The Old Queer fidgeted on a concrete bench in Plaza las Armas, Ciudad Juárez. That being in Mexico, pendejo. (Native adolescents stroll by, arms around each other’s neck and ribs); strain his failing organs to occupy young ass and thighs, dangling balls and hard spurting cocks. A boy walking past, turns, grins at him and yell, “Que tal, jefe?” Their schoolboy innocence achingly stroke across flaccid buttocks and drooping loins. The Old Queer inwardly screams, an enigmatic frustrated howl with dark glasses and grey face. Piss trickles warm on his withered thighs.
I set my pen down onto my notebook and glanced at the clock on the café wall. There was a vato at the counter giving me the eye and I returned a vague impression as if something half seen from a bus window smeared with grey smoke - the clock had jumped ahead like time will after 3pm - and I became conscious I did not want to know about him or anybody...
“Hector.” I mouthed the name silently, finish my coffee and cigarette – we recently fought and argued over silly shit. He wanted me to stay in Juárez for the sole benefit of my finances. Out of the nine billion fucked up souls on this planet, he elected me to support him and his mother.
“No.” I whispered.
The night prior, his cousin – by name of Adrian - had visited from Tabasco. A downright 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 hammer in unbridled macho-lust.
We three had sat on the roof of Hector’s one story, adobe-brick trap drinking beers and listening to cha-cha reggeaton as out in the paranoid City; citizens partied, fucked, and violently died. Gunshots in the distance mixed with jukeboxes and car horns.
I blew plumes of smoke from a joint up into a dark sky blanketed in a swath of twinkling stars. After the beer began to flow, Hector launched into the same old blah blah blah 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 craved was that lascivious motherfucker to screw me into the dirt.
“You’re being a complete letdown and an all-around drag.” I drearily stated to Hector.
He then went into full bitch mode: Droning on about his financial woes and the cold, imperious nature of your stereotypical American homosexual which, if I didn’t know better, was aimed towards me.
I retorted, “If you cared for me as much as my bank account, you wouldn’t have so much to complain about.”
Hector flew into a tizzy (this macho homo who I first met was declining into a full, fledged fag) and stomped downstairs to warrant sympathy from his placating 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.
The sultry bastard rose up off the milk crate he was stooped on, silently walked over to me, gently pushed my head back and shoved his tongue into my mouth. I sat there – all things serene around us except for the occasional smack or slurp – when Adrian was violently hurled away 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 off me or something like that as the two executed a short ballet around the roof swinging blows. I sat there watching this stupid mess and as I casually lit a cigarette, Mother of Hector swooped up and put an end to these faggoty-ass shenanigans.
A few words were exchanged and I muttered I was going to get a hotel room to think this silly shit through. And I did.
Nevertheless, I am sitting in this café thinking. No one here but me – syphoned in a booth. I do care for Hector. Physically. Mentally. Not too much emotionally. After a decade dealing with this culture, I am befuddled with the fact I still carry that snotty ass attitude of West Hollywood with me when dealing with these gay fuckers. Of course it would be a financial boon to him and his mother - they having near nothing. What do I get out of it? A few kicks? I require more. I want what every red-blooded homosexual desires. I want to be loved back. Unconditionally and without strings. An arrangement which seemed an impossibility in this land of Mexican machismo. Unless, of course, I hook up with some simpering, fey faggot, an unlikely option which truly sickened me.
Fuck it. I exited the café and strolled through dusty, near empty streets. A mangy, yellow dog stared at me from a mountain of garbage. Jovial, fat Mexican waved at my white ass from his shop. A group of chattering Indian women hush up as I walked by on the smashed sidewalk. Yeah, I’m going back to Hector’s house. I think I love him. No, think is not the correct word, the correct word would be undeniably.
- Juarez City Blues, 1997