Something Pointless

Pain comes and goes. It comes more often than it goes, however, just like everything you actually want goes more often than it comes.

I want to cry all the time but I don’t want to cry at all anymore. Nothing good comes from crying. Crying makes you wish you hadn’t started crying in the first place. Just like forgetting makes you wish you had remembered. Just like remembering makes you wish you had forgotten.

I don’t wish to forget. Not anymore. Memories are torturous, but it is a good form of torture, perhaps. I won’t forget those lonely nights—those nights where I walked until my feet hurt, thought until my brain hurt, remembered until my heart hurt, those nights where I watched the train come closer and wondered if I would feel it knock me into the tracks and lacked the courage to take a few more steps forward. Maybe it wasn’t courage that I had lacked. Maybe it was courage that I had gained.

And I won’t forget the people who have fucked me up. You never want to forget the people who have fucked you up, for those are the people who make you stronger. I won’t ever forget names, faces, dates, times, places. I will remember it all, for it is everything I remember that makes me who I am. I won’t ever forget those nights where I felt like it was me against the world—those nights where I watched my gas tank emptying by the minute, where I watched nearly everything crumble to pieces in my hands, where I felt like I had run out of time to escape the tide. It is always you against the world, and that is something you can never forget. The wine in your glass—if you ever get that glass filled—always does taste sweeter after an unbelievable drought.

Hipster.

Hipster. A term that originated describing those who were hip to the groove, it once represented a beautiful group of individual and ideological people - the open minded poets and artists and writers of the Beatnik generation who listened to jazz and smoked marijuana cigarettes and drank deep into the night, discussing social evolution and a collective rise in consciousness. They were the ones who literally paved the road for revolution into the next decade.

Now this adjective has been besmirched and manipulated to mean the exact opposite of what it once stood for.

The hipsters of today are nothing more than the posers of the new century. The emos were just proto-hipsters. Pathetic little twats, with no unique personality of their own, these screamemoscene kids who witnessed their trend disintegrating, simply moved on to the next ‘cool thing’ they could get their monstrous little mitts on.

Before my very eyes I’ve witnessed girls cut their scraggly pin straight scene hair and ditch their scarykidsscaringboyswholikeprada band T's for Beatles shirts when the only songs they know are on the Across the Universe soundtrack. Boys forsake come overs for mutton chops and sweatbands for hemp bracelets. Kids who crave recognition as being independent individuals, without knowing who they as an independent beings are. It’s almost like these zombie coyotes in sheep’s wool have so long been striving to be apart of the pretentious herd, they have forgotten and lost what they really are, and how to think for themselves, as they parade around in their faux skins.

I feel like they have basically hijacked and raped an entire culture. The beauty that was bohemian has been accosted and abducted by creatures who know not what they have done. They attempt to adopt trends that they do not comprehend to be genuine ideals. They wear peace signs without believing in peace. They act like they care about the environment, when in truth they couldn’t give a single fuck, they just want that cloth “feed bag” proclaiming to the world what a good person they must be because they threw $15 some society’s way. Shallow and beyond egotistical, they are literally wasting themselves as people. Falsely advertising something that they do not understand, and indeed should not even be advertised, they dumbly strut about in their scarves and head bands and talk pompously without speaking any real substance. It sickens me.

What sickens me even more, however, is how I keep getting mistaken for one of these assholes.

It’s not because it’s trendy, it’s because that’s just who I am. It’s where I come from, and what’s more, these are all things I once was horrendously ridiculed for. So the fact that my beliefs, my lifestyle, and that of so many others who exhibit genuine compassion and devotion for said way of being, has been turned into some sort of trendist cultural immersion really grinds my gears. When I get mistaken for a hipster it’s just as insulting and infuriating as for a punk being mistaken for an emo. We, being of the aforementioned groups, are those of enigmatic revolutionary minds craving changed and social evolution- not brain-dead posers looking to look cool. So please, if you’re gonna attempt to label somebody, make sure you know what the fuck you’re talking about.

I'll Shoot You Down Bang Bang

You

dance the way you fuck

fluid.

I was watching you and trying to work out

why that warm spread

from my smile to belly

felt so familiar

or why watching

made me blush - but unable to look away

and there it was

free formed, pulsating and right in front of me

a glowing red neon of a fact

you.

dance the way you fuck

your body transcends its physical form

until you are rhythm and melody and bass

the way you lose limbs when we are tangled

in a perfect mess of sheets, flesh and salt

except now…

you are untouchable

it would be a crime to try

And, even if I were to reach for you

you would trickle through my fingers

a willing slave to every crescendo

Oh boy.

You.

dance the way you fuck.

and I mimic your expression while I watch...

you know,

the one you make when you know you got it

the one that curls your mouth into a smirk

like a wave

until your eyes pierce me with pride

and whispered words are gifted to me like;

There. Right There. That’s It. Isn’t It?

curled into a hollow ball

Your lips were too heavy, your tongue too vicious, your hands too restless, your heart too loud, your sighs too forceful, your requests too pathetic. My blood was too full of liquor, my lungs too full of smoke, my skin too cold, my lips too raw, my hips too terrified, my protests too weak.

You crash landed on your bed (it seems you didn’t see me laying there first) and I kicked and I screamed and I clawed and I thrashed blood onto the walls (yours or mine?) and I recoiled and I attacked. You may be a weak little creature, but your arms carry the strength of a hundred battalions, and not even I, in my frantic oppression, could overtake you.

You whimpered, you sniffled, you wiped your nose, you curled into a hollow ball. I laughed wickedly, I dragged my battered body into the light, I saw the bruises and the scratches, I saw your skin and blood under my fingernails. I did not cry, I did not panic, I did not run away.

I heard you sob, then I heard you snoring. I poured the rest of your fruity liquor down the drain while staring at my eyes on fire in the mirror.

You may have taken me down, but I won this fight.

The Way It Is Is The Way It Is.

All that really makes sense to me these days is writing. All that makes me feel happy is writing. All that makes me feel at peace is writing. It allows me to get away for a while. To be someone else, in a way. Sleep provides some release but waking up is inevitable. And when I wake up, everything comes crashing down on me. All my worries, struggles, and insecurities. Every day is the same, yet when I look back it all seems different. I’m never sure where I belong or who my friends are or what I want to be.

I’m so out of place.

But when I write…I’m home.

Your Stupid Minds.

I was told today that I am the Ed Wood of writers. Is that good?

John Carter

Saw John Carter that opened today. Like many others, I have waited decades for Edgar Rice Burroughs fantastic novel to be presented on screen. I understand that it is very difficult to translate a book to film and several things were changed and/or left out. However, I had found it very well done and I highly recommend it.

The Pain is Internal and It Never Stops. Never.

An hour ago, I was sitting in the plaza, editing my work, when this vato came rolling up on his bike and stopped in front of me. "Hey! You remember me?"

I stated no, in fact, I didn't recognize him.

"It's me, Javier!"

Of those of you who had read my book PUTA, the character Oscar was based on Javier. As a fact, it's Javier on the cover. I hadn't seen him since 2004. The guy that stood in front of me was stooped, misshapen, and dirty. He was missing the entire top front row of his teeth. His eyes were canceled and full of sadness. He face was lined and weathered from years of hardship and bitterness. I did not recognize him. After a flashbulb moment of him confessing past adventures with me, sure as shit, it was him.

After small talk and what-ever-happened-to-so-and-so, I told him that I'd written a book based on our relationship we had. He stated timidly he was quite honored and requested a copy.

I then began about my other books. As soon as I mentioned TWEEKER, he pulled out a baggy of meth and attempted to pawn it on me. "No", I said, "I haven't touched that stuff since '97 and I'm not about to now." He asked for my address and number in which I scribbled down fakes. Then he took off "To sell that shit in Segundo Barrio."

How emotionally depressing. Yet, it was to be expected.

To those of you who had read my blog and comment on how "exciting" or "romantic" my life is - this is why I always simply comment back, "It's horrible, too." Everyone I had known from those wild days are either dead or their lives are wrecked in lieu of their vices. (Mostly dead. Oh, how much death I have had in my life concerning past friends! Too much death to the point that it has numbed me.)

Though today was a depressing encounter in which I had experienced untold times over the years, I deal with it the best I can: I simply go on living.

rabbits

Dirty Fedora and Rancid Cigarettes.

Don’t know the time and don’t care to know. With the blinds pulled I sit when I want to sit and sleep when I want to sleep. Shit to shit, eat when I’m hungry. I shuffle from small room to small room with dirty britches and a dingy robe. It’s warm and feels soft on my dried out skin. I scratch where it itches and I also masturbate at the faintest hint of sexual arousal. There are dirty dishes piled up, waiting. The television comes in fuzzy. I don’t care for lights, so mostly it’s an apartment filled with a digital glow - greens and blues.

Had a hustler over once. He didn’t like my place or me for that matter. I fucked him during the commercials, but paid for an hour, so he stuck around and during the next show, I fucked him again ‘cause it was a show I didn’t care for. When I sent my seed over his chest he stared at me, in my eyes. It was weird and ruined any sensation I was supposed to feel from ejaculating on a whore. I stood over him dripping and apologized. I sincerely apologized, and I didn’t even know I was doing it, or that I even felt guilty to begin with. But his eyes, those brown fucking eyes, looked up at me like I was supposed to be helping him and instead I fucked him pathetically and shot pathetic fucking come on him like he was trash when he was just a guy trying to make some fucking money. He said it was ok, he’s used to it. I said something stupid like he shouldn’t have to be or something like that. I didn’t know what to do but get a towel and wipe him off. He said something I couldn’t make out and put a peck on my cheek. We were both on the ground then, and I asked him to dinner. “You’re not the only lonely guy I see. Don’t get romantic now. You’re a nice guy. A really nice guy.” He kind of shook his head a little, like I was a silly boy. “This is just business, homie.”

I saw him once again after that night, at a cheap Chinese take-out joint. He was with somebody and I thought about walking up to them and asking the guy if he knew his date was a whore. But I didn’t and I shuffled back to my dark little hole and scoured the internet for naked pictures of him to jerk off to.

It's Hitting Rather Hard.

The Black Pink

Past the sun and over the stars, beyond black and the vast, space turns pink and the one planet there thrives with vegetation and intelligent life. Stars are still white, but with a pink backdrop they’re a lot harder to see, so the people don’t wish on stars. They are a level-headed folk who find happiness in the now and the already existing. Their evolution is unmitigated irony and yet their overall simplistic happiness is an abundant resource, fueling the quality of their days rather than hindering it with dreams and plans. Love exists, and it’s always right in front of them. They don’t have to look because everyone is beautiful. Love is easy. Being happy is easy. The sky is equal and with the blue oceans it reflects back a purple tint. And when they send people into space, their planet portraits looks like candy. It’s a calm planet, with calm lives and calm days, and if there is a dispute then there is also a well-behaved discussion with each party getting an equal allotted time to explain their side.

Fuck.

I don’t want to write about reason and pretty fucking planets. The gist is: people fucking suck.

But ‘people’ is too broad a term and I don’t have the energy to take on everybody. If you want to do something nice today, that would be great. If you want to, or are about to, do something that would classify you as a ‘dick/bitch’, stop. Don’t. Instead, do some kind of dance. It will be funnier. The unexplained is always funnier. And read a tombstone. Or plant some flowers where there are no flowers. Buy a homeless soul a meal. Follow a butterfly. Stare at the ocean ‘til it gets dark, then stare at the stars. If you do those things, I don’t think you can be an angry person. And not being angry is the first step to being happy.

Yellow Diamonds In The Sky

I tell him to lie on the bed and get himself started.

He says he needs to smoke something first. Residue from a pipe he has nothing to put in. He smokes and his eyes begin to glaze over, his face starts to sag a little. Then, he sits there and slouches into a faint daydream. I ask if he wants any music, any television, and I pull out my laptop and get it running. He says he wants music. Something instrumental. I put on Sigur Ros and he asks for Godspeed as he takes off his pants. He sits up on his knees and spreads his legs to show his crotch, bulging out, behind black underwear. I pause and look, and then I write a sentence.

Then another.

As he begins to rub the tip of his cock, I see his underwear slowly darken with moisture and I tell him to slide them down, so I can watch him masturbate. My pants start to tighten, and I look at the glowing screen in front of me to keep my focus on writing, and not coming.

I wanted to write with a visual stimulant. They’re easy to find if you know where to look or where to put an ad. For every twisted request in every classified section there’s a lonely perv waiting to answer. Put an ad out for someone to tickle your asshole with chopsticks while you pour milk over yourself and jerk off. See what happens. See how many replies you get saying they’re up for that and more. See how many replies you get with no words, just pictures of crooked dicks and come-covered stomachs.

Put an ad out that you’re looking for two people: one to hold your wrists and the other to hold your ankles, and then say you want them to swing you with your erect member flopping back and forth, smacking against your hips with solid “thwap”s every time until you can’t hold it and you have to shoot your seed all over, ropes of cum shooting up and away and over you and them and the carpet and the cat. You’ll get replies from people who want to fuck the cat.

I had put out an ad stating I wanted to watch a guy get himself off while I write from across the room. I said I might join in, but there would be no fucking, and there would be no money involved. Not the most graphic or enticing, but I didn’t want a fucking slut or some fag ready to put things in his asshole. Hopefully, I would get a slightly lonely guy who isn’t very sexual and is looking for something bold and daring that he can do for himself, something that would be his dark little secret. Something he could later - years later - when he’s around all his new friends, enjoying cheap red wine, sitting in a circle all slightly tipsy, he could mention that he got himself off while a man he didn’t know watched, and wrote until he couldn’t take it anymore, and had to feed himself to him.

And, I got one reply. We didn’t talk over the phone; it was all done via email and texting. We set up a date, and time, and here we are.

There’s a man whose name I don’t know, seven feet away from me, undressed and rubbing the stiff shaft that juts out from between his legs. His eyes are closed, hiding in a dirty, sexual affair that needs only him and his fist, now rapidly pounding away.

The screen begins to blur and multiply and my hand grips my twitching cock under my jeans, squeezing it and moving it along my thigh. It’s getting to be too much and I take off my belt, unbutton my pants and slide the zipper down releasing this spring-loaded erection.

When he opens his eyes, he sees me standing in front of him. Without hesitation, one hand reaches for a handful of dick and the other starts to vigorously slide north and south along his shaft of pleasure. My hands go behind his head and bring it down so he can start sucking and tonguing. He engulfs it gratefully and moans with thankful pleasure. Gags and muffled whimpers escape from the places where his lips aren’t sealed around me and a line of drool begins to stretch and drip down the corner of his mouth. Tears run streaks down his cheeks every time his solemn, blue eyes water up. I pull it out and stroke it, smack it on his lips and wanting tongue. Give him a good hit on the cheek and then back in his mouth, making him squirm for a second.

He’s laying on his back now, legs apart and bent, not staying still, his left hand giving him the pleasure he knows best, while I slowly move my hips to fuck his mouth. His right hand on my thigh pushes back when I get too deep. His mouth juts around building up spit until he has to swallow and pull me out to get the breath he’s needed for a while now. He sucks in air just as hard as he gives head and when he’s full he puts me back in, sucking it like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

His hips rise, begging when I replace his hand with mine. He licks between his fingers and smiles. This is when he looks at me, the stranger with his fingers all over him, standing over him, blocking the ceiling light, and covering him with my bearing shadow. This is when he says something. And I tell him to say it again.

I want you to blow your load in my mouth.

His mouth opens for a scream but nothing comes out, eyes wide and surprised they focus on nothing but look at me intently. His lips pucker together and he pouts. I start jerking myself next to his face. My hand violently coming at him I want to grab both his ears and fuck his face until I feel the back of his skull. I want to coat his throat with my pre-cum and empty my sac over his face. And, at that thought, I am unleashed, sending come across his face, another shot up into his hair, one in his mouth and he takes it, all of it, like a baby bird being fed.

He pushes what went in his mouth out and it slides down his chin. He smears my come across his chest and down between his thighs. He licks his lips and sighs, squeezes the tip of my cock for the few last drops and they drip onto his tongue and slide away. After a moment of catching our breath, he sits up and asks for a towel. It’s with that question that any lustful or sexual vibe that was in the air is quickly extinguished and we’re back to being strangers, rather than strangers that want to get off with each other.

I get a towel, and use it first, then toss it to him. He wipes up what hasn’t already dried and lacquered and offers to take the towel home and wash it. I say it’s fine, don’t worry about it. My cock slowly goes back to being a penis, giving off faint jolts of a fading orgasm. I put my pants back on while he gets himself dressed and configured. After making sure he has everything he came with, he stands up. I ask if he enjoyed himself and he blushes with his head down. He doesn’t look at me when I walk him to the door and he doesn’t turn around or wave when he walks to his car.

He gets in and drives away.

When I come back to my room I see his black underwear, wet in the center, lying across my pillow.

The General Opinion.

I Don't See What You See In Me.

The restaurant has wooden floors and mirrors behind the bar. It’s full, but politely so. We sit at the bar and I ask why we never sit in a booth. Hector says this is easier. He orders something spicy to drink and I ask for vodka and cranberry. Why is there a baseball game on? I’d like to drop my face on the bar and let the blood slowly draw away from my nose, down to the other patrons, drip some and pool to a puddle below my stool. I grab the menu. I shake my head. Snails and gizzards and cracklings and what the fuck is a date and why is it wrapped in bacon and stuffed with bleu cheese? Do you have ranch dressing? Of course not. Every place Hector wants to go to is too good to have ranch dressing or salt n pepper and let’s talk about sex. Fuck me. From behind.

Our drinks come and his is manlier than mine. I try it and cough a little. What is that? Martini? Yeah. I’m hungry. Why do you like me? Because you’re fucking weird. I like you. I know. Hector asks me to go to Los Angeles with him and I stretch my lips across my face like a smile and say maybe. The bartender takes our food order and I get the only thing I recognize and he gets the steamed escargot. When it comes, Hector asks me to try it. I say no. Please? No. This continues and I get frustrated. I want to leave. I want to drop my face on the bar and break my teeth, force them into my gums and pucker my nose in on itself, piercing my brain. Hector says if I don’t eat one then he’ll never be mine. I laugh and say we’re now officially wasting each other’s time.

I catch myself in the mirror, where two panes come together, and I look crooked, deformed, demonic, and utterly suave. Black leather jacket. Grey button-up shirt. Black tie. Stubble. How could he not want me? He cuts a snail in half and says to try that much. I tell him splitting it apart doesn’t help. I think about leaving and I start thinking about what I’m gonna say, ‘cause I have to say something. Or would it be better to walk out without saying anything? Not even a glance at him. Leave, man. Get up.

The bald man in the cowboy suit next to me leans in and says something about the game. I say something back to prove that I am a man and I know sports and stuff. Then Hector and the bald man talk with me in the middle feeling suddenly awkward, but watching this scene in the mirror. Hector likes the bald man’s ambition and his watch and that he speaks four languages. I notice his black teeth and beady little eyes. Hector says he’s moving to Los Angeles, the bald man asks when, Hector says March, the bald man says he should be out there then. I say we should get goin’. I finish my drink and don’t take another. Look at Hector, look at the bald man, the game, the condensation ring, the mirror, me. What the hell happened? Heavy sigh, noticeable. Hector leans to my ear, You gonna fuck me when we get home? You gonna leave your clothes on? If you want. Maybe. You wanna go? Yeah.

I pay and in the taxi, Hector asks if I want road-head and I say no and ask the taxi driver to turn the radio up. Lady Gaga, Bad Romance and I think about her video, when she’s dancing in slow motion, her knees in and out and now I’m hard but we’re almost home. Up the stairs, to the bedroom, push the blankets aside. I fuck Hector bent over and I pull and push into him, using his hips like handles. Hector moans and sighs and whimpers and tells me to lie on my back. Tells me not to move. He fucks hard, twists and grinding but changes his mind and bends over in front of me, ass spread. Fuck me ‘til you come. I tease then give it then take it then give it deeper, taking Hector to the furthest until I have to pull out and empty onto him, weakened as steam in cold night air. I like you. I know. I mean, I like you a lot. I like you too. But why, though?

Un Chien Andalou

Un Chien Andalou is a 1929 silent surrealist short film by the Spanish director Luis Buñuel and artist Salvador Dalí. It was Buñuel's first film and was initially released in 1929 to a limited showing in Paris, but became popular and ran for eight months. The film has no plot in the conventional sense of the word. The chronology of the film is disjointed, jumping from the initial "once upon a time" to "eight years later" without the events or characters changing very much. It uses dream logic in narrative flow that can be described in terms of then-popular Freudian free association, presenting a series of tenuously related scenes.

Ladder to Space.

I’m sitting on my bed, packing a bowl that I’ll smoke by myself. I’m okay with that, I hope you know. There’s a boy that I love, but maybe just a little bit. I guess the strange part is that I used to love him a whole lot more, but things change and I try to look at things more realistically now. He has never, and will never love me but that’s okay right now. You know why? Because there are men in this world who are passionate even when they’re not in love. I want (no, need) to be one of them. There are people who write these beautiful, powerful songs about being in love with people they have yet to meet. They are able to because they have hope, because they are okay with being vulnerable. They’re okay with believing they are worth love, and that one day they will live in it. I love someone who doesn’t love me, so I will never again give him my heart. But I refuse to numb myself any longer. I refuse to shut away something as beautiful as love, just because I feel absolutely, horrifically vulnerable in loving. I figured out how to be happy on my own, not because a man put his hands around my heart or pulled the drawstrings at the corners of my mouth into a smile.

Cigarette Smoke Goes Up.

Spent the evening across the border in Juarez, Mexico:

Walking through the Plaza in front of the Cathedral…the sun hot beating down on my pasty skin, eyes full of lusty tension meet and lose contact. Everyday dig a little it takes up the time…jack off phantoms whisper hot into the ear…Shoot your way to freedom. The sun creeps across the sky. Stop for a cold drink…some fruity concoction. Try to find some shade, but it is all taken up by bloated and wrinkled fucks gasping in the heat. The junky sits with needle poised to the message of blood and the con man palpitates the Mark with fingers of rotten ectoplasm…

A beautiful boy of eleven, thick black eyelashes and rosy cheeks sits in front of the fountain admiring the sculpture with an obese pedophile lurking nearby, bloodshot eyes burn behind black shades. He squeezes sad and tiny cock in sexual frustration. I find a hole on the long concrete bench between two old geriatrics and sit under the spreading chestnut tree and light up. Legs crossed, Wonka shades, black cotton button down summer shirt, blue jeans, black Kenneth Cole shoes; I am feeling it. I sit there puffing on my Lucky Strike with American Imperialism. Two young Mexican guys sit opposite me and size me up. I check them out through my Wonkavision and they both are quite the lookers. Poorer class, shabby clothes, dirty shoes, but still hot…who am I to judge? The two buy an ice cream from a vendor and make a show of sucking them so nasty.

The sun swings into midafternoon and the boy parade hits full force. For the entertainment of the turistas, the faux Aztecs have begun their daily show in front of the Cathedral, dancing amid the tribal thumping and drumming of the native muse. Waving away an army of shoeshine boys and candy vendors, this old humpback gash drops her bag between my feet and pulls out a bottle of water. In Spanish, I tell her I don’t want any which then brings her to wave it in my face. “Okay,” I say in Spanish, “How much?” In which she replies one dollar. I explain to her she must be outta her fuckin mind, because I can go into any shop and get a bottle of water for a quarter. She began looking around helplessly and bleating, “No intiendo!” (I don’t understand him!) Some hottie slid up to translate in which the price was negotiated to fifty cents and when I handed the old cunt a ten-peso piece of course the old gash didn’t have change. Withered old bitch. Cunt wobbled off cackling.

Well, said hottie introduces himself as Javier and we chit-chat and he asks obvious why-are-you-here-questions. I see that he has been drinking and invite him for a beer at Bar Buen Tiempo just around the block. This Javier is just my type: Dark copper skin, straight black hair parted down the middle, little pencil moustache, thick lips, amber eyes, thin, his face has those classic Indian features, high cheekbones, hawk like nose…whew!

We entered Bar Buen Tiempo and took a seat at the back of the bar. The cantina was sparsely populated with only three or four fags. The fat lesbo bar attendant gruffly asked for Javier’s identification, “Are you a National Citizen?” She snapped. Javier irritatingly and drunkenly fumbled for his identification in his backpack.

She looked at me and I smiled, “Do you want to see mine? I’m from Planet 10.”

After getting Javier’s papers in order, we drank two caguamas Carta Blanca’s and got a good buzz going. Javier had one hellava sense of humor and had me rolling with laughter. Deadly aphrodisiac, humor. Javier confided in me that he wasn’t Mexican after all, but was actually from Honduras. He was trying to cross the border to go live with his brother in Dallas, Texas. I also noticed that he kept checking out my ass every time he got up to go take a piss. And I mentioned this. “You have a nice ass, guero.” He smiled running his hand down my back to my ass. He flashes me a smile as I light up a cigarette, “So, what’s the deal?” He asks.

“Well,” I said, taking a long drag, “First we’re gonna finish our beers…then we’re gonna go to my hotel room and you’re gonna show me how many positions you know.”

Glug, glug, glug…that beer went quick. On second thought, I don’t think we finished them. Back through the Plaza, past the pigeon dung covered bronze bust of El Primo Benito Juarez, cut the corner of my street, past the Mexican Communist Headquarters (So ominous looking…so Orwellian.), turn the key lock, slam the door closed. Man, was his body hard and tight. Lips slid over lips, tongues wrestled, hands fumbled to get clothes off and the two of us jumped onto my queen size as Daddy Yankee thumped Rompe from the hi-fi. On top of me, Javier grinded his erection onto me as he bit and licked my shoulders and neck causing me to moan and gasp uncontrollably. I just let loose. My legs wrapped around his waist, I grabbed his head and said to him, “Whatever you want to do to me…my body is yours.” He shoved his tongue back into my mouth while reaching around and fingering my ass. He continued with his hand as he bit up my neck and he was driving me wild. Javier lifted my feet up over his shoulders, spit into his palm and lubed his penis up. Slowly he slid his thick cock into me, slow at first until he had it all the way in. Then he started to fuck me like I haven’t been fucked in some time. We lay on our sides and he got behind me and jabbing it in, Javier held my ribs as he thrust into me, kissing my back. “Aqui! Aqui!”, he gasped. And I felt the hot spurts of semen squirt into me as we both shivered to a climax.

Afterwards, we showered together, kissing under the hot spray. Dressing, Javier and I walked over to Burrito Row and had some burritos and Pepsi, talking of life in the United States and how he wants to get over there. I walked Javier to his bus stop and after shaking hands, said goodbye. I walked back to the Plaza and the night was cool and the stars were out. There was some hip kids sitting by the gazebo with a guitar singing Mexican folk songs, I sat there and listened. A couple of friends of mine showed up, Ignacio and Alfredo, and we strode over to Café Central for coffee and sweet bread and talked of movies, Che Guevara, deodorant, guys, and flying saucers. Yapped it up well past 3am. I really do miss living in Mexico...

Experience.

Writing Tip: Screw with your readers. Start the story in a nice and comfortable format, and then when the story picks up momentum, WRECK the format. Kick it down a flight of stairs. The climax of your story is not comfortable for your characters (it shouldn’t) so make it as uncomfortable for your readers. Make quick-and-fast chapters, give them a different POV. Screw with them. They’ll love it.

The Shit Writes Itself, Mac.

Writing is daunting. With all that’s been happening in my sappy, uneventful yet somehow complain-able life lately, I’ve been writing often. Frequently, I sit at my computer and just let my feelings flow from wherever I feel them to the tips of my fingers, bouncing back and forth between cold keys…and no matter what I write and no matter how much time and thought or effort I put into each tap on each key and every entry as a whole, it’s wrong.

It’s all wrong. And that’s why I’ll never be a writer like I’d secretly love to be. It’s frustrating. Most writers, they go crazy. They have a masterpiece, one just mind blowing novel which does well usually after they pass, which is a problem in and of itself, but this masterpiece, it empties them. After people buy it and read it and engulf themselves in the art that is this person’s past seven or eight years of writing, the author himself is hollow. They write away all their feelings. No matter what the story’s about, they put too much of themselves in it. They spend every waking second on trying to improve it and fix it and they go absolutely basket shit crazy. And that is not something I want for myself.

And yet, that is the path I have chosen. The crazy, mad, sweaty writer glaring at his laptop screen like a psycho typing out raw, peeled prose of filth, poverty, and degradation. Hours spent - no days spent holed up in my dank room pounding out one atrocity after another. And you know what? I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Cold Coffee.

As Enrique gazed out the window, watching the trees sway in the breeze, he couldn’t help but think of him. The years had passed much faster than he had expected and if it hadn’t been for his class distracting him, he would have realized that the four year mark had just passed.

Enrique drew his legs to his chest, trying to ignore the ache he felt when he thought of his death. Four years should have been enough time to grieve, yet still he could not stop. He hadn’t even known him for a year when it happened but they had grown so close so fast that it still felt as though he had lost a lifelong friend.

It was these feels that made him so angry towards those who believed someone you only met and talked to on the internet was not a real friend. Enrique would look at them with a harsh look in his eyes and tell them that sometimes internet friends were more real than offline ones. But though Enrique said that, he would then recall that he would never have met him if not for an offline friend.

“Ahh…” He sighed, “Sometimes I’m jealous of him. At least he got to meet him in person.”

And it was because of that friend’s connection with his sister, he thought, that meant they found out about his coma and eventual death.

His thoughts drifted to more positive memories before once again recalling that he had begun to fancy him. Something that had only been realized when his heart skipped a couple beats when he had suggested he come back to Laredo for his birthday and that this time they would actually meet.

Enrique often wondered if that niggling feeling was the reason he still was in partial denial over his death. As every year around this time he would lurk on the sites they had both frequented, in the vain hope that it was all some nasty joke.

He rubbed his eyes, thinking those thoughts was both depressing and exhausting. ‘What if’s’ did not change what had actually happened. The dark had gathered outside as he had stared blankly out into it, lost in thoughts as dark as the outside world had become. But at least, he thought, he had finally stopped crying.

Lolz.

Wants.

I don't just want to be published. I want to be famously published. I want to be known. I want people to read my books and quote them. I want them to become movies. I want them to make an impact on people’s lives. I want fans to write fan fiction about characters they want together. I want a crazy fandom. I want people to cherish my books, to love them. This sounds incredibly selfish, but I need this.

Number 5

I had recently received the first proof of my next novel titled Of Men And Maggots. I will be marking it up, correcting the usual petty mistakes - comma usage, changing a word here, deleting a word there, adding new dialogue and such. 380 pages and I am at chapter three and quite pleased with it.

It is the true story of a seven day trip me and an old lover named Juan Holguin took across the United States from El Paso, TX to San Diego, CA and the mis-adventures and odd-balls we encountered. Unlike my previous work, it is being presented as a work of fiction (though, it is not), I had changed the names: I am John Poston and Juan is now Rocko Tapia.

This has been taking up my time.

Indeed.

down

People who think depression is a choice, take a second to think. How would it feel to wake up and not having the emotional strength to face people? To think that time is just passing by with no real reason? To feel so alone even when you are sitting in a room full of people? To have to put on a face and hide your feelings because in your mind you think no one would care anyway? To lose friends because you can’t find the strength to go out and you can’t physically be ‘happy’? To cry yourself to sleep, hoping you wouldn’t wake up then when you do you are exhausted from the night before, and it all starts again? You try to hide your feelings hoping no one would notice. Now tell me why someone would choose that? Depression is an illness, not a choice.

I Am.

I feel guilty for being. I am human but I feel inhuman, I’ll never function properly. Don’t attempt to comprehend for we are individuals and my thought do not belong to you. I was born broken thus am unable to recuperate. I feel guilty for being, let me decay and rot.

Dark Backward.

I could never kill myself. That would be too kind.

I deserve to be stuck here suffering.

Mental Rambling.

I haven't been feeling well. On a mental level. Quite depressed these last few days. I have so many images racing through my head - millions and millions of images - I do not sleep much at night. I lay there in the dark, coolness of my room and ponder over the most asinine crap.

I am currently in limbo awaiting the proof for my new novel titled OF MEN AND MAGGOTS. It will be my sixth book. Kind of hard to believe that I have been writing straight and non-stop since 2008. I told myself that I was going to finally leave El Paso and take a trip. Meandering across the country until I finally reached my destination of Puerto Rico. I had sketched out another novel, however, I want to begin that once I arrived on the island. I need a break.

But, there lies the conundrum; I am quite comfortable in my digs, but not happy. I want diversion, excitement, the thrill of living against all odds on the road like the old days. El Paso offers none of these things. I can not connect with the indigenous locals. All my old friends have moved away - there really is nothing here that interests me. But, every time I talk with someone here about it, they wind up convincing me to stay. I realize their view - they enjoy stability and structure in their lives. so, do I - to an extent. I am not ready to "settle in", yet.

Juarez was an option, but I am burned out on that mooch infested town, plus I rather not duck and roll from random gunfire every time I step out of my apartment when I want to but a taco.

And so, I am in mental limbo - I was going to purchase more furniture for my apartment the following month, but I think I am going to put it off. I will make, or attempt to make, my final decision when I am done with this current work.

At this moment, what am i going to do? i do not know. I truly do not. And, that is driving me mad.

The Morning After.

There is nothing in the world better than waking up in the arms of a handsome man. In the dim coolness of the cheap hotel - the muffled noise of Ranchero drifting down a lonesome street, church bells echo in the distance - the air is stale (smells of mildew mixed with dust) and he rolls over, checking his torso for bed bug bites in yellowed, stiff sheets.

He looks up, blinking like a drowsy tortoise - smiles and asks how I had slept.

"You hungry?" I answer, using a finger to brush away bits of sleep from the corner of his eye.

He slides up, lays across my chest, plants a small kiss on my lips.

"I don't want to go to California. I'm going to miss you." He sighs.

(Hector had recently acquired his papers and passport to live and work in the United States and will be moving to El Monte, California to stay with his aunt.)

I say nothing and simply lie there - gazing up at the stained water splotches on the gray ceiling - and stroke his lithe back with an idle hand. He twitches, flicking a small cockroach off of his foot. We lay there, silent.

He needs to go. It would better his life. He needs to move on and forget me. I mean, I really don't love him anyway.