Steers and Queers.

Yesterday, as I was sitting outside the mission swatting flies, up the dusty road walked Vincent Guzman. A beautiful sight for my sore gay eyes. The young man of eighteen was handsome in a rough kind of way. He had jet-black hair, hazel eyes; shiny black hairs hung limply over his full lips. He had one of those Chicano Indian faces and his skin was very dark. There was a sad look in his eyes. A look both alive and beat. I noticed that his hands were ashy and had calluses.

Perhaps a field worker…I like a man good with his hands.

Since I have some time on my hands with the therapy I am receiving, the powers at the mission gave me the job of intaking new clients. It was a thankless job but it had its advantages. I was intaking clients that day and decided to process him.

“What’s your name, my friend?”

“Vincent Guzman.” The boy said softly, almost coy.

I read off the questions and Vincent answered with a timid shyness that was almost too cute. He knew the game. Cat and mouse. This kid was an old time hustler. In his dirty faded jeans and red plaid shirt that smelled of endless truckstops, flop houses, bus station restrooms, and cheap hotels. Freely giving his sex up until he needed something. The boy preyed on cockjunkies. He knew how to smooth talk, give generously, and then take until there was nothing else. Vincent knew the score and so did I.

“You can get a bunk after you take a shower."

“I’ll do anything you say.” He said softly, and yes there was a glint in his eye.

I bet you will.

I put his folder away and said, “Go to the dormitory. The man at the desk will give you a towel and some soap. Do you have any shampoo? No? Okay, I’ll lend you some of mine. Take this ticket, it has your bed number on it. Give it to the dorm clerk, you’ll get it back after you shower. That’s when he’ll issue a pillow, sheet, and a blanket.”

Vincent took the ticket, “Thank you.”

The boy gathered his small plastic shopping bag that contained a few dingy belongings and walked out of the room to the dorm next door. My eyes followed him like a lizard following the coarse of an ant.

I rushed into the dorm and to my bunk, took out a bottle of my shampoo. I kept my personal items and clothes in milk crates under my bed. Waiting a few minutes at my desk tapping my fingers and sipping on my Dr. Pepper, I entered the bathroom and the shower was sending steam in great swirls around the room. I entered the shower area and Vincent was lathering up his dark torso with the coarse yellow soap supplied by the shelter. I stared at his muscular body, the flat stomach, the hairy chest, the dark hairy legs, and his long penis. It seemed to me he was concentrating a lot on cleaning that part of his torso. I watched for long seconds as he rubbed and stroked his pubic hair and penis into a big cloud of bubbly white lather.

“Uh…here’s your shampoo.” I finally said. I held it out.

“Thanks.” Vincent said walking over for the bottle; his cock swinging and my eyes were transfixed on it.

Walking back under the water, Vincent dabbed some shampoo onto his head and worked it into his hair.

“If you need anything, just ask. Okay?” I said stupidly.

Vincent stared at me with a serious look. “I’d like to finish my shower. I’ll talk to you outside.”

“Oh…of course.” I strode out of the bathroom.

I returned to my desk with the memory of Vincent’s torso still burning in my mind; lust flickering like heat lightning. For a whole week I’ve been surrounded by a bunch of unfortunate looking faggots and in walked this breath of fresh air. We immediately became friends. His uplifting attitude got me out of my rut.

The last two hot summer nights were spent joking with my friends next to the mission and now talking to Vincent under that big black starry sky. Sitting under the rusted water tower, staring at the lights of Mexico just across the Rio Grande, listening to the highway breathing and the buzzing of the cicadas in the trees, Vincent put his arm around my waist and stole an innocent kiss on my cheek. "I like you", he whispered into my ear. But, we were interrupted by a the call for curfew.

All in all, these are fun times. We were all piss poor, but we all have each other. I know it sounds corny, but it is so peaceful and carefree. So, different from the stressed out time I had in Tijuana and Los Angeles. With homeless people there is this sort of bonding blatant camaraderie. These people are so much friendlier, so much more real than those fake and plastic bitches back west.

Well, onto business. I saw my psychiatrist today and have started the long process into fixing my head. The only fear I have is that these drugs that they will prescribe will make me lose all what I am...this wild spirit, this uncontrolled artistic lover of life and spontaneity.

Is it all worth it?