Sloppy Seconds.

Spent the afternoon with that little fucker Carlos, again. Carlos is a short little guy but damn that boy can screw! I think it has to do with his gringo fixation. He is sooooo sexy. That smooth lil' copper-colored body, those dark brown nipples... Good things cum from small packages. Too tired to do anything. Carlos is always good for an entire afternoon of a cardio workout. You know, how your legs feel all wobbly after a bout of real hot sex...my legs feel like that now. After a nice hot shower and a bowl of fruit, I think will check out the new DVDs I bought. Forbidden Zone, a wacky black and white musical from 1979 with the Mystic Knights of the Oingo Boingo and Party Monster, a comedy starring Macaulay Culkin and Seth Green as disco kids who murder a drug dealer in New York. Should be an interesting night of madcap hilarity.

Sex is a pain in the ass!

Literary Queer and Tijuana Cops.

After work, I decided to go to Downtown San Diego and to Borders Books to buy a copy of William S. Burrough's Queer. I had read it before, but after lending a copy to a friend, I never got it back. So, I needed to purchase another and it is definitely worth the re-read.

Walking through the hipster Gaslamp District at dusk, the Christmas season is definitely in full swing. From every upscale department store widow and high-brow trendy restaurant, Santa Claus glares at you with such malevolence that is quite unnerving. Clean happy college kids and florescent colored polyester-clad tourist glide along the antiseptic and spotless trash-free sidewalks as Christmas jingles filled the brisk air. Candy-colored skylights swoosh through the clear night in the hopes that St. Nicholas soon will be there.

I entered the bookstore on the corner of G St. and 5th Ave. and went straight to the fiction department. I always liked this bookstore. Always have the books that I require and a hotbed of really cute literary fags and military guys. I purchased my edition of Queer under the raised eyebrow of the cashier that rang up my transaction. He was rocking queer. So queer it rocked you. Pleasing to the eyes as well. I smiled, said "Thank you" and exited the store.

Walking down Broadway I bumped into an old friend of mine named Steve G. I haven't seen this guy in about two years and the reason for that was that he confided in me that he was in County Jail for the last year and a half. He was incarcerated for possession of marijuana and was released just this afternoon. Steve told me that he was staying at the local homeless shelter. He still looked good, a poor man’s version of Leonardo DiCaprio, with faded torn jeans, green flannel shirt, scraggly blond goatee, and shaggy blond hair. He was standing outside a convenience store waiting for his friend, Tom. When Tom came out he screamed thief and thug! A short, muscular brute in baggy blue jeans. Despite the cold air, he wore a wife beater that exposed his arms covered in a mass of prison tattoos. His dirty blond hair was cropped short and his well-worn clothes reeked of cigarettes. His face was very ugly and his mouth was home to a forest of rotted-out teeth. After introductions, Steve said that Tom and he were cellmates and now just hang out with each other.

"Would you guys like a beer? There's a cool bar near here." I suggested. "We can play some pool and the pitchers are quite cheap."

Both of their faces lit up like Christmas lights. "Yeah! Shit yeah!"

Two blocks away was a bar called "Star Bar" and the place was going full swing. This bar is the last of it's kind for the Downtown District. A dive bar that caters to junkies, queers, thieves, and the mentally insane. The joint is serviced by two extremely ancient Japanese and Vietnam war brides. At any moment I expect one of them to jump up on the bar and start shooting ping-pong balls out of their pussies. I really like that place and try to stop for a drink whenever I am in the area. I ordered a pitcher of beer and got a pool table and we three had a fairly good time. The gay double entendre flowed as easily as the brew. Obviously, Tom had the hots for Steve, but I think Steve was put off by it. Getting drunker and drunker, I suggested that we should go drinking in Tijuana because the price of the tab was starting to skyrocket.

So, a thirty-minute train ride later, and a drunken dash across international lines; we piled into the back of a Taxi Libre and sped to the Red Zone. We slinked into a little bar called Fausto's that had beer by the bucket and Go-go girls for my two bisexual friends. The bar was packed with air thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of spilled beer and piss. A short Indian Mexican showed us our table and I ordered a bucket of Corona beer. We sat there as two slightly obese girls on two opposite stages jiggled and grinded in all the wrong places under the multicolored light show. As the boys watched the show, I got off watching all the other men stare lustfully at those coozes on stage.

Tom said he was going outside to buy a pack of smokes and would return in about five minutes.

That five minutes crawled into an hour as Steve and I sat there and waited for Tom to return.

When the bucket of beer was depleted I stated, "Look, we gotta go find your friend. He's probably lying in an alley with an ice pick in his spine."

Extremely intoxicated and a little pissed off, Steve and I exited Fausto's and walked to the corner. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced into a pool hall that we stood in front of and there was that ugly mother fucker Tom inside playing pool. Steve and I went in and asked what the fuck was going on.

"I wanted to play pool."

I looked at the other three Mexican cholo scumbags that he was playing billiards with, "Look, Steve, it's late. I have to go to work tomorrow. I know a cheap hotel near here and I'll get you and Tom a bed there, okay?"

They both agreed and we stomped down the sidewalk, drunk as shit, bumping into cholos and stepping on dogs. That's when a police car pulled up and the two officers inside told us face against the wall, with hands up. I was in the middle and Tom and Steve were on either side. The big fat cop started to frisk me first.

"I've seen you around, guedo." He stated, going through my pockets. "You live here, correct?"

"Yes." I said calmly. "I have been here for a few years, officer. I like it."

He opened my wallet and saw the three twenty-dollar bills and change. He looked at my I.D. and then folded my wallet and placed it back in my pocket. "Do you have any drugs on you?"

"No, official." I stated. "I do not do drugs."

"This is a bad part of town. A lot of drugs are sold here. What are you doing on this street." Hissed the skinny cop.

I related that I was showing my two friends around Tijuana and enjoying the low-priced booze and women that the Red Zone has to offer. They began to check Steve. Incarcerated in the States and raised on the program Cops, he started to angrily utter obscenities. I told him to be cool and act respectful and we may have a chance with these two.

The fat cop frisked down Steve, checking his wallet, I.D., noticing the ten-dollar bill. "Do you do drugs, amigo?" He asked.

"No, sir. I am not a habitual user." The two cops smiled at that. Obviously, they understood English. They placed Steve's wallet back into his pocket.

They began to search Tom. He stood there glazed-eyed. Then the fat cop pulled out his wallet and noticed the two one hundred dollar bills. "Do you have any drugs on you, Senor?" He asked looking at the mass of tattoos on Tom’s arms.

"No, officer. I do not do drugs."

The skinny cop then pulled a syringe and a foil of cocaine out of a hidden pocket from the back of Tom’s pants. That is when the bottom fell out of my mind. I thought, great, I’m gonna be locked up for years in a Tijuana prison with the inmates passing me around and using me for currency!

The two officers chatted among themselves and turned to me. During this whole time, they treated me like I was the leader of these guys. I guess I was the one who kept my cool and acted with complete respect. The fat cop smiled at me and said in Spanish, "Look. We have a problem. This is your countryman and you need to help him out. We saw the money he has (About $200 American!) but...uh, we might have to take him to jail. This is very serious."

The fat bastard was interested in the money. I thought quick, "Officer, not only can you take this asshole's money. You have my permission to take him to jail. I just met him a couple of hours ago and I don't need to associate with his kind."

"I understand." The two cops cuffed Tom and placed him in the back of the squad car. I approached the Fat Cop and placed a twenty-dollar bill in his palm. "Thank you, officer, for a good job."

"You are welcome. Go home now, this is a dangerous part of town." With that, they drove off with Tom in the back seat looking beat and forlorn.

I whirled around at Steve, "You thoughtless fucker! Why didn't you tell me he was a fucking junkie? I was just looking at 15 fucking years in a Tijuana jail!"

"I didn't know." Steve pleaded, palms out.

I pointed east, "The border's that way." I turned around and went home leaving Steve on that corner under the buzzing neon sign of a whorehouse. With any luck, he will be gang raped by a pack of roving cholos

Gobble.

It's Thanksgiving and I'm working. At least I'm working with James. He's this new hire from Minnesota; your tall, dark, and Holy God handsome farm boy. He looks a lot like Tom Welling from "Smallville". He's the new eye candy for the girls here. I don't particularly want to have sex with him, but he was in a dream I had the other night. In the dream, I was joking with him about giving me a kiss. (I had in fact done that once with him. His brother had received an extra copy of a free GameCube game and James said that he would give me a copy. I said I was so happy I could kiss him. James smiled and said, "Bring it on.") In the dream, he did kiss me. I was expecting just a quick peck but I soon felt his tongue slide between my lips and then that thick tongue went deep.

In the dream, it lasted only a few seconds and I was shocked that he actually did this. Him not being queer or nothin'. I pleaded to him for another one. He just laughed and said no. That's all I remember. Sitting here at my computer terminal, I'm looking at the back of his head and wondering if he really is a great kisser.

Well, at least we shared a free turkey dinner in the cafeteria together. I kept looking at his long hands and long feet...I couldn't concentrate on my mashed potatoes!

I am racked by an uncontrolled fit of lust and passion!

Bubba Ho-Tep and the American Wiener.

Such a sharp depression. I haven't felt this blue since I broke up with Felix Montero a thousand lifetimes ago, or so it seems. How long has it been? Eight? Nine years? I am a sap when it comes to nostalgia. Who is Felix Montero, Dear Reader? He is the very reason, the bane of why I moved from Los Angeles, California to Tijuana, Mexico. But, that is another post and I promise you a tale of high romance and bitter heartbreak.
After work dragged along at an abnormally slow pace, I crossed the border into Tijuana and decided to stop for a hot dog. Now for those of you that had never had a Mexican hot dog, I'm telling it to you straight and I'm telling it to you simple, they're quite toothsome. Bacon wrapped around a succulent wiener lounging in a cloud-soft steaming bun loaded with all the trimmings. It's enough to make you misty-eyed.
Well, I'm standing at the mouth of Plaza Santa Cecilia under the Great Silver Arch slashed across the orange sunset sky, chomping down on my dog and watching the hustler boys dash to and fro when this fucking American, this drunk ass tourist wobbles up to me and stands there, tottering, glaring at me with his bloodshot eyes. Now, as for white boys, this guy wasn't that bad-looking. He kinda had that Justin Timberlake look going on. Cute, that is until he opened his mouth.
"Hey, dude, buy me a hot dog and I'll suck your cock." He said with a face as blank as a poker dealer.
I pulled the half-eaten wiener away from my lips and stated flatly, "What if I don't want a blow job, sunshine?"
"Yeah?" He breathed. "But, I'm really hungry and your blue eyes are really hot."
I glared at him and then I looked over to the Mexican Indian serving the hot dogs and handed him several crumpled dollar bills. I said in Spanish, "Give the drunk a hot dog."
The tourist snatched the dog and gobbled it down greedily. I paid for mine and his; said Adios and walked briskly into the chilly night air under the twinkling stars, lost among the throng of holiday shoppers.
Once back at my trap, I got into my pajamas and prepared myself a bowl of chopped apples, pears, and bananas topped with strawberry yogurt. I decided to watch one of the new DVDs that I had purchased the day prior. Many a film freak friend recommended it to me. It was a strange little flick called Bubba Ho-Tep. And it was one of the funniest films I had ever seen! You, Dear Reader, have to see this film! It's about Elvis and a dyed black President Kennedy living in an east Texas retirement home fighting against a soul-eating mummy. A laugh-out-loud yuckfest!
My favorite line is from Bruce Campbell's Elvis: "No thousand-year-old mummy is gonna slap his lips across my asshole!"
Well, after the movie, I decided to go to sleep. Around 4:30 in the morning someone was banging on my front door. I dragged my tired ass to answer it and to my shock and surprise, I found Alfredo standing there drunk with some cooze with her arms wrapped around his hips. Without asking, Alfredo shoves his way into my apartment, plops himself and his cunt onto my sofa, and he mutters something unintelligible. I ask what the fuck is going on, seeing that he is really drunk. He starts making hand gestures, waving for me to return to my room. He began to paw and kiss the bitch he was with and I went literally ape shit! I grabbed his female and yanked her to the floor and jumped on Alfredo and began to punch him in the face and chest. I began sobbing and said in Spanish, "You asshole! I loved you! Do you understand? I loved you!"
Alfredo struggled to the door and walked out with bitch in tow. Walking down the stairs to the street, he stopped and looked up at me, "I can't love a faggot." That hit me in the heart like a physical blow. I returned to my apartment and returned to bed. I was so mad I couldn't go back to sleep. 6:30 rolled around and I got ready for work.
Thoughts raced through my head. I am such an emotional mess. After years of being bitter and cold, I finally opened my heart to someone and this is what I get. Broken and torn is my heart right now. I am one sad cowboy. On the way to work, I had to get off the bus to puke. As I stood leaning over the curb and heaving up my breakfast, I had to wonder how I let myself get into such a nervous wreck. I started this blog after the fact that Alfredo and I separated. We had dated each other for three months and he had lived with me for two. I knew that he was married, but he had said that he wanted to separate from her. But, as time went on his feelings for her returned and that made our relationship go down the crapper. And because of my total devotion to him; he showing deep compassion and tender caring toward me, the separation hit me really hard. I don't trust anyone. Nothing gives me joy. I am as blank and void as a vacuum.
I truly believe I am now destined to traverse this world alone with a frigid and uncaring heart.

Bath House Blues.

I was horny. I like that word. Horny. If you say it out loud, by itself, it is a funny-sounding word.

Horny.

Anyhoo, it's my day off so I decided to go to Banos Romas, for a spot of unclean fun. The Banos Romas is a trendy hangout. You always meet someone you know there. The hissing of the steam and the high-decibel Mexican music filled the air. I pushed fifty pesos through a grill. An old Chinaman unlocked the door to my cubicle and dropped a ragged towel on the chair. Tipped him ten pesos. I folded my pants and placed them over the chair; I dropped my shirts and shorts. I sat down naked on the edge of my small cot. A short Mexican guy appeared in my doorway. He didn't say a word, but the stiffening of his penis under his towel spoke for him.

Closing the door, he pushed me back on the bed and lay on top of me. His tongue wrestled with mine as my legs wrapped around his brown hips. Rolling me onto my stomach, he spread my cheeks and flicked his tongue in and out of my ass. Fumbling, he slid his erection into me and I swear that long fucker poked my intestines. He started banging me like his life depended on it. Five minutes must have passed and -squirt- he was done. He kissed my upper back -"Gracias"- and exited the room.

Later, as I sat in the steam sauna, I was surprised to meet little Timothy, a good friend from San Diego. He is an Englishman who works in a coffee shop in the swanky Gaslamp District of Downtown San Diego. He always reminded me of a young Truman Capote with thick black-rimmed glasses. As the steam swirled around us, Timothy confided in me that he had been living in Tijuana for about a month. Somebody had stolen Timothy's radio, his biker boots, and a wristwatch. "The trouble with me is", said Timothy, "I like the type that robs me."

"Where you make the mistake is bringing them to your apartment," I said. "That's what hotels are for."

"You are right there. But half the time I don't have the money for a hotel. Besides, I like somebody to cook and sweep the place out."

"Clean the place out."

"I don't mind the watch and radio, but it really hurt losing those boots. They were a thing of beauty and a joy forever."

What a queen, I chuckled to myself.

We sat watching a three-way between some Mexican men. Two older guys were fucking a young skinny kid.

Timothy smiled, "Did I ever tell you how I did a cop on the beat? He's the vigilante, the watchman out where I live. Every time he sees the light on in my room, he comes in for a shot of rum. Well, about five nights ago he caught me when I was drunk and horny, and one thing led to another and I sucked him off."

"So the next night I was walking by the cantina on the corner and he comes out borracho (Drunk.) and says 'Have a drink'. I said, 'I don't want a drink'. So, he takes out his pistola and says 'Have a drink!'. I proceed to take away his pistola and he goes to the phone for reinforcements. So I had to go in and rip the phone off the wall. After that madness, when I got back to my room, which is on the ground floor, he had written El Puto Gringo on the window with soap. So, instead of wiping it off, I left it there. It pays to advertise."

I said my goodbyes and returned to my cubicle. Later that night, in my apartment, as I sat watching Eraserhead and nursing my throbbing asshole (I had a run-in with Enrique and his friend back at the baths. Enrique's friend, whose name I don't recall, had a huge penis and wasn't shy about using it. Both of those guys took turns on me. It was really hot.) Anyway, I sat there thinking of Alfredo. I had decided it was too painful to have him in my life. Though it will hurt, I am going to cut him loose. Why? I bought him that new model of PlayStation 2 and as soon as he held it in his hands, he was out the door. He mumbled something that his wife was taking him to dinner. As I took a sip of my rum and coke, I sighed and whispered, Goodbye, Alfredo, I truly, deeply, and honestly loved you.

Why is there so much heartache in the world?

boys will be boys

 

Sucker.

Tomorrow is Alfredo's birthday. I know what I am going to get him. It is that new model of Playstation 2, you know the really small flat one. It's new and it's only $149.00. I remember when we were "dating" I showed the add in the newspaper to him and he went ape-shit. I am such a sucker for him. He was over last night and we sat drinking Hot Coco and watched Village of the Damned, the original b/w version. He has hurt me so much, but he is so sweet to me, too. I both love and hate him. Damn! It's a strange world and for manic depressives and schizophrenics, a sad one, too. Why must love...true love, continue to elude me? My deepest fear is to turn into those bitter old queens that I see populating our land. Old and remorseful and broken like Icarus. They have lost the will and patience to search on for love and become nothing but sad sex monsters twisted in hatred and resentment. Is that my fate? I am tired from filming all day and will turn in early. Will watch a little porn to put me to sleep.

The Wall of Whores.

Edison James was a new friend of mine who had just been hired a week ago at my job. He recently just moved to San Diego from Dallas, Texas, and was new to the area, was in the market to make some friends. Edison and I hit it off pretty well. Though Edison was hopelessly heterosexual, he was all right. It was rare to meet an ex-marine who was so open-minded. Plus he was handsome. Short and stocky; but pleasing to the eye nevertheless. I like his dark curly hair.

Edison confided in me that today was his 23rd birthday and if I wouldn't mind showing him around Tijuana. He smiled and bashfully commented that he wanted to get a hooker. I said sure, I'd show him around.

After work, Edison and I jumped into his '79 Oldsmobile and headed to the frontier. Edison was very excited; he'd never been to Mexico before and he repeated that information every other five minutes. As the sun began to set, Edison drove his Oldsmobile across the international border without being held up at the Mexican checkpoint. The uniformed official just waved us through, not even giving the car a glance.

"I guess they'll let anyone into Mexico," Edison said as he drove into downtown Tijuana. The traffic was dense and unbearable. "Where the fuck is this place?"

"We're almost there, Buckaroo, keep your cool," I said, noticing his agitation.

"Wow! Look at all the Mexicans!" Edison noted the view coming into the downtown area.

The Central Zone of the city is sprawled out in a sort of a bowl-shaped valley of urban decay. Multicolored buildings, some new, some old, some never fully completed with iron scaffolding jutting into the smog-choked sky spread across the landscape. The chipped and graffitied buildings are dwarfed only by the blaring billboards announcing everything from cheap tequila to the cure for herpes. The surrounding hillsides are blanketed with residential colonias. These multicolored neighborhoods range from elegant haciendas to cardboard shacks. There is always one fire blazing day or night in the poorer quarters so that a choking grey haze hangs over the city. The air is thick with the cloying blare of honking horns and high-decibel Mexican music.

"Turn here." I said pointing to a corner, "There should be some parking spaces."

Edison had problems finding a parking space, the traffic was horrible. He parked his car next to this old cathedral on 2nd and Ave. Ninos Heroes, a pile of ancient stone dating back a couple of centuries. From what I remembered, Tijuana sprang up around the cathedral-like fungus, spreading outward. The sidewalk was bustling with people; all dashing to and fro in their various affairs. As we got out of the car we were swarmed over by ten taxi drivers all on the hustle:

"Downtown, meester?"

"Pussy women? Titty girl?"

"Donkey show?"

"Best pussy...no like pussy? I got boys...twelve years old!"

"Oh, God", Edison said. "I gotta get some smokes."

An old man in a grey dirty jacket, shiny over the dirt, approached Edison with a cardboard box that was full of different brands of cigarettes. Edison pointed to a pack of Lucky Strikes and asked the street vendor, "How much?"

"Vente pesos." The man said.

"What's that? Two dollars?" Edison asked.

"Si. Dos dollares." The old man smiled and took two crumpled bills. "Gracias."

"Yeah...grashiass...hey, dude, where are these hookers of yours?" Edison asked, ripping open the package of cigarettes. 

We walked the two short blocks into the Red Zone. There is this rusted-out corrugated iron wall stretching from one corner to the next lined shoulder to shoulder with whores dressed in a rainbow of spandex and fishnets. They ranged from scruffy, winking, and giggling twelve-year-olds to toothless old hags all vying for our attention. Pawing us as we walked by, grinning and showing silver-capped teeth, groping for our privates.

Being a respectable homosexual, I declined. On the other hand, Edison went ape shit. Like a kid in a candy store, Edison glazed over the ensemble with crotch growing stiff and lust-filled cold dead fisheyes. He sidled up to this one young Indian girl in a white spandex one-piece with plastic see-through platforms. Actually, she was pretty, in a slutty way. She had a great pair of bazoombas.

I explained to the smiling whore that it was my friend’s birthday and how much was the act going to run. She said thirty dollars. I slapped the money into Edison's hand, wished him a happy birthday, and they both went up the worn wooden steps of a nearby hotel.

I leaned against a parked car and my attention quickly turned in the direction of shouts and pathic yelps. An elderly white man was being beaten and then stabbed right across the street; the cholos dragged his bloody body into a shit-strewn alley. What an image, the old man’s pink face under a shock of silver hair, his mouth a bloody hole, arms flailing. No one did anything to help him. The man lay there whimpering in the garbage as his assailants went through his pockets. I was disgusted, yet at the same time intrigued. This town never ceases to amaze me, I thought.

As the police finally arrived ten minutes later at the scene of the violent crime, Edison staggered down the steps, covered in sweat, and wearing a sour look.

"Well?" I asked.

"Worst sexual experience I ever had!" He retorted as we walked into the night. "When we got into the room, she pulled down her pants and her fuckin' cooze smelled like a mixture of raw sewage and rotten fruit! I couldn't even get it up! So, I got the cunt on top of me and she rode me like a champ, but the expression on her face was such a blank turn-off...I finally came. She wanted more money, man! I just pulled up my pants and left."

That'll teach you to fuck women!

Edison kept picking at his crotch. "I hate the type of lube that she used. It's making me itch."

"Hopefully it's not the lube." I quipped.

Edison wanted to go to one of the mega-discos on Ave. Revolucion and I agreed. We chose Iguana Rana's. Paying the fifteen-dollar cover charge, we stood on the balcony up on the second floor and watched the mass of people gyrate and grind to the steady rhythm of the DJ. We must have had ten Long Island Ice Teas between the two of us and got pretty drunk. At one point some fat girl, to amuse her friends, backed that thang up and ground her massive ass against my crotch. I rolled my eyes and said, "Leave me the fuck alone, you cow!" She and her friends said some derogatory remarks as they walked away, but I didn't hear them, nor did I care.

Getting really shit-faced, I explained to Edison that I needed to go to work the next day and bid him a good night. Outside I hailed a Taxi Libre and started home. However, the fucker was careening at such fast speeds that he was making me ill. I ordered him to pull over, I exited the cab and puked all over the curb and my right shoe. The cab took off and I staggered the remaining three blocks home.

Shooting Arrangements for my Film: Crossed Wires.

Let's shoot this fucker!--Bela Lugosi I have Hector's office scenes for the first day as the first day is usually very hectic...the crew getting to know each other...the actors for the first time meeting each other. Thus it seems by the storyboard that Hector's office is the easiest thing to shoot since the major portion of the day will be taken up with Hector and Kevin. Around noon things will settle down, thus I will bring in the Inspector and Carlos...Carlos being very important to the whole plot I want to be able to use as much time on his scenes as possible. Scenes total for the first day is 17. The second day we start the morning easy with Mary and Francy because the confusion of having the major portion of our actors on stage during the day, later on, will give cause to shoot easy scene--then a tough one--then an easy one--and so on--as long as the set is the same. Thus as Hector's office ends we start again on the easy shot of the porn studio where Mary is being photographed. She has had many dress changes during the day, and much dialogue, so here she simply sits--Then the others follow easily saving the police raid last because we have to break up the set a bit. The INT: TACO SHOP is a simple one line pick up that if is not shot that day, although I'm sure it will, can be done on the previous day. All our leads are on weekly anyway, so I'll have Kevin standing near at hand. Total scenes of second day is 21. Carlos' apartment or living room and patio scenes speak mostly for themselves. Shooting it in continuity as it is a good idea because of Carlos' many costume changes. He should be able to change quickly as the camera is changing set ups. I have saved the police arrival for last as to take no chances in positions happening during the Hector and Kevin fight scene. Total scenes...30. For the third and fourth day we must figure for outside. The alley scene, the hooker scene, the scene with the junky. There is an excellent possibility of bringing the picture in on four actual shooting days and one pre-production by doing this. We have 50 silent scenes that can be shot with little or no crew; cars driving in and out, Mary out of the house, Hector alone kills two girls in the park, the old woman dancing in the rain of roses; all silent. There are 15 scenes in which dialogue is used. This of coarse will go on the fourth day. Then shooting anything that has not been shot on that one pre-production day. Again, I emphasize, our major actors are on weekly salary and other are one day bits. No loss. Stock shots are not included in board break down but all else is. Via con Dios.

Food Poisoning.

I contracted food poisoning and was hospitalized for three agonizing and biologically repulsive days. What an event that was. Lying prone in a Mexican Hospital, doctors came and went, not knowing exactly my problem. "Well, Mr. *****, my guess is..." "Guess?! You're a high paid doctor and all you can do is guess?!" I'd moan. To make matters worse, someone died in the room across from me. I could hear them chanting something and women crying. It was the old geezer who was annoying me with his pathetic moans on the first day I arrived...well, get the stiff outta here! This isn't a morgue. It's a bring down for the other patients. I remember going to the toilet to puke and I passed the old mans room. Sheet pulled over his face, two women sniffling. I saw him before, as a matter of fact in the morning an hour before he died. An ugly little man with a pot belly and a scraggly, dirty beard, always groaning. How bleak and sordid and meaningless his death! God grant I never die in a fucking hospital! Let me die in some louche bistro, a knife in my liver, my skull split with a beer bottle, a pistol bullet through the spine, my head in spit and blood and beer, or half in the urinal so the last thing I know is the sharp ammonia odor of piss--I recall in a Tijuana bar a drunk passed out in the urinal. He lay there on the floor, his hair soaked with piss. The urinal leaked, like all Mexican toilets, and there was half an inch of piss on the floor--or let me die in an Indian shack on a sandbank, in jail, or alone in a furnished room, on the ground, sodomized by a group of homophobic Marines, on a street or subway platform, in a wrecked car or plane, my steaming guts splattered all over torn pieces of metal... Anyplace, but not in a hospital, not in bed. Actually, I think I have foreseen my death. It will be in Mexico. I will be crossing the street and some naco ranchero doesn't see the red light because he's too preoccupied whistling at some pregnant Indian walking with her five kids. He's flying headlong, Mexican music blasting and runs my ass over. Anyway, finally I was released from the Hospital and I stumbled home and rested the rest of the day.

shinanigans

 

Dancing Queen

From all the authentic Mexican restaurants to choose from, I had lunch at Burger King on Ave. Revolucion. I am an American, fer chrissakes! At the register was a most handsome Mexican boy. A native Indian with green eyes and a great smile. He had black shiny straight hair parted down the middle and copper-colored skin. He was slight of build and very obviously gay. We struck up a conversation, he speaking fluent English, said his name was Giovanni Torres, and flat out asked me to join him for dinner after he got off of work. I usually don't go after feminine men, but this little guy was really adorable.

Later, after freshening up at my apartment, I met Giovanni at a sidewalk cafe in front of the Jai-Alai Center, a huge ornate sports arena set in 1930s art deco. Talking over a brief dinner of a delicious grilled beef burrito and soda, afterward, we visited several discos; Mike’s, Toro Toro, Equis Palace. We danced and had a good time. Queer joints usually depress me, Mexican or stateside, but I made the exception.

My first impression was the dance clubs here in Tijuana were very small compared to the mega-discos in Los Angeles, California. Here the discos consisted of almost the same motif: mirrored walls reflecting the light show, itty-bitty tables and chairs in which you and beverage precariously perched, a bar, and if you're lucky, video monitors. At all the discos around midnight, the boogie frenzy grinds to a halt for the inevitable corny transvestite lip-sync shows.

Gads what a boring mess! Ugly and bloated drag queens belting out sordid Mexican love ballads. Not at all the humorous romps of West Hollywood drag shows. When dancing did finally commence again after these talentless productions, the music was an odd mesh of Top 40 and Mexican Ranchero music. Giovanni and I both hit it off very well. We gyrated on the dance floor until four in the morning.

Outside I waited with him as he tried to hail a taxi. Giovanni told me that Mexican gays love white Americans and if they acquire one they use him as a trophy to parade around in front of their friends. Wow, imagine me...a status symbol. A cab rattled up to the curb. We shook hands and said our goodbyes.

I returned home as the sun began creeping over the horizon.

Cockjunkie.

"From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back. This is the point that must be reached."--Franz Kafka

In the Plaza Santa Cecilia, located in Centro Tijuana under the silver slash of the Millennium Arch, there are sidewalk cafes with their open tables. Here the old American queer sits entertaining up to four or five boys at a time. These decaying fags giggle and shriek and roll their eyes at each other in vain attempts to impress their American friends at how popular they can be with younger men. The boys sit and smile and laugh at the right times, waiting to rob these festering old vampires of every penny they've got.
The hustler boys of Plaza Santa Cecilia are in a class all by themselves, and I have never seen their equal for insolence, persistence, and all-around obnoxiousness. They are infallibly attracted by the uncoordinated movements of the tourists in a strange medium. The least show of uncertainty, of not knowing exactly where you are going, and they rush at you from their lurking places in the side streets and cafes.
"Want nice chico, meester?"
"See bullfight? Donkey Show?"
"Want mota?"
"Nice boy? Show you a good time?"
"You like beeg one, meester?"
I called in sick from work today and spent the day in the Plaza with a few friends watching the parade of boys go by.
Oh, by the way, on calling in sick at work. You've heard of calling in sick. You may have called in sick a few times yourself. But have you ever thought of calling in well? It'd go like this: You get the boss on line and say, "Listen, I've been sick ever since I started working here. But today I am well and I won't be in anymore. " Call in well.
But, I'm getting sidetracked.
In Plaza Santa Cecilia, one of the queers that I did enjoy hanging with was a Mexican Indian by the name of Luis Vega. A mid-forties, balding, pixiesh queen getting a little wide in the hips. His thing was to pick up on homeless men or recently released convicts and to seduce them back to his apartment nearby and to coerce unspeakable congress with them.
The other cruising fags would sit with us lounging in the shade and they would coo and screech, flipping wrists and rolling eyes, tearing each other apart with their gay double entendre.
There was a parade of hustlers to choose from. All circling the Plaza with the attitude of aroused Tom cats. One that I became friends with was a tall, handsome farm boy from the Mexican state of Sonora named Victor. Victor was one of those unfortunates who were confused about his sexuality. He claimed to have this mysterious wife and kid but because of his Adonis-like physique, he was constantly hounded by the Plaza Santa Cecilia queer sect. And almost all of them had tasted Victor’s Forbidden Fruit.
I recall me, in my apartment, Victor and I lay in bed naked after a bit of Greek Wrasslin'. Victor sighed and covered his face and confided to me, "I don't know what to do. Everybody's talking shit that I'm gay."
I lit a joint, "Have you thought of stopping having sex with men? That might help."