a lesbian…or she got the hots for David.” He sipped his drink. “Well, I’m shit out of luck either way.”
My shadow slowly and nefariously creeped over his prone form, obscuring all light. He glanced up and saw nothing but the pinpoints of my eyes staring down at him from under the obsidian shade of the brim of my grey straw cubavera hat. Eyes both predatory and dead. Long ghostly fingers trailed out and stroked his flaccid crotch. He vehemently pushed the dead cold hand from his rapidly stiffening organ.
“Hey, man…fuck off! I’m not no faggot.”
“I never assumed you were. However, that dick is solid as stone. It’s had gay trists before…”
“Well, yeah…once I was drunk and this faggot sucked it and…”
Those ghostly fingers slid across the protruding member in his jeans again, the erection leapt up to great the advancing degeneracy. He remained immobile and stoic as the concrete he sat upon.
“And now your cock wants it again. Stand up.”
He slowly stood as I traded places with him on the concrete seat. He stood in front of me as I unzipped his jeans and pulled out a short, thick and circumcised erection. His pubic hair had been buzzed short. As the cars one story below passed with the sound of soft breathing, the jukebox in the bar mutely thumped out a rhythm, my moist lips clamped around his shaft, my tongue rapidly and mechanically slid up and down the rigid flesh of the intoxicated boy. Within a few short minutes, Johnathan began breathing heavily through his nostrils as he arched up onto his tip-toes and unleashed gobs of semen down my gullet.
Silently, he replaced his glistening erection back in his pants and mumbled something to the matter of returning to his friends. I remained up on the roof. Alone and pensive as gargoyle statuary. I smoked another cigarette and finished my drink. Below in the streets, Johnathan and his group exited the bar in good spirits – a cacophony of laughter and cheer as they made their way to the train and back to the relative safety of the university dorms.