Wednesday, December 28, 2011
American women have nothing to offer men, including the promise of sex. I’ve been in a lot of foreign countries, and the women there, regardless of how they dress or how anti-puritanical their sexual morality, come across to men as sexy and feminine; where as American women look slutty and bitter. I think that the reason for this is because American women project their hostility towards men no matter how they look, and men instinctively sense it. That’s why American women can only relate to thugs and idiots, because those types of males are too stupid to know the difference.
Any decent man needs to get away from American women; as fast as he can, any way that he can.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
6:35pm. Juarez City.
Hot and dusty the sun beats down on my drenched flesh as truckload of Mayan faced black uniformed military roar by - Uzis slung at hip and they the look of predatory dogs. Cross the street into Plaza las Armas - cry of sellers of trinkets and paletas, cry of shoe shine boys, cry of religious fanatics, cry of babies in that unrelenting Mexican sun.
I find some shade beneath a dusty poplar tree and suck down a cigarette so nasty watching a demonstration in progress against the fascist takeover of Juarez City - or so it seems. Youths in red bandannas and black shirts shrill their opinions to a catatonic crowd. The pedophiles do their stylized ballet around the youthful boys - giggling and shrieking.
Drunken Indio shambles over and bums a smoke and start up conversation. A real funny guy - in his pigeon English he weaves his tale of woe from Michigan to Riverside to Idaho and the eventual deportation by our snarling la migra. Home of the free...
So, this Indio and I - ah, yes Eduardo, thank you - Eduardo and I cut down Avenida Mariscal to some hooch joint and it was dull by God - a regular house of ill repuke. Some hippopotamus in bikini and stilettos swirled and gyrated on the tiny stage to a Caribbean beat. I flat out spat at Eduardo that I am queer by act of congress and let's scram. Smiled he did at this revelation - that look in his bloodshot eyes I had seen before in the eyes of a rabid dog in heat.
We cut next door to some other joint - just a bar this go round - nudes on black velvet adorned the beaver board walls of the tiny joint. But, the waitresses were funny and the music was The King.
Maybe it was the beer talking or perhaps the fact that I was just horny - but I gazed at this Eduardo for the first time - it being a well-lit joint - and not bad. Tall, dark and well intoxicated. The crazy Indian drank the booze like it was water. I asked him why there was blood on his khaki pants in which the reply was, "Life is hard." Smile behind twinkling red eyes of the beat Fallen Angel of Lost Night.
Look over and lanky scumbag leers at me and enters water closet - keeps the door open so I can get good look at him wagging that obscene pickle in my general direction. Turns straight at me and flounders that fucker like a bruja's scepter and that puts an idea in my head - I lean to Eduardo and whisper a rather filthy invitation in his ear and his copper face lights up. He drunkenly nods and we are out the swinging doors and walking briskly down the cracked pavement in the warm early night. Cars honk and hookers hook as we both stride to my pad.
Key shoved in hole, black metal door banged open and as I stand in the middle of my room, Eduardo grabs me by the arms tight and slips his thick tongue between my lips. Laughingly quickly we peel our clothes off flung onto red tile and plop onto my bed - hands and fingers probe and stroke, lips kissed in drunken passion, stiffening organs rub and grind against copper flesh white flesh. I am pushed on my back and stare at the whirling ceiling fan as this boy sucks cock like a champ. I return the favor - both in sixty-nine that favorite position of mine - we squirm and grunt pleasing each other. Boy goes loco - grabs my ankles and places over his shoulders, licks his hand and smears the saliva on his throbbing cock. Slowly he slips into me, I gasp behind clenched teeth as the rhythm mounts. Bed sings in squeaks and boings as Eduardo fucks me like a porn star. I feel his organ stiffen more and his eyes glaze over as he yanks his cock out and white hot spurts splatter against my heaving chest. With a fluid plop he lays next to me and we share a cigarette under that slow spinning fan. Fall asleep in that mess; wake up shower and both walk around the corner for huevos ranchero, menudo and damn good coffee.
Outside three trucks of black uniformed rifle toting military youths roar by in a cloud of tan dust...
Friday, December 23, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
The old Ford rattled to a stop in front of an adobe-brick building on the corner of two intersecting avenues. Splashed across the top of the door to the place, in gaudy colors, read Rex Billiards. On one side of the marquee was an amateurish depiction of a smiling hoochie in a bikini top with abnormally, gigantic, oval boobs holding a glass mug of frothy beer and on the other side, a painting of a snarling chihuahua adorned in a ten gallon Stetson and brandishing two six-shooters.
As I poured out of the car still somewhat rattled by the ride, I glanced across the street as pre-teen hookers in bright-colored spandex and catholic schoolgirl uniforms whistled at me and twinkling silver-capped teeth under the bright sun. They stood in front of a strip joint called Tuna Country, and as soon as the three, white-shirt clad doormen noticed my gringo ass, they began their over-excited, sideshow barking.
“No cover! Nice ladies!”
“Hey! Hey! Over here! Big titties! Hot pussy!”
“You like the young weemon – we got juicy pussy, para ti!”
“Warm beer, lousy service!”
One short and chunky doorman ran halfway across the street, outstretched his arms and bellowed to Heaven, “I got the biggest pussy in Mexico!”
I chuckled and put on my sunglasses, “You need to take that big pussy somewhere else, amigo.”
A tall, thin doorman with a drooping moustache, obviously wise to me, yelled, “No like pussy? We got boys – twelve years old!”
Hector strolled towards the door to the poolhall, “Let’s go.”
“Those guys are funny.” I smiled as I followed Hector through the open door.
The poolhall was dark as we entered from the outside. From a dusty jukebox in the corner, Mexican banda music blared obnoxiously loud. When my eyes adjusted to the dank, I was surprised to notice that the inside space was quite large. On a sunken floor reached by a short flight of concrete stairs, the room held ten, standard pool tables. The tables themselves were well-battered and over used, with the green felt on several apparently ripped or spotted with dark stains. A couple of tables were actually missing legs and had been propped up on plastic milk crates.
Towards the gloomy back of the hall, two of the four metal tables were occupied by a group of five men and two women. Other than them, the hall was void of customers. The men eyed silently as we approached. One squat and piggish female glared with heavily painted eyes at me with obvious lust, her small, pink tongue slithered obscenely across brown-stained teeth.
“Buenas tardes. (Good afternoon.)” Hector said.
“Buenas tardes.” I mumbled.
The assortment of locals repeated the greeting as we walked past them and up to a large, square hole that had been literally chiseled out of the solid, brick wall. This was the bar. Under a lonely lightbulb dangling from a wire, the bar was attended by a huge, stocky Mexican in a blue, sweat stained t-shirt that read Happiness is Coming embroidered across his ample moobs. He stood stoically amid boxes of beer and soda.
Hector and I leaned with elbows on the fake, wood paneling of the counter and ordered two caguamas of Carta Blanca cerveza. The clerk nodded and reached into a large bin of ice and withdrew two forty-ounce bottles of beer. As the clerk plopped the two bottles with red, plastic cups onto the counter, Hector asked in Spanish for a pool table.
“You wanna pay the guy? I’m low on cash.” Hector said.
I vacantly reached for his wallet, “How much for everything?”
The clerk rumble, “Cuarenta pesos o cuatro dólares.”
“Forty pesos.” Hector repeated. “Or four dollars.”
I pulled two twenty peso notes from my wallet and handed them to the clerk. The slovenly man grabbed the bills without saying a word and placed them into a worn, wooden box next to him.
Grabbing the beer and pool balls that were placed on the counter, we walked over to a table that seemed the best out of the bunch. The group that sat at the metal tables began their chatter again, as the jukebox switched over to a Spanish love ballad.
I began pouring beer into the two cups as Hector picked out a pool cue stick from a rack hanging on the avocado painted and scuffed wall. He deftly spun and examined the pool cue in those alien hands, then, placing his stick onto the table to test the balance, he grimaced as it slowly rolled on its own slightly to the left.
“Table’s a little warped, so keep that in mind while I beat your ass.” Hector smiled.
“Oh, yeah?” I said as I took a deep swig from the cold beer. “Think you’re gonna win? What you want to play for?”
“Well, I have no money.” Hector stated as he cued up the balls in the triangular rack.
“What a shock.” I quipped.
“You have no money!”
I laughed, “Now, I know I’m winning every game!”
Time passed as we knocked balls around, drank and laughed. I have the bad habit of finding the most audacious tunes on the jukebox and playing them over and over. I relished with inward humor and fear as I watched an old, bulldog faced vato in a dirty wife-beater and black felt fedora cringe each time the machine would play Flash! By Queen.
If they didn’t want to hear it, they shouldn’t have it in the jukebox, I smiled as I sunk another ball.
The sad part, and I knew it wasn’t a reality of a fact, yet feigned resentment at each pocketed ball, was that Hector was winning. Two for three and it seemed as if Hector would be victorious on the last, also.
“No dick for Louie.” Hector would sing-song softly each time that he sunk a ball.
“Shut up. All I have to do is wave a ten dollar bill in your face and those pants come flying off.” I spat.
“I’m not denying that, guero – but, this time, you could at least had a chance to earn it.” Hector grinned as he shot another ball down.
“Why, I oughta…”
At that moment, a tall, thin figure entered from the white brightness of outside. He was a cadaverous looking, middle-aged man with black slicked-back, shiny hair, pencil mustache, and a set of large, protruding eyes that bugged out from a disturbingly, skull-like face. The skin of his face was brown as a paper bag. He wore black slacks and a mauve, striped tie. Covering his dark-blue, buttoned-down shirt, the man donned a white doctor’s coat. With his one good eye, the left was blanketed over in milky cataracts, he scanned the pool hall.
Must work at a nearby pharmacy, I thought.
The man in the doctor’s coat casually walked over to us as a predatory smile wrinkled the unattractive and lined face. With his right hand out, palm up, he hissed in good English, “Hello, young men. Would any of you care to buy some good coke?”
Hector’s face lit up, “Coke?”
“Why are you going door to door, doctor?” I grinned. “Business that bad?”
The man shot a hostile glance with his one good eye to me, then returned his attention to Hector. Obviously, as far as the nefarious peddler was concerned, the Americano wasn’t even in the room, anymore.
I stood there gripping the pool cue, slowly turning it with my fingers. Oh, it’s like that? Wait until you find out who has to buy your worthless shit. Your attitude is going to do a 360.
“How much?” Hector asked the man.
The man reached down the front of his slacks and pulled out a small, plastic bag containing cocaine. He held it in an open palm up to Hector. “Pure and clean, amigo. Straight from Colombia. Won’t find the purest, anywhere.”
I sighed, “Probably cut to shit.”
“Be quiet!” The man hissed at me in a side glance.
Hector looked down at the bag, then over to me. Smiling at the man, he said, “I don’t know…I don’t have any money, compa.” He casually glanced back at me. “Unless, my friend wants to buy it for me.”
“Nope.” I spat out casually.
As thought, the demeanor of the peddler changed. With a smooth, oily voice, he smiled falsely at me and hissed, “You sure, guero? Only five dollars for the whole paper.”
“Nope.” I repeated with obvious smugness.
Us two stood a beat glaring at each other. My face was as calm and cool as a poker dealer.
The man clicked the top of his mouth with his tongue and turned wordlessly to the table of locals huddled by the bar. We resumed our game, the joviality of the moment was lost as we silently knocked balls around the table.
I took a drink of my beer, “So, where’s this friend of yours? Weed I can use right now.”
Hector’s mood lightened up, “Any minute, I’m sure. He’s always…there he is!”
A short, scrawny, young man rapidly came tromping down the entrance steps. He wore a black Metallica t-shirt, dirty black jeans, and a mane of long, jet-black hair that cascaded over a strong Aztec face. He rapidly strolled up to Hector and the two greeted each other in a street-wise handshake.
“About time you got here, Manuel! We’ve been waiting forever.” Hector smiled as he patted his friend on the shoulder.
The little Mexican grinned through silver teeth, “Ah…I was having problems with my old lady. Ever since she had my son, she’s been being a bitch.”
“Women will do that.” I uttered.
“Hey, this is my friend Louie.” Hector pointed over to me as I stood in the gloom of the hall. “He’s an American living here in Juárez.”
“Hola!” I chirped. “You want some beer?”
“Hola.” Manual mumbled. “Yeah, I’ll take some beer.”
Hector returned from the bar with an extra plastic cup and as he was pouring a drink asked, “Did you bring it?”
Manuel slurped his drink, “Of course, I got it. You got money?”
Hector meekly glanced at me, “Hey, spot me fifty pesos, guero.”
I walked up to Manuel and slapped a fifty peso note into the small brown hand. Manuel slipped the bill into his front pocket and then said to both of us, “C’mon.”
The others at the tables and the clerk ignored us three, as we followed the short Mexican into the mensroom identified with a crudely painted, laughing burro above the entrance.
The restroom was a biological nightmare. The reek of ammonia mingled with the stench of stale piss and feces. The white tiled room was a grungy tint of gray from a humming florescent light overhead.
Manuel sided up to the rust and grime cover porcelain sink and whipped out a baggie of marijuana from the crotch of his pants. He deftly unfastened the rubber-band and unrolled the cellophane bag, holding it up to Hector’s nose.
“Smell that.” Manuel smiled.
Instantly, the aroma of fine weed overpowered the rancid smells of the toilet.
Hector smiled, “That’s some bad-ass chronic, compa.”
“Told you I’d hook you up.” His friend chuckled.
“You always got the best shit, man.” Hector confided as he took the bag and held it up to the dim light from above.
“Well, I gotta get back to the old lady.” Manuel said. He shot a nervous glance to me, “Oye, guero, you got an extra five bucks? I gotta buy some pampers for my nino.”
Jesus! I thought, What am I The Junky Benevolence Society?
I sighed, “Sure.”
I pulled a five dollar bill from my wallet and handed it to Manuel, who then spun to Hector and with the same street-wise handshake said, “Gracias! Muy amable. I gotta go. Laters.” And, with that, the short Mexican curtly strolled out and up into the street to do whatever he does.
I looked at Hector, incredulously, “You and your cohorts are bleeding the bank, Hector. Remember, I’m unemployed at the moment. And, you’re welcome.”
Hector simply shrugged it off, “Let’s go and smoke this shit.”
And, we did.
Thursday, December 01, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
I don't care if we wind up living in a squalid flat next to the train tracks breathing soot and dirt and too poor to eat anything good. I don't care that no one will read my horrible little stories about faggots and outcasts and junkies of the world while you sit and do your crossword puzzles. I don't care as long as I have you. You are the best thing to come into my life in a long time, Hector Marquez and I don't care about anything else.
Tuesday, November 01, 2011
Outside the blankets, the room is ink black and cold with clothes thrown about the carpeted floor. The smell of sweat and semen waft in the stillness mixed with cigarette vapors - but, inside the blankets it is warm and still and tranquilo. Not a word is said, but the feeling is there a fallaheen feeling of togetherness like I have not felt since...
He puts the cigarette out in the tray on the table next to the bed. We intwine tighter, he draws me near, and a small kiss on my forehead. Slowly and surely, I hear his slight breathing as he falls asleep. I lay there and stare into blackness - out in the night a lonesome train horn blows - my hand gently slides up and down his thin side coinciding with his slow, steady breathing.
Eventually, I succumb to sleep, too - dreaming of Argonauts in fiery ships...
Friday, October 28, 2011
Kissing is man’s greatest invention. All animals copulate, but only humans kiss. Kissing is the supreme achievement in the Western world. Orientals, including those who tended the North American continent before the ravagement, rubbed noses, and thousands still do. Yet despite the golden fruit of their millennia—they gave us yoga and gunpowder, Buddha and corn on the cob—they, their multitudes, their saints and sages, never produced a kiss. The greatest discovery of civilized man is kissing and I do cherish it.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
So, downtown I went and decided to do lunch at Burger King - well not in it, but al fresco and took my dollar-menu burger and cheap ass to Plaza San Jacinto. Nice day with big Texas blue sky and fluffy white clouds, you dig? I sit under a shaded tree and watch cops rumble a couple of cuties on the other side of the park. Seems said hotties where partaking in public drinking of alcohol - I gobbled my burger as one cholo grudgingly poured his beer - a Steel Reserve 211 - into a thirsty bush. Too bad, kids.
Finished my lunch and walked around the park - the two guys that the cops harassed wobbled up to me. Damn - they looked even better close up. Problem was - they were shit faced drunk.
"Hey, man!" said the one in the blue baseball cap. "Did you call them cops on us?"
Smiling, I retorted, "Don't be stupid - and I saw they made you pour out your Steel Reserve. That's fucked! My favorite beer. Guess I hafta by you fellas new ones."
Their eyes lit up like Christmas trees and my mind was set in motion - perhaps some madcap sexual adventures will ensue...
We walked over to the covenient convenience store on Mesa Street and I purchased three tall cold ones from the daffy lezbo and with much yuk-yuks and hardy hars, I found out the guys name with the blue baseball cap was Steve and his friend with the shaved head was Tony. Both fresh outta the clink this morning - for public intoxication. Life imitating art, people.
Well, I was always a sucker for a handsome face and these two had the complete package - so, I had nothing to lose and decided to drink with them. But where? Cops were diving and swooping around on 10 speeds like fucking piranha.
We trumped in the afternoon heat to find a safe drinking hole - Steve took it far too serious. He lead us to a filthy pit behind an abandoned house - No way, buddy! Too dirty for this uppity queen - I mean really! So we stomped up to a small park behind the civic center and under a nice shady tree, began to drink there - until two coppers whizzed nearby on bikes. Ugh - what a bother! What is this a fucking police state all of a sudden?
Eventually, we found ourselves under the overpass to the I-10 freeway and finished our beers there. Discussed many a things. The topic of making jack off videos came up and Tony and Steve whole heartily agreed that much money could be made peddling their wacking talents on the Internet. Hold up, I want to state right here and now that it was in no way shape or form my instigation in this matter - okay? Steve even popped a boner - wow - impressive
Well, we returned to the plaza and for some damn reason as we sat flapping our gums in intoxicated candor until some scum-bum named Harold - lanky, fuzzed out hair and no teeth - wobbled up to Steve and for no damn rhyme or reason, the two just went at it in a WW Smackdown dragged out fist fight right in the middle of the plaza. And then, after whopping some jerk on a bike that decided to get involved and be some cowboy citizen - mind your own business, you ass! - the cops showed up and dragged them away.
I just said goodbye to Tony - who mumbled something about returning home and shlupped myself back to my trap. Guess I won't be seeing Steve for awhile...
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
I hate how we live in a culture of indifference. Eli Wiesel once said that “the opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.” And that was back in 1986. It’s almost 20 years later and yet we live in a world where people don’t speak up. They walk by idly as the weak are oppressed, as victims are raped and murdered in the streets. Where are the brave souls that act when they are called to? Where are the men, the women, the children, that will stand up when they see someone abused, broken and forgotten.
We are creatures of timidity. Yet, we crave courage and honor. We are polar opposites of the ideals that we idolize. I myself am a paragon of this fault. I know that I am guilty of not standing up but that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t want the world to stop being less indifferent. Every day I wish I were more courageous… That I could speak up when I feel the most without a voice… Maybe one day that will change… But for now that is what I would seek to change. Get rid of indifference and the world is left with love.
Tuesday, October 04, 2011
Monday, October 03, 2011
In this waking dream there are no scars. For now, no more blue tomorrows.
Sunday, October 02, 2011
The Old Queer squirms on a lime stone bench in Plaza las Armas, Ciudad Juarez. That being in Mexico, cabron. (Indian adolescents walk by, arms around each other’s neck and ribs); strain his dying flesh to occupy young ass and thighs, tight balls and hard spurting cocks. A boy walking past, turns, grins at him and yell "Que tal, chief?", their boy innocence achingly whip across his sagging buttocks and drooping loins. He screams, an enigmatic Sybil with dark glasses and grey face. Piss blood warm on his withered thighs.
I set my pen down on my notebook and look at the clock on the cafe wall. There was a vato at the counter giving me the eye and I delineated a vague good impression like something half seen from a bus window - back from the screaming, shuddering sickness, everything so sharp and clear it hurts, suddenly smeared with grey smoke - the clock had jumped ahead like the time will after 2pm even for a sick junky - and I don't want to know about him or anybody...
"Hector." I mouth the name silently, finish my coffee and cigarette – we fought and argued over same silly shit. He wants me to stay in Juarez for the sole benefit of my finances. Out of the nine billion fucked up souls on this planet, he picks me to support him and his ma. No, I whisper.
The night prior, his cousin had visited from Tabasco – by name of Adrian, a sultry, walking hard on with the air that no one, and I mean no one, will refuse his glare when he pin-points your ass to pummel in unbridled macho-lust. We had sat on the roof of Hector’s one story, adobe trap drinking beers and listening to cha-cha reggeaton as out in the paranoid City, citizens partied, fucked, and died. Gunshots in the distance mixed with jukeboxes and car horns. I blew smoke from a joint up into a dark sky blanketed in a swath of twinkling stars. After the beer began to flow, Hector began the same old-same old and it pissed me off, or should I say, irritated the fuck out of me because I was held in the trance of Adrian’s hypnotic spell and all I wanted was that sultry motherfucker to screw me into the dirt.
“You’re being a letdown, boy and an all-around drag.” I drearily said to Hector.
He then went into full bitch mode: Droning on about his financial woes and the cold, imperious nature of your common American homosexual that, if I didn’t know better, was aimed at me. I retorted that if he cared for me as much as my bank account, he would have so much to complain about.
Hector flew into a tizzy (macho homo that I first met two years ago is really declining into a full, fledged fag) and stomped downstairs to warrant sympathy from his mother because he wasn’t gonna get shit from my gringo ass. I sat there a moment, holding my caguama – silently contemplating the conundrum. Adrian had other ideas. He got up off the milk crate he was stooped on, silently walked over to me, gently pushed my head back and stood over me, shoving his tongue into my mouth. I sat there – all quite around us except for the occasional smack or slurp – when all of a sudden Adrian is violently hurled away from me from a rather pissed off Hector who silently slunk back up onto the roof. Hector roared at the well-inebriated Adrian to get the fuck offa me or something like that as the two did a short ballet around the roof swinging blows. I sat there, watching this stupid mess and as I light a cigarette, Mother of Hector swoops up and puts an end to these faggoty-ass shenanigans.
A few words are exchanged and I utter I’m going to get a hotel room to think this silly shit through. And, I do.
As I began this post: Sitting in this café thinking. No one here but me – syphoned inna booth. I do care for Hector. Physically. Mentally. Not too much emotionally. However, after a decade in dealing with this culture, I am befuddled that I still carry that snotty ass attitude of West Hollywood with me when dealing with these gay fuckers. Of course it will be a financial boon to him and his mother - they have nothing. What do I get out of it? A few kicks? I want more. I want what every red-blooded homosexual wants. I want to be loved back. Unconditionally and without strings. But, that seems an impossibility in this land of Mexico. Unless I hook up with some simpering, fey faggot and that truly sickens me.
Fuck it. I leave the cafe stroll through dusty near empty streets. A mangy, yellow dog stares at me from a mountain of garbage. Happy fat Mexican waves at my white ass from his shop. A group of chattering Indian women hush up as I walk by on the smashed sidewalk. I stop in an internet cafe and type this shit out. Yeah, I'm going back to Hector's house. I think I love him.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
Sonny's Bar, for those of you out of the loop, is a small, hole-in-the-wall dive located two blocks from my digs, ya dig? Spitting distance from a homeless shelter and a halfway house, the tiny, adobe structure caters to a skanky assortment of alkies, hobo's, excons, and wanna-be gangsters. As a fact, what cinched the decision was as I strolled past the fence that enclosed the patio, I noticed three interesting types lounging under the shabby table umbrella baking in the mid-afternoon heat. The three were sleeping and beerless - three young Latino-types I had seen before running through the streets like Wild Boys.
So, I plopped on a stool inside of the bar and as my eyes adjusted to the murky light, the joint was quite full of the previous mentioned clientele. I met up with an old friend from the Mish days named Clint and we shot the shit before he had a meet with some skanky whore elsewhere. Left alone, I ordered another beer and made my way out to the patio.