Sunday, February 05, 2006

Saturday Night Be-bop.

After one of the slowest days at work- ever -God, can work drag. I ran for the border in anticipation of my meet with Oscar. Who is Oscar, you are wondering? Oh...guess you deserve a little back up history or ya'll be lost in the sauce. The previous night I was in one of my pensive moods - you have had them, those dark little moments, those moody little spells, times you wanna be alone, take a stroll and think and think hard - well, Your Reporter was sitting on one of the stone benches in Plaza las Armas in front of the cathedral in Zona Central enjoying the crisp night air, twinkling stars, some finger snapping old Mexican samba music was squawking from hidden speakers, and I chain smoking my Luckies when out of the dark walked a nostalgic phantom gliding up the Alameda like a spectre. I know this person.
I had known the boy five years previous when I had lived in Juarez City as a fugitive. He had no job. No home. He hustled the streets for sex and drugs, a faceless rent boy among many that populated the Plaza Friday and Saturday nights. Running with a pack of Wild Boys hell bent on narcissistic annihilation and wanton perversion. Back when I found him, Oscar was very annoying, always hitting me up for pesos and cigarettes and then zip he'd be gone. What really disturbed me was him and his friends would get wasted snuffing paint thinner from paper bags. Spooking it was called. An insidious way to get high, if you ask me...nothing like a nice clean spike to do the trick, shiny metal and oh you can smell it going in, ahhh...but, I'm getting side tracked. Where was I...Oh yes, it was Oscar's looks of coarse that I liked. He was adorable. And now this cute boy had filled out into a very handsome and striking young man.
His build was tall and athletic with copper skin. Straight thick eyebrows, strong thin nose, thick eyelashes, hazel eyes, and that same smile that would melt your heart. He sported a black ski-cap, black dickies shirt, and khakis. His pointed chin ended in a cropped goatee.
"Hola!" He smiled, walking towards me, palm opened. We shook hands and updated each other on our lives the past few years. I wove my tale of travels and various adventures an. Oscar said that he now works for Clorox and rents an apartment and has been living a responsible life for the last two years. I felt so truly relieved for him. I explained that all my old friends are either dead or incarcerated, so it is a relief to hear a success story for once. Oscar said how truly happy he was to see me again so I invited him to dinner the next night.
Which brings you up to speed, okay? Okay.
Anyhoo, after crossing the border I took a Mexican bus to my trap (Thank God I don't have hemorrhoids!) and rested for an hour. Swept the joint out, cause living in the desert has its disadvantages like the layer of dust falling on everything - constantly! Showered, dressed to the 9th's and 10th's, gulped down a shot of Jack, smoked a stick of ganja whilst listening to Blue Spanish Sky by Chris Isaak. When 6:45 rolled around, I jetted out to the cold night to the Plaza and my meet with Oscar at seven.
Oscar was punctual and as handsome as ever. And glad he wasn't late; there was an impromptu Christian band wailing on the gazebo and, mien Gott, they sounded like crossing the sounds of mating moose and strangling clowns. Horrid noise. We both plowed through the teeming masses of Saturday night revelry, past packs of drunken hipster kids in goof suits, junkies furtive and aware, hipsters on the hustle, dodging zipping cars and kamikaze buses to a secluded taco shop of Oscar's choice. Except for a sullen paraplegic, we were the only clientele. Ordering two plates of mouth watering tacos carne asada, Oscar and I laughed and talked of past experiences, his failed attempts to jump the border, his work, my work, Hollywood, and Heavy Metal.
After dinner, Oscar asked if I'd pick a bar for some drinks and we hit La Cruda, a hole I'd frequented for years. I ordered two caguamas Carta Blancas and we took a table. La Cruda was the bar el primo I stumbled into when I first hit Juarez years ago and liked it ever since. A non attitude place of non-interference. One one end of the small bar several fags shrieked and posed, in the middle working class machos gesticulated and roared in animated discussions about soccer scores and pussy and at the other end two fat whores, bloated and sordid in purple and pink lycra cooed and swayed around a drunk old American. All this under the garish yellow and red neon of the blasting jukebox playing American Rock and Mexican Pop. Alone on the other side against the wall under a portrait of Marilyn Monroe was a handsome, sad, lonely man singing into his glass to the tunes vibrating off of the green cracked and flaking plaster walls.
Raul, one of the waiters, whom I've known since day one, sat at our table and drank and joked with Oscar and I. After a couple of caguamas and a few good jokes, Oscar said, 'Let's go' and we hit the concrete.
A little buzzed, Oscar stated that since I picked the last bar, he'd pick the next. Stumbling down Juarez Avenue, we cut into a cavernous hall. "You like cholos," Oscar said, "You like this bar." We sat at a table in the gloomy darkness and in this hangar sized bar were about seven people at the blue lit bar and all were lined up in this order: Two young queers, one very fem in black slacks and black turtleneck, the other macho and would yell the grito de los vaqueros every time a ranchero song would start on el Rockola (Jukebox.), a fat, glassy eyed drunk in a grey suit one size too small and kept eying everyone with contempt and suspicion over his fuzzing beer, a handsome cowboy in tight white jeans with the best ass I'd ever seen - ever! He would nod and smile, tipping his white cowboy hat, at the fag who would let loose with the yell and his partner would squirm and coo. Next to the cowboy was two sleazy looking women, one looked like she was pregnant with her belly plopped out between her skirt and her halter top. But, no, it was just her flab. Ew. Next to the women were a well dressed elderly couple who danced a slow waltz to anything that played. It was like a Fellini movie.
Excusing my self to the men's room was a mistake. The smell nearly knocked me on my ass. When I was at the urinal, the stench of decaying feces was too much and of coarse I had to look over the porcelain wall and both toilets were filled to the brim with rotting shit. An inch of urine covered the floor. Lovely.
The chemistry between Oscar and I started to flow and crackle and the next thing we were striding over the broken sidewalks and garbage past Indians with outward palms up, past blue and yellow colored adobe houses, past smells of seared meat and dried vomit back to my trap. We sat on my couch, sipping coke colas and Oscar looked through my photo album, especially he kept returning to the two pictures I had taken of him so many years ago. The night progressed and we talked and looked into each others eyes and we both began to yawn. Oscar asked if he could stay the night because he lived so far away. How could I refuse, Dear Reader?
The lights went out and we were in my bed next to each other, Oscar had thrown his thin muscular arm across my chest and his leg across my leg and then...we talked. He confided in me how important it was for him to get across the border and how he needed my help. His destination was Denver, Colorado. I told him I would help him anyway I could. he thanked me by kissing me on the cheek.
A few moments of silence. Our foreheads met, then our noses, automatically tongues flicked at each other. Oscar slid on top of me, kissing and biting my neck while grinding and thrusting his hips into mine. He was as hard and excited as I was.
I stroked the back of his neck, whispered into his ear, "I want you...I want you inside of me."
Getting onto his knees, Oscar put my feet up onto his shoulders. Cupping his hand over his mouth, he spit into his palm and lubed his thick uncut penis. With grinding hips he slid into me - my breath hissed through clenched teeth - our bodies contracted and writhed as Oscar thrust and lunged into me, softly grunting and whispering words in Spanish - I grabbed his slender smooth ass as he thrust into me, I closed my eyes and all seemed so good - He bent down and began biting up my neck - I felt his cock stiffen even more and pounding harder, with a loud sigh Oscar shot his hot semen into me. Collapsing on top of me, I was shaking as he kissed my neck and rubbed his fingers through my hair.
"That was so fucking great!" I breathed in English.
"Bueno...muy bueno." Oscar whispered, licking his dry lips.
Our heavy breathing subsided and wrapped in each others arms, we fell into a deep sleep.
The Morning After.
I woke Oscar up with a kiss on the forehead. He looked up at me and blinked like a sluggish turtle. He grinned, "Buenas dias." We showered, dressed and went for a delicious breakfast of juevos con churizo, fijoles y colorado rojo. With a cuppa strong coffee. During our conversations, I asked Oscar if he liked his life. He said sometimes. Sometimes it is very hard. I don't know why, but at that moment I asked Oscar to move in with me. I explained that he can keep his job and save up to pay for his passport and Visa. I'll take care of rent. He looked at me, outside, then said okay. But, not until next weekend.
After breakfast, Oscar and I walked back to the Plaza in front of the cathedral so as he could catch his bus home. I made the appointment to meet with him next Friday at 7:00. When his bus pulled away with the sound of screeching gears, I stood in the Plaza watching Indian kids perform a religious dance in garish silk pink and white outfits. Under the great blast of blue Mexican sky I stood there with the natives and tourists, smoking a Lucky Strike wondering if I'm doing the right thing.

1 comment:

katehopeeden said...

It's a thing.
Who really knows if they are right or wrong until it is done? And even then, even if you consider it wrong, was the experience worth it?
Did the experience some how make it a little right?