Fagfoolery.

It was Gay Pride in San Diego this past weekend and I decided to go to Kin-Kle and celebrate my fagness. As I found a seat and settled into a drunken stupor with a cold caguama de Carta Blanca, I noticed a familiar face in the crowd. It was Hector Padilla, my old friend from Juarez City (The Mexican border town to El Paso, Texas.) staring at me out of the smoke choked darkness. I haven't seen him in years. He smiled, got up and approached me. We shook hands. He looked the same except he was sporting a pencil thin moustache. Tall and lanky with that "Calvin Klein supermodel junkie look".

We both hugged each other, kiss on the cheek.

“My God, Hector! How have you been?” I blurted over the deafening disco beat.

“Bueno…bueno." He held my arm, looked me over. "You are looking good." He said in a thick accent. "Are you visiting Tijuana?”

“No! I live here, old friend! Gosh, it’s good to see you again!”

Hector put his arm around me and led me over to his table. “Please, Mijo, join my friends and me.”

At his table was an assortment of the biggest transvestites I’d ever seen. They ranged from six foot two and up! We had a ball; we joked, and laughed, and danced. The beer and tequila flowed and everyone got pleasantly drunk. One dragged monstrosity who was flying on speed glowed that special glow and kept repeating "Soy Sacha." Towering over me in glittering menace. One queen who looked like Morticia Addams and I danced several times to the same damn song that she would play in the jukebox. This drunken grand old queen who if you took Liz Taylor and held her head under water for a week and what emerged was staring back at you, she was hitting on me hardcore and got pissed at my icy return. Other than that, good times.

Around four in the morning, we all said goodbye and I took a taxi home. Wow, that was a pleasant surprise seeing Hector again and he was just as handsome as ever. He claimed that he owned his own beauty salon here in Tijuana and invited me over the next day for a hair cut.

When I stumbled back to my trap, Carlos was sleeping and I decided to take a shower. While I was in there, I noticed two strands of long light brown hair on the white shower tiles. I knew they weren’t mine and Carlos was a skinhead. So, that’s the way it is? Fucking women in my bed! Patience…revenge, as they say, is best served cold.

The following day, sad and angry, I went to Hectors Salon and got a haircut. I met some of his unfortunate looking queenie co-workers. The one that was giving the pedicure to the obese woman, a little Mexican Indian guy with tits, was very nice. I forget his name, but the look on his appalled face gave away his resentment at giving that pedicure. We all laughed about it afterwards. I always feel uncomfortable around queenie fags. Gives me the horrors. But, the cut looked good and it was free. I spent half the afternoon chatting and eating cheap burritos with Hector, then went back home.

I find Carlos not at work, but sitting on the floor smoking pot and scribbling in his journal. I encouraged him to start writing but it is always bland poetry. I lay on the bed, and as I was talking to him, I found another long strand of light brown hair on the comforter. My emotions livid, I went ballistic and threw Carlos out. The pain...it hurt so much...I cried and yelled as I slammed the door shut behind him.

Afterwards, I was devastated. Why was I so mean to the boy? He showed me nothing but sympathy and kindness and I returned it with hate and anger. I had to change my life. In all aspects.

I remember what Hector had said when I confessed the unhappiness of my living situations and general loathing of my life right now: If you don't like something...leave.

So, true. I can shit this advice out but never apply it.

Later that evening, I traveled up to San Diego and purchased a one way Amtrak ticket to El Paso, Texas. I will be moving back into Juarez City. Perhaps look up some old friends.

Depression is so insidious.