I really don’t understand why I expect things to be different with each passing day, nothing ever is. The same old crap day in and day out, sometimes I feel as though I am living on auto-pilot. As if someone else is living this so called life of mine. I truthfully can’t complain because I chose it and choose to continue living it.
Spent the afternoon at Cinema Latino. On screen some cracked out cunt was getting it nasty in her well-used, tattooed snatch. The coughs, slurps, and random wheezes of anonymous lust from the Baker's Dozen of fat or ugly or hoary perverts permeated the murky theater. Two seats to the left of me, handsome Latin transient kid stroked his wiener like a masturbating idiot. I attempt to make him but get hostile flashes from cold undersea eyes. Whatever.
I whip out my own nastiness when out of the inky murk ambles a young Mexican lad - khaki shorts, blue knit polo shirt, white baseball cap – youngster slinks next to me silent and furtive. Takes my rigid joint in his frail hands and wraps his tongue around my head. Sucks and blows like a champ - my hand glides along his lithe backside, feeling sinewy muscles as he bobs slowly up and down on my cock. He's good - minutes later I am squirting semen into his mouth with gasps through clenched teeth. Before I can button my fly, Little Faggito creeps back into the void and bee lines to the men’s room where the voracious ancient Pompadoured Fairy lurks.
I stroll outside for a smoke – sun blasting through a bright blue Mexican sky. Puffing on my Lucky Strike, Little Faggito exits blinking in the sun – however, before we can chit or chat, Old Vato rides up shirtless on a rickety bike and begins yapping.
"Hey, guero, what's up?" He smiles a toothless face of an old woman, hair a mane of grey knots.
"Not much." I croak. I don't know this person.
"Need anything?" Old Vato whispers down empty alleyways.
I dramatically think and half jest, "Got any coke?"
"Come on." He says and I follow him into the sooty, rubbish filled alley behind the theater - Little Faggito in tow and I haven't the slightest idea why. Red brick walls in black soot as graffiti claw at the sun. Smell of urine and dried shit and dust clog the nostrils.
After preliminary checks for patrols, Old Vato retrieves a small plastic bag out of the folds of his ratty clothes and smiles. Behind a smelly green dumpster as the passing bombaderos blows and moans; I sample his wares. Snort - wheeee! Snort - wheee!
Little Faggito disappears with the look of a wounded fawn as I slap the ten into Old Vato's calloused dirty hand. Look of wearied petulance - Old Vato zips off down the broken alley on his bicycle and I bebop back down town… amid broken bottles and rusted tin cans a tramp staggers past behind the cinema, his dirty right hand glides along the concrete wall leaving an iridescent trail of greasy slime...
Coke takes effect and I hit centro feeling quite yummy on this dead Tijuana day - sun seems to suck the very life out of you and you want nothing - nothing but death. I digress and stop at Bar Noa Noa for a quick beer.
Took a wobbly stool in the bar scoping out the scarce hotties who sat around the old wooden counter. Some sullen and alone as only faggots can be, others in animated conversations with friends or tricks. Each of us nursed the all mighty caguama in front of us. I was feeling it - being my third one. I do believe I am becoming an alcoholic.
The bartender and friend, Carmen - only old whore I ever cared about - pointed out that Miguel, was standing just outside the cantina doors - waiting. Waiting to talk with me. I uttered to Carmen it was a public bar and he could come inside if he wanted to talk. You see, Miguel and I had an argument a few days ago and I suppose he was under the impression I would be your run of the mill simpering faggot americano squirming back to him for forgiveness. How little he knows this cold imperious homo, verdad?
As I was saying, he's standing out in the grime and the smog with the honking traffic when finally Carmen beckons him to come inside. Meekly Miguel sits next to me - we shake hands. The wonderful thing about alcohol is it has a tendency of making things better. We talked and drank and shot a few rounds of pool - all was hunky-dory once again. As a fact, after I left the bar and stood in the lurking shadows of the dark street - Miguel followed me, I had the intention of going home alone. But looking into those beautiful brown eyes with the thick lashes - What the fuck?, I thought.
Back at my trap, Miguel was garrulous - going on about the maudlin woes of general life.
"You gonna stay the night here - or you wanna go home?" I asked. "I am exhausted and want to sleep."
He optioned to stay and I commanded he sleep in his boxers. Peeling off each other’s clothes we lay on the coverlet entwined like hibernating pythons. Kisses in the night turned into a massage. Rolled onto my stomach, Miguel smoothed away much needed tension - had to admit - the boy can give a mean massage. I reach up and brush against his erection in his boxers.
"Que es eso?" (What is this?) I say jokingly.
"Si sabes." (You know what it is.) He smiles in the dark.
My boxers are pulled slowly halfway down my legs and with saliva applied, Miguel slides in. He grunts and puffs lunging and thrusting into me before he yanks himself out and shoots his semen onto my ass. He plops down onto the bed next to me - still drunk out of his mind. My buzz still buzzing. Laughter. Pecks on the forehead and cheeks. Arms wrap around smooth brown frame.
We shower and dry and lay quiet in the warm darkness under the noise of the ranchero music from the radio. Suddenly, Miguel bolts up and dashes to the restroom and vomits loudly and abundantly into the toilet. Poor drunken kid.
He mentions it would be better if he went home and after borrowing taxi fare - we dress and I walk him to the taxi stand making a date to see him the following evening for a movie. In the somber chill of the night, I stroll back to my flat realizing I am beginning to take an interest with that guy...