After work and crossing the border, I took a rattling old Mexican bus to my trap (Thanking God, I didn’t have hemorrhoids) and rested for an hour. Showered, dressed, gulped down a shot of Jack, smoked a stick of ganja whilst I listened to Blue Spanish Sky by Chris Isaak.
When 6:45pm rolled around, I jetted out into 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 that wailed on the gazebo and, mien Gott, they sounded like crossing the sounds of mating moose and chorus of strangling clowns. Horrid noise.
We both plowed through the teeming masses of Saturday night revelry, past packs of drunken kids in hip-hop gear, junkie’s furtive and aware, hipsters on the hustle, dodged zipping cars and kamikaze buses to a secluded taco shop of Oscar’s choice. Except for a sullen paraplegic in a wheelchair, 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, “You want to drink? You pick the bar.”
“Sure.” I agreed. “I know the perfect spot.”
I paid the bill and we hit La Cruda, a hole I’d frequented.
I ordered two caguamas of Carta Blanca’s and we took a table. La Cruda was the bar el primo I stumbled into when I first hit Juárez and had enjoyed it ever since. A non-attitude place of non-interference.
On one end of the small bar, several fags shrieked and posed, in the middle, working class machos gesticulated and roared in animated discussions about futbol scores and pussy and at the other end, two fat whores, bloated and sordid in purple and pink spandex cooing and swaying around a drunken, old American. Alone on the other side against the wall, under a dusty portrait of Marilyn Monroe, was a handsome and sad, lonely man singing into his glass to the tunes vibrating off of the green, cracked and flaking plaster walls. All this under the garish, yellow and red neon of the blasting jukebox that played American Rock and Mexican Pop.
Raul, one of the waiters whom I’d known since day one, sat at our table and drank and joked with Oscar and me.
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, “Since you picked the last bar, I’m choosing the next.”
“Lead the way.” I said, as I lit a cigarette.
Stumbling down Juárez Avenue, we cut into a cavernous hall.
“You like cholos,” Oscar said, “You’ll like this bar.”
We sat at a table in the gloomy darkness and in this hangar-sized cantina were about seven people at the blue lit bar and all were lined up in this order: Two young queers, one overtly fem in black slacks and black turtleneck, the other macho and would yell the grito de los vaqueros every time a ranchero song would play on el Rockola (Jukebox), a fat, glassy-eyed drunk in a gray suit, one size too small, kept eyeing everyone with contempt and suspicion over his fizzing 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 macho fag who would let loose with the yell and his partner would squirm and coo.
Next to the cowboy were two sleazy looking women, one appeared as if she was pregnant with her belly plopped out between her skirt and her halter top. But, no, it was only her flab. Ew. Next to the women, was a well-dressed, elderly couple who danced a slow waltz to anything that played. It was like a Fellini movie.
“So,” I grinned to Oscar. “Where are these elusive cholos?”
He took a swig of beer, “They’ll be around.”
Excusing myself to the men’s room was a mistake. The smell nearly knocked me on my ass. When I approached the urinal, the stench of decaying feces was too much and of course, I had to look over the porcelain wall to find that both toilets were filled to the brim with rotting shit. An inch of urine covered the floor. Lovely.
The chemistry between Oscar and I began 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 coca-colas and Oscar looked through my photo album, coyly grinning as he kept returning to the two photographs I had taken of him from around the first time we had met.
He would smile as I pointed out the pictures, “Remember that night? Seemed so long ago, Oscar. Look, how handsome.”
Oscar politely laughed.
The night progressed as we casually chatted and gazed into each other’s eyes.
Oscar asked, “Can I stay the night? The buses have stopped running and I live kinda far.”
How could I refuse?
The lights went out and we were in my bed, lying 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, “I really want to cross the border. I want to make good money, you know? The life here in Mexico is so hard.”
“Where do you want to go?” I asked.
“I have family in Denver, Colorado. I want to go there.”
In the darkness, I said, “Well, I can try to help you anyway I can, Oscar.”
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 as he pounded harder and with a final, 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 good!” I breathed in English.
“Bueno...muy bueno.” Oscar whispered, licking his dry lips.
I looked up at him as the old emotions washed over me. My heart pounded at the intense feeling of love and admiration consumed me once again. My mind began to flashback to all the various let downs that had occurred with him in the prior months. I began to spiral down in depression.
Why can’t you love me like I love you?
Our heavy breathing subsided and wrapped in each other’s arms, we fell into a deep sleep.
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 to a corner cafe for a delicious breakfast of huevos con chorizo, frijoles y colorado rojo. With a cup of strong coffee.
During our conversations, I asked, “Oscar, are you satisfied with your life. I mean, are you happy?”
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, “You can keep your job and save up to pay for your passport and Visa. I’ll take care of rent.”
He looked at me, glanced 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 the following Friday evening. When his bus pulled away with the sound of screeching gears, I stood in the Plaza and watched Indian kids perform a religious dance in garish pink and white silk outfits.
I thought, This time, I will be m.ore patient with him. Let things run its course and not force a lifestyle on him that would cause grief and sadness. No, this time I will truly love him.
Under the great blast of blue Mexican sky, I stood there with the natives and tourists, smoking a Lucky Strike.
I never saw Oscar again...