Monday, June 27, 2005

Tijuana Flats.

What a busy week! Tired and sickened by that fucking loony bin that I got myself stuck in, I returned to Tijuana and found myself an apartment. Not a bad place, near Zona Rosa and close enough to the border so I can walk or make a hasty exit. And Old Pete, the world wise literary ex-patriot lives around the corner. Darling old coot, can score fore anything and knows everyone in the Zone. Has been here since day one, grrl.

The Apartment is near the end of a blind alley that hardly receives any sun. The room itself contains a well worn queen sized bed with dark oak headboard with matching night stand. It has an amoire with full length mirror, a chair, a table and a window that looks out into the alley. The walls are painted a light mint and the floors have red tile. A ceiling fan wobbles above. The bathroom is wall to wall to floor white tiles and has a shower, porcelain sink, and a toilet. The old kind that has a latch you pull from above. The kitchen has a refrigerator from the '50's that still runs, sink area, stove, and metal table with two metal chairs. All furnishings can be considered antiques. Slightly worn. Not bad, I think, for $150.00 a month American currency.

Now, this is actually the second apartment. The first I received was consumed in cockroaches. At one point Gabriel, my strikingly hot friend who works at a restaurant called Taco Lucas came over; we drank Tecate beers and smoked a little weed. However, every time we'd sit our glasses down on the floor or the table, one of those little motherfuckers would do a Greg Luganis into our glass. I would spray and spray, but those little black and brown buggers would return in force.

It was a Kafkan nightmare. And to make things worse, Jose Perez was seized by the cops outside my place with possession of a hypo and some cocaine. He was arrested and will have to serve fifteen years. Wow, and he is only eight-teen years old.

So, I bitched high and loud like any good American to the landlord and was moved to this apartment, which was pretty much like the last except it didn't have any roaches. I might have caught two or three skittering across the floor, but it wasn't the amassed army as before.

Little Carlos has moved back with his mother, but a great relationship has started between us. With him we'd score for junk and spend the day high and in bed overworking the bed springs. Man, give that boy a little dope and he can fuck like a porn star for hours.

I am so happy to be back in Tijuana.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Junkies Anonymous.

My hand jerks in galvanized movements to the small strip of blackened aluminum foil being passed to me. The fingers holding the strip are blackened and dirty, shiny over the dirt. The windowless room in this hellhole building is lit only by the three white candles on the trash littered table. The walls are grimy yellow from years of tobacco, tar drips from the corners and collects in pools of orange grease. Our shadows dance across the vast left wall like disembodied ghosts. Banda music blares from the outdated hi-fi. It garbles and sputters static.
Pablo sits on the floor jabbing the syringe into his neck with hissing through his silver capped teeth. Slumps into dark and strange dreams. Jose takes said syringe, cooks up the tar clear and sweet and injects the solution into his junk thirsty veins. Eduardo quivers on that milk crate starring at darkness wrapped in the flames of devils. Somebody is lying on the blackened cracked concrete floor facing the wall strung out on goofballs. The tattoo on his back reads "Life is Death." The air is thick with smoke from cigarettes and marijuana and methamphetamine.
An old whore sits next to fat old fucker on the nod. Whore glares into the darkness, "I'm so horny, Johnny. I'm so horny." She falls to a whisper mouthing the words over and over. Slowly rubbing her scabby thighs. The smell of shit and vomit are strong.
As I said, I take the strip of aluminum as Carlos places the filthy straw into my mouth and ignites a lighter under the foil. I watch as the white rock melts into a syrupy liquid and casually inhale the silver smoke deep into my lungs. The smoke takes on a living liquid like consistency as I trail it down the groove on the aluminum strip.
It hits you in the spine first and like an electric current traveling along your column up into the brain to the forehead. I can feel my hair pricking as it rushes across my scalp. My teeth are grinding and my tongue clicks obsessively on the top of my sticky dry mouth. I exhale the fumes and pass the aluminum strip to Old Pete sitting next to me on the overstuffed tattered couch, relic of the 1960's. He smiles a toothless old woman smile and the wrinkles stand out in the shadows.
Carlos slides his hand under my dirty t-shirt and caresses my back that is soaked in sweat, clinging to my quivering frame like a wet condom. He whispers in my ear sexual perversions but I tell him that I am in no condition.
I down the orange juice and vodka on the table and wait impatiently for my turn to come again. And again. And again. How long has it been since I had slept? Four...five days? When the dope ran out, we stumble out into the darkness and a shit smeared alleyway of a crappy hotel in a crappy part of town. The air is sweet and fresh. Stars shine bright and the moon is a huge hideous orange.
Money gone. Dope gone. I tell Carlos come with me. I find an ATM and the party resumes full force. For the second time in my life I try heroin. This time I do not puke. The needle slid in silent and I feel the junk writhing up into my vein. A soft blow to the heart. My body goes slack and I feel all warm and relaxed. Carlos, Jose and I go into conversations of Mexican politics and 1950's science fiction.
The boy felt a touch on his arm across eight feet of murky room. He was suddenly siphoned into the booth, landing with an inaudible shlup. He looked into the my eyes, a green universe stirred by cold black currents.
"You are agent, mister?"
"I prefer the word... vector." My sounding laughter vibrated through the boy's substance.
"You holding, man? I got the bread...."
"I don't want your money, Honey: I want your Time."
"I don't dig."
"You want fix? You want straight? You wanta, nooood?"
"Ever see a hot shot hit, kid? I saw the Gimp catch one in Philly. We rigged his room with a one-way whorehouse mirror and charged a sawski to watch it. He never got the needle out of his arm. They don't if the shot is right. That's the way they find them, dropper full of clotted blood hanging out of a blue arm. The look in his eyes when it hit -- Kid, it was tasty..." Old Pete cackles.
Jose looked at Old Pete and spread his hands in the junky shrug.
Old Pete spoke in his feeling voice that reassembles in your head, spelling out the words with cold fingers: "Your connection is broken, kid."
The boy shied. His street-boy face, torn with black scars of junk, retained a wild, broken innocence; shy animals peering out through grey arabesques of terror.
"I don't dig you,
The world network of junkies, tuned on accord of rancid jissom, tying up in furnished rooms, shivering in the junk-sick morning. (Old Pete suck the black smoke in the Chink laundry back room and Melancholy Baby dies from an overdose of time or cold turkey with-drawl of breath.)
I get eager and walk out with Carlos in tow. I light a Lucky Strike hand one to Carlos and head downtown. Everything is sharp and in focus. The lights stand out. The people alien and insect like. I get the horrors and Carlos calms me. He is so sweet.
Cooking smells of all countries hang over the City, a haze of opium, hashish, the resinous red smoke of Yage, smell of the sea and salt water and the rotting river and dried excrement and sweat and genitals. High mountain flutes, jazz and be-bop, one-stringed Mongol instruments, gypsy xylophones, African drums, Arab bagpipes...
The City is visited by epidemics of violence, and the untended dead are eaten by vultures in the streets. Albinos blink in the sun. Boys sit in trees, languidly masturbate. People eaten by unknown diseases watch the passerby with evil, knowing eyes.
My feet feel sluggish as I walk and I stumble into the 24hr Internet cafe on 2nd and Constitution to write this crap. I mean, file a report on these sinister goings on. Upstairs in this cubical, curtain drawn, Carlos sits next to me like an immobile lizard, waiting for the next fix. We both smell like shit and covered in a layer of greasy sweat. he kisses me as I try to type and his mouth taste like diseased metal.
I type faster and more frantic. Sweat dripping short of breath, horny boy at my side. Fuck it. I return to the Red Zone because I want more. And more I get...

Monday, June 20, 2005

Cocaine Be-bop.

Jose Perez threw a party in honor of his new apartment. Two room rat hole with a rusted steel balcony and panoramic view of the Red Zone. Nice if you wanta see smog, criss-cross of wires, and bloated hookers clop up and down the broken pavement. But, ah yes, the aforementioned fiesta. All types of sordid junkies and nefarious types lurked in the smoke filled shadows of Jose's colonial apartment. Cocaine, marijuana, and booze passed many a hand.
Banda music and screaming and the vecinos rush in like Furies.
Stumbled over Eduardo in the bathroom and he said "I'm killing myself with this stuff." And looked at me with sick conning mooch eyes. I take a snoot or two myself and feel it.
"Worthless shit."
Half a bottle of Fundador too soon and effects of cocaine cause me to lose control. I stumble and sway and the music! The music was all around me. Sniffing, I lean against chipped green painted wall and listen to hyped up drug fueled patter of Jose gab in galvanized gestures at some ratty whore strung out on goofballs. "...shots of heroin by candlelight--they had turned off the lights and water. Was Pablo glad to get rid of his evil and downright insolvent roommate. Never take a tenant with a monkey. And my buddy went away. Like a cat somebody gives him more food and one day he is gone. No good. No bueno."
Suddenly, I see this Mexican Indian boy in sharp focus. He is hooked and sick, sniffing and all the bones stand out on his face. He catches my look and walks over and leans on the green metal table and says:
"Could you help me?"
Lean brown hand gently rubs against my hardening crotch. The guy is short, but handsome with strong Aztec features. In his hazel eyes flicker pinpoints of light.
Get out of here. Bar. Grocery store. Antennae of television suck the sky like greedy periscopes. The boy lived in a dead end sub-division. Rats scurry in gutters and the cockroaches...the cockroaches were downright arrogant. Old 19th century Spanish apartment with rusted iron balconies.
Dim light hangs from wire attached to the ceiling. Windowless room of concrete. Smell of mildew and unwashed linens. I tear open a small bag of cocaine, he rips open a packet of lubrication. Undress quickly and erect penis is oiled up. On all fours, I clench the thin brown blanket as the smack-smack-smack of his hips hit my naked ass. The coke explodes behind my closed eyelids like fireworks as he shudders deep inside of me to some kind of climax.
Through dry lips we both sigh together, "Muy bueno."
In the back of a Taxi Libre, the lights of the city flicker across my face as we do a kamikaze race to Hotel Colisio. A five star, I tell you. With the window down, the cold night air plays in my hair. I grin behind screwed up eyes. Will be moving back to Tijuana on July the eighth.

Thursday, June 16, 2005

We call her...Freakshow.

Growls and guttural screeches from the tyrannical lesbo cafeteria lady/man during breakfast shocked the hobos into focus. Flinging goo onto greasy trays and making harsh comments to all. Think that bear shaped bitch was drunk. Soft mumblings from the grime covered tables, men huddled over their trays spooning in the slop. Sipped my Victory coffee in depressed resentment. Cold. And cold in a way that is deep down inside. Feeling a sour mood.
Breakfast consisted of a thin pink stew with chunks of something in it that made it look a lot like vomit. There was a puddle of the mess on the table and I just twirled my spoon in it while listening to snatches of dialog drift across the room. I just had the banana. Jeff from Pensacola made light patter. He wants to cut town and go back to Florida, the Old Folks Graveyard. Decided to drag myself out into the morning mist and to work.
Work was great. Worked by myself and we sold out. Time flew by. Afterwards, jumped the blue line back to Vinnies and that sun beating down all hot and nasty. Pigeons dived and swooped around the station spreading their vermin. I hate nature. If you stand still long enough, something will shit on you. Was crossing the station platform when someone boomed out my name and the echo reverbs scared the crap out of six pigeons and a bag lady. Literally. The lady shit right onto the cement a thick stagnant caramel colored discharge. A small child began to cry.
It was Pensacola Jeff calling out to me with the sad news that he got the boot from work so's he's going back to Pensacola. Okay. Walking through the throng of paralyzed phantoms to the shelter a block from the trolley station, this old black hag was straining to push her cart down the broken sidewalk. Dressed in tattered clothes covered in shit and a blond wig, she sneezed and her dentures flew out of her mouth and onto the dusty ground next to the sidewalk. She grabbed them up and after washing them off with a cup of stale coffee, placed them back into her diseased festering hole.
I looked at Jeff and stated flatly, "I can die now. I have finally seen it all."
"Yeah." Jeff laughed, "We call her Freakshow."
I lit a Lucky Strike and moved on.
Grumblings from the natives. A heavy air of depression hangs over this place like a thick smelly funk. I have been here too long. The bum kicks piling up far past my tolerance level. I want to move out on the eighth of July into a nice apartment I found, but my patience is wearing really thin. Seems to be surrounded by complete idiots. No one here I want to associate with. I had a very low opinion of homeless folk before entering this place and I tell you, it has gotten worse.
Pardon this rant, but the burden is becoming too great.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Big Tranny Annie.

It was pretty hot today. So, I decided to go to the Red Zone in Tijuana to get a beer.
The Red Zone for my Dear Readers who are ill-informed is a little patch of street on the North Side of Downtown. It is everything that you would think of "Seedy Tijuana". Under the glaring buzzing neon, hookers line up shoulder to shoulder grabbing and goosing you as you walk by. Shabby, smelly bums beg for change as hawkers scream at you to enter their bars and strip clubs.
"Titty girls!"
"Pussy women!"
As I pass by, tired and petulant hookers breath smoke out of chapped lips, teeth plated in silver, "Wanna fuck me, meester?"
So, I head over to one of my favorite dives called, Kin-kle. (Pronounced Kin-klay.) See it here:
Now in this bar you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. Thieves, deported criminals, junkies, pedophiles, cholo gangsters, fags and lezbos. My favorite watering spot. I enter the dark, smoked filled den as a Spanish version of Achy-Breaky Heart warbles out of a multicolored jukebox. I take a seat in the back at a dented and rusted iron table with plastic lawn chairs. The corpse looking waiter came to my table and I ordered a Sol beer.
The place was pretty empty for this time of the day. Only some old guy sat at the bar and in the opposite corner some fat cowboy was groping and finger banging an old whore at his table. She wiggled and giggled brown teeth at his advances. He smiled red eyed with a hard on.
Suddenly the light was blocked in the entrance to the door and everything in that bar came to a screeching halt. Standing in the door was a four hundred pound six foot three black man. His head shaven bald with puffs of grey lint here and there. He wore a skin tight one piece white spandex minidress, blackened and spotted with food, mucus, and God knows what else. He stood there a moment, tottering on his plastic see through platform pumps and he wore sunglasses crusted with rhinestones with little pink flamingos on top. The dark lenses were missing.
My God, he was monstrous.
He gazed around the room with bugged out eyes, flying high on God knows what kind of psychotropic drugs. His glare settled on me. His yellow eyes bulged out even more.
"Ooooo-shit! Baby!", He bellowed in a Southern drawl. He clomped over to my table. "You is fine! FINE!!" He smelt like tainted cheese.
He reached my table and bent over, breathing halitosis into my face from that gaping toothless hole, "Let Annie see them soup coolers!"
I looked at up at him, baffled and perplexed, "What? My what?"
"Your soup coolers, baby! Soup coolers!" He said pleadingly. He then puckered his massive crusted lips an inch away from my face and blew like he was cooling hot soup and then husked, "Pucker up fo' Big Annie with the innerestin' fannie." He wiggled his massive dimpled buttocks.
I glared up to this titanic thunderlizard and thought, what a strange world...and for manic depressives and schizophrenics, a sad one, too.
We blinked at each other and a moment of silence. Finally Annie stated, "I gotta pee." And lumbered into the mensroom. He was in there for some time. I finished my beer and left.

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

Pains of the Soft Machine.

Awaken by process of full bladder in the dim half light of five in the morning. Fall out of my bunk, sheet messed and army blanket that itches, air stagnant and putrid of halitosis from three hundred junkies. The air system rattles. But, it don't work. Slip sore feet into plastic shower shoes and shuffle bleary eyed across third floor balcony through puffs of hacking smokers. Why the fuck are they up so early? Ah, yes...junkies don't sleep.
Mouth is foul and evil tasting. Parched, I pass the water fountain that hasn't worked in two months.
The pink tiled floor of the men's room is glistening with slime and littered with wadded papers of shit but it's the stench of a thousand farts that knocks you on your ass first. The stalls are full of early morning shitters and they use it loudly and abundantly. Up to the urinal, six are here, four are covered in green trash bags and protoplasm. Dried mucus is splattered on the wall. Take a piss that is from down deep, I tell you! Ah, what a relief. Fat hairy old fag sidles up to the next urinal to check out my dry goods.
Ignore that ugly queer and turn to the row of sinks. Using rough brown paper towels from the dispenser, wipe down the water and whatever from the area you plan to use. Hair, snot, and other particles clog the drain as the image in the mirror of a red eyed slack jawed phantom stares back at you. This is going to take some work.
Thirty minutes later, looking like a movie star, I walk back to my bunk and get dressed in my suit for work. Snoring and whispered murmuring permeates the still dark air about me. Bunkee rasps something from his hole, but I don't make it out.
Clang down three flights of steel green stairs and meet a fellow fag of residence outside in the dawn for Victory Coffee. It is Tim, the flamboyant drunk. We socialise and twitter and make pat jokes to lighten the mood. Other early risers stop and comment with silliness. Time to cut. Walk out and along the side of the building; prostate forms wrapped in rags and lying on piles of rubbish sleep and moan at nothing. Hipsters huddle behind an over-stuffed dumpster and toke weed, suspicious as I stomp by. Smell of fresh delicious coffee from the little Indian Cafe. Tramp sits under the window rolling cigarettes forever.
Six o'clock and I make the blue line to my new job at a boutique hotel by the bay. The manager, Guy (Why?) a screaming girlie boy trains me on the computer system. The day flies by like a sped up film. Is everyone here queer? It's cool, though, no bitter, vomit spouting faggots. All seem on the level. The manager and the Sales Accountant keep looking into my eyes deep and it keeps me nervous.
I lunch on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with milk and talk with two nice Mexican ladies that take care of the hotel's cafe. Watch the national news on the television, Anne Bancroft is dead.
Three-thirty rolls around and I take the trolley to the public library, but of coarse don't have the book I want. The Gentleman Junky: A Biography of William S. Burroughs. Computer says they do...but they don't. I was planning to steal it anyway, someone else just jumped the gun. Walk into the Hustler Store and purchase some silver Elvis Presley-style sunglasses. I wear them out feeling it.
The trolley is packed with smiling chatty crowds attending "The Game" at Petco park, one old bum, dust in the creases of his skin, eyes me with contempt when I catch him sipping a beer. Depart and return to Vinnies for dinner. The phantoms that were lying in the piles of rags are out in force; bloated women covered in hickeys and pimples screech at greasy blacks that swoon over them. A radio blares the latest rap tunes. Old Mexican masturbates wildly under torn blanket as several kids blink in the sun selling junk to squealing buyers. The pungent smell of urine surrounds you.
Up to the impenetrable like fortress of St. Vincent de Paul. Vinnies to his friends. Huge fat black dyke of a security guard stands at the entrance to the cafeteria with guard dog at her side to sniff out the cocaine. She looks like a black Uncle Fester, shaven head and all, and stares silently into nothing. The cafeteria is a noisy den of real ugly. I stand in the back of the cue behind slack eyed hag and study the nameless glop on the trays of those already eating. They have pudding cups, though. The cue jerks forward, people yell at each other, pissing testosterone, that same stench fills the air. Unwashed bodies and soiled linens. A man three in front of me goes into a coughing fit and blood soaks the napkin wad pressed against his mouth. The cue jerks forward.
I decide to dine with Tim and a black kid named Tony sporting a mass of rotted green teeth. Tim, being a socialite, keeps the mood up. The table smells of ammonia and is smeared with grease in little eddies. Red sauce gets on my shirt from the table rim. I eat the limp salad and pudding, washing it down with fruit punch. Don't dare to touch The Black Meat.
I climb upstairs and find out that the showers are closed until further notice. Of course they are. Why not? Much grumbling from the natives. Will have to go to work tomorrow unbathed, one supposes. The balcony is packed with social patter and choked in cigarette smoke. It's a fucking London fog of carcinogens. I light a Lucky Strike and think. Gotta get out. This is taking too long. I hit my cot. The springs dig into my back. Look over and see a little Filipino smoking crack at his bunk. A ver.
Bed check, stay at your bunk until you are counted. Lots of yelling, lots of farting. Cell phones ring and a hundred junkies begin hacking into the garbage can by my bunk. Someone far off starts a yelling match over some socks. Old man cackles and pisses himself, smell of urine is strong. The little Filipino takes another hit. Wouldn't you?
After bed check, I start my mandatory chore. Cleaning the men's room and I tell you that is the highlight of the day. Nothing like returning home from work and cleaning up after three hundred worthless shits. The other seven sorry asses are of no help and the job is half assed. Return to my cot, put in my ear plugs, and plunge back into a fitful sleep.
"Got any rollies?" Echoes forever from a million tramps on the hustle.
Will be moving back into Tijuana around the first of July. I can not stand much more of this.

Sunday, June 05, 2005

Word Hoard.

Visited my friend Enrique. He lives in the Old Colonias. Walking through the south-west side of Tijuana, that area favors anything for sheer filth and poverty. There are no sidewalks, people shit all over the street and then lie down and sleep in it with flies crawling in and out of their mouths. Entrepreneurs (Not infrequently lepers.) build fires in the streets and cook up hideous, stinking messes of food that they dispense to passers by.
The smooth brown loin of the pimp swells and rots in syphilis, old men blink in the sun, prostitutes look furtive and sad, young Indian boys sit in long rows under cool arcades reading manga comic books--they do not move their legs as people walk by...
As evening fell, we both were bored and I came up with the idea of visiting every bar we could and at each bar take a shot of tequila and move on to the next bar. We got pretty ripped up. Enrique and I stumbled down Ave. Primera, home to many seedy bars and whorehouses. Ambiguous transvestite hookers drifted under street lamps, eyes bright with methamphetamine, lean against outcroppings of limestone walls, talk in silent, catatonic gestures, frescoes of delicate depravity, flat two dimensional...plaintive boy-cries drift into the night: "Paco! Joselito! Carlos!"
Stale patter of commerce: "A ver cigarros!" (Look, cigarettes!)
"Nice girl, meester?"
A hideous soiled mouth blows smoke rings into the night, "Wanna fuck me, baby?"
Enrique and I went into the bar Kin-Kle, a tacky queer joint where guys would show you their erections for a beer. It is a sleazy little dive in the Red Zone with a big over stuffed bull head above red double swinging doors. In the dark alcove booths of Kin-Kle, drunk and horny, Enrique and I made out under the watchful eye of a waiter with a hard on. Patrons passed us with indifference as I masturbated Enrique to a climax under the table, his lanky body entwined with mine.
Later that night, Enrique and I committed crimes against nature in the Hotel Colisio, that ratty ten dollar a night trap. I found myself lying on my stomach with Enrique on top thrusting into me, boy did I get the better end of the deal---slap-slap-slap---went his brown hips against my white ass. Lean arms wrapped around my torso and neck. My back is bitten passionately. My face pressed against the pillow, I feel Enriques hot breath against my left ear as he gets closer to his climax. Closed my eyes and with clenched teeth felt his hot semen squirt up into me. And afterwards we shared a joint, our shoulders touching under the covers. Enrique mumbled that he had to go and I watched as he covered his smooth brown frame with his well worn clothes. After he left, I fell asleep listening to the CD of Hedwig and The Angry Inch on my Sony Walkman.

Thursday, June 02, 2005


Awoke at three-thirty with a case of the shivers. Wracked with nightmares of ecstasy.
Was feeling quite randy this morning, it being another Bug Day. So's after a light breakfast of Victory Coffee and a spotted banana concurring single-sided chat with deranged hobos and demented homosexuals, I decided to visit a 24hr porno theater that is located somewhere in the vicinity of Mission Beach to relieve much built up angst. The sky was a drizzly gray and the sidewalk blossoms were in full bloom. Will somebody please pick that crack'd out bitch up outta the mud, awready? Men huddle in groups sipping Victory Coffee in other peoples overcoats coughing and smoking "rollies".
Just released from county, tattooed cholo grabs his fat unmentionable as I stride by in the cold dark air, squeezes it nasty and blurts out, "Damn, homes! Didn't know you was a bitch!" He who scopes out white flesh in the showers and slaps the asses of fellow bunk mates. Just in jest, you understand, just in jest.
So, I jump the blue line and depart in Old Town were I proceed to walk past the local nut house, screams can be heard, and the half mile to the promised land. It is still only seven in the morning, Bug Day starts early for the unwary, I slip into the adult shop under the scrutinizing gaze of a tweaking female with greasy slicked back hair, baggy jeans and black halter-top blabbing on a cell-phone at the entrance. Her face a mass of scarred pimples and withered tissue. Plunk my six bills down in front of a real cutey-pie and is buzzed in.
Darkness and the air is thick with ammonia, dried semen, and the grunts and moans of unbridled lust. At least on the two telescreens. Some red-head is getting the bajeebus banged out of her by two strung out jerks. All three look old and tired. In the theaters themselves, three old farts, two quivering junkies, one black hobo, and a partridge in a pair tree. C'mon, people, sing it with me.
Sit and wait. What else? Wouldn't you? Door flings open and kooky-ass tweaker woman from outside leaps in and jerks around the front rows, babbling at her demons, as old coot strokes sad shriveled tallywacker to vie for her approval. She is wearing red thong on the outside of her jeans. Her eyes are all aglow. Keeps fiddle-fucking with trash can. Chicken pecks the floor.
She jerks and eyes wild bursts out to no one, "Why do you guys like dick so much?"
"Why do you like drugs so much?" I retort from the back darkness, chuckles from the crowd. I can still work 'em.
She goes into a soliloquy about God and her rotting pussy ("Drips green juices! And itchy!"), rolling my eyes, I slide into secondary theater. Girl vaporizes into crystals and is replaced by handsome Mexican in "chorts" who is checking out my dry goods. Well, time to take out the guns, one supposes. So I whip out my big and nasty and it is on like Donkey Kong. Boy slurps and sucks like a brand new Hoover and brings me to a much needed climax and then slithers into the inky void like a phantom.
Door buzzes and Fagin enters and plops next to me smelling like last weeks sewage. "Hey, buddy." He wheezes halitosis into my face. "You wanna get high?"
"No." I sneer. "Drugs are for losers." Cross my legs all lady-like and snort in disdain. Fagin vibrates out of focus a shivering teeth grinding wreck and I am left alone with some little Yoda staring and grinning, jiggling change in pocket.
Side note: In all my years as a homo in the service, why is it in these porno joints there are always, and I mean always, some fucking Elder who will stand there hours on end smacking gum and jiggling change in their polyester pant pockets? Why?
Time to move on. Whack it a few as the movie continues to heat up and the older queens do their stylized ballet around me as I ignore the lot of them. They are not worthy. That is until door buzzes and slick college type fruit comes in making a grand entrance, but I see he is sniffing and bouncing around theater like a ping-pong ball. Am I the only one here not fried? He walks into other theater as old perverts raise their heads like animals sensing danger. New Meat. The Exodus to the other side entails. I am alone.
Enter another Mexican hottie. Glances are made, soldiers are positioned for inspection and I decide to be the passive and loving type. However, that shit is cut short, cabrone. If you wanna turn me off quick and solid, wear a goddamn cock ring! Can't stand those fuckers! If you are not able to get it up on your own, may God have mercy on your sphincter.
Three biggest turn offs whilst out a-cruisin':
Cock Rings.
And fucking smelly, feelthy penises.
Well, after only two short lickity-lickies, I got up and left the cock ring wearing bozo throbbing solo in the dark. Can't lower my standards for a second. Got a reputation to keep up. Well, left that house of ill-repuke and dodged over to Del Taco for some bean and cheese burritos. Poot!
Spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in Balboa Park, reading Slaughterhouse Five and watching the guys play volleyball under dull gray skies. Start new job Monday at a local Hampton Inn. Front Desk clerk...again.