Thursday, September 10, 2015

you’re driving me crazy…


I awake in a bright Mexican morning and French press myself a good cup of coffee. I sit out on the patio and feel spending the day taking in some local flavor and by local flavor I mean I want to suck cock.
I dress and walk over shattered concrete to the corner and jump a taxi downtown. I am thrilled to find that Cinema Latino is still there – Tijuana’s premier porno theater. I hike up the ramp and slap my pesos down in front of the pinch-faced hag in the box office and enter the foul smelling den. Groping my way up the stairs toward the balcony seats, when my eyes become adjusted to the gloom, I notice the theater hadn’t changed much – a little more rank, a little worse for wear. But what does one expect in these tough economic times?
On screen, a brunette bimbo hopped up on meth bounced on the rigid erection of a bored looking stud as in the theater proper, several silhouettes roamed along the aisles hunting for prey. Ahead of me, more than a few men sat immobile as shadowy movements rhythmically bobbed at their crotch.
It wasn’t long before a slender Aztec youth plopped next to me, grabbing at my crotch. Erection was exposed and he gave me what for. After I ejaculated, the kid slithered into the darkness replaced by a quivering old fuck smacking his toothless, moist hole at me. I rose and made my way toward the bathroom. A row of masturbating penis peepers stood aloof along the urinal trough as someone was getting butt fucked in the single toilet stall. I stood leaning casually against the grimy wall, lit a cigarette and watched the watchers.
Bored of their shit, I sat back in the theater and actually paid attention to the movie.
“Got a smoke?” Was asked out of the darkness in perfect English.
“Yeah.” I mumbled and fished a cigarette from my pack of Luckies.
A thick, brown hand reached over and in the dim blue flame of my butane lighter, I noticed he had a square, masculine face and drooping, black mustache. I glanced at him, squinting in the murk: muscular tattooed arms in a white wife-beater, black baseball cap on a square head. He was in his mid-twenties carrying the prison sculpted physic of a strong upper torso and thin legs in khaki pants.
We chatted. Why not? He revealed he was recently released from federal prison – for deportation or drug trafficking, I really wasn’t listening – and he was attempting to return to his hometown in the state of Senora. When he confessed he hadn’t eaten in over a day, I invited him to lunch.
We exited the theater in the blinding light of afternoon and made our way to a local taco stand. I introduced myself and he said his name was Manny. In the searing light, he was even more attractive. Tear drop tattoo and all.
Again, he pressed he had nowhere to go and knew no one in Tijuana.
“If you’d like, you can crash at my house.” I offered.
“You live here?” He asked with a hint of disbelief.
“I do. Want to go?”
“Sure.”
We hop a taxi and on the walk from the corner to my building, he tells the tale of how he lived in the state of Washington and was shacking up with his ‘girl’ before everything fell to pot. Once in my place, we lounged on my bed and I dropped the fag bomb.
“You’re gay?” He asked.
“Well, I’ve never been gay a day in my life, but I do like men.”
He went quiet. Then, “You think you can help me get a bus ticket to Senora? I can stay with my mom once I get there.”
“Maybe. How much does it cost?”
“Not much. You think you can help me?”
“Sure.”
At that moment, Manny leaned over and began kissing me. Roughly pressing me down to the bed and began unbuttoning my pants. Removing my erection, he leered up at me and hissed, “Just because I’m going to suck your dick, don’t think I’m queer, okay?”
Yeah. Sure. Not at all.
With timid masculinity, he blows me. Clothes are peeled off. I am thrilled at his chiseled torso covered in amateur prison tattoos. Sliding on top, he breathes into my ear, “Damn, you’re driving me crazy…”
I bet you said that to all your cellies.
He places my feet onto his hard shoulders, spits into his palm, and lubricates his thick, uncut erection. Sliding it in, he lunges and ruts, eventually grunting to some sort of climax. In the humid heat, the closed blinds create yellow bars across our naked, perspiring torsos, we lay side by side sharing a cigarette, blowing great plumes toward the stained ceiling.
I prop myself up on one elbow, “How bout we shower and go get you that ticket?”
“For reals?”
“For reals.”

3 comments:

NWalker said...

I like the way your writing corresponds to my experiences of Tijuana, particularly in terms of places like the Cine Latino. Except that mine are limited to short trips from LA and back. Do you have any familiarity with the Club Premier next to the Motel Alaska? I went in there once, but it was not very crowded and I didn't really understand the place the way I get the scene at the Ranchero.

LMB said...

Thank you for the comment. Living here and visiting is definitely two sides of a coin. I would much enjoy reading about your exploits. Unfortunately, I have not been to Club Premier, it seems too 'hoity-toity' for my tastes. Hell, Bar Ranchero has even changed from the sex drenched dive bar of lore to a standard 'fag' bar comparable to any stateside. I do pine for the TJ of ten years ago...

NWalker said...

I agree that the Ranchero isn't what it used to be, but I still like to go there when I visit, more than other places. I guess a big advantage to living in Tijuana would be the opportunity to become familiar with the locals. It's difficult to hook up when you have the time constraints of having to be back to work in LA on Monday morning. I used to drive over, and was constantly hassled by TJ cops, but once I started parking on the US side and walking over that pretty much stopped. I would love to know some weird underground places, but most of the information I find online is pretty old and outdated.