Tuesday, February 28, 2012

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.

Friday, February 24, 2012

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?

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

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.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

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.

Monday, February 20, 2012

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...

Saturday, February 18, 2012

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.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

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.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Monday, February 13, 2012

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.

Saturday, February 11, 2012

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.

Friday, February 10, 2012

Thursday, February 09, 2012

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.

Wednesday, February 08, 2012

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.

Tuesday, February 07, 2012

Dark Backward.

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

I deserve to be stuck here suffering.

Friday, February 03, 2012

Thursday, February 02, 2012

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.