Sunday, November 27, 2005

Everyday is Like Sunday.

Through the sunless cobblestone streets of The Market. Whores, fat and nasty, sit and wait forever. Old vatos cry out selling razors and socks, lottery tickets and batteries. Teeming with a mass of people doing their Sunday shopping. Tony and I stop for chicken tacos, slop on a plate, down aquas tamarinos then through Avenida Mariscal, evil glances from pushers spit on the side walk as we dodge junk buses and hurtling taxi cabs air so dirty that it clogs your pores.
Up to Burrito Row. Ten corrugated iron shacks in a row that cater to puta, junky, and fag alike, they don't discriminate. Crazy lady sits in shit and filth and babbles as a mongrel looks on speculatively under that big blue Mexican sky. Pimp eyes me and nods, I nod back, he takes toothpick out of his mouth examines it, his shades turn the other way. Some doormen at a titty bar across the street catches sight of my gringo ass and starts the hustle:
"No cover!"
"Nice lady!"
"Pussy girls! Titty women!"
I wave them on with a poker face through my Willy Wonka glasses, coz I means business and they sulk away only to pounce on two other American assholes. A ver.
Tony can't score here, so we jet across the corner to the pool hall. Smokey and the air filled with blaring Pink Floyd. Fat Mexican with a mullet shakes head, sneers through silver caped teeth, "No got."
So, we walk hafa block over to el Arbolito, one of the oldest bars in Juarez City. We swing through the metal door and slide up to the bar. All action stops in the little cantina and all eyes fall on us. With a loud scrape of stools we plunk down and both order double tequilas each. The owner, ancient and obese, scrutinizes us with glassy eyes crouching in the dim corner like a khaki Buddha.
With a flashbulb of urgency, I take in this trap...small, three booths, three metal tables with chairs, a piss trough at the bar, and a goddamn huge mahogany bar warped to Dr. Suessian contortions. I ask the owners son about the warped bar, to break the ice unnerstand, and he relates that it is due to the constant flooding of the Rio Bravo...that's the Rio Grande to you pinche gabachos. The sprinkling of working stiffs sat indifferently around the cantina chatting with each other, laughing, drinking, ignoring us. The atmosphere was very relaxed.
Tony and I ordered another tequila with a cold cerveza chaser. As I lit a Lucky Strike and drank, Tony and the owner's son were in an animated conversation then Tony handed him some crumpled pesos, which were placed under the till, a small packet of wax paper was placed in Tony's hand and we walked out the door; both saying, "Gracias."
"Gracias", Everyone said back.
The sky was a clear blue, the air clean and pure. The pedestrians happy and carefree. an old man smiles toothlessly at a joke from a young friend, a cop bends down to hand an ice cream to a child, two lovers stroll embraced down the avenue.
We cut across Juarez Avenue, winding through cars of tourists bitching to get back to the U.S. of A. goddammit, and down my dead end street paved in blackened beer bottle caps, clang through the metal door, up the green concrete stairs, unlock the deadbolt - ah, home!
Clothes are flung off and a snort or two offa the dresser - wheeeee! - fall onto the bed naked, clinging to each other, kissing passionately. Fingers, tongues, and cocks are sucked. Rolled onto my stomach and lubricant is applied, Tony slides himself in so long and nasty. With quick thrusts he pounds my ass for a good hafa hour more or less - bed springs boinging and pinging - his muscular brown hips smacking against my smooth and tenders - smack-smack-smack-smack-smack-smack-smack-smack! Grinds his cock up in my ass so hot and savage whispers into my ear, "I'm almost there, baby, where you wanit?"
"You kidding?" I groan. "On my face!"
He yanks himself outa me and flips me onto my back. Sitting on my chest, he masturbates wildly. "GODAMGODAM!" I feel hot licks splatter across my face. He rubs his erection across my lips, my tongue licks the head. I look up at him. Pause. Laughter. "Let me get a towel, baby." He says and goes into the bathroom, cock semihard and glistening, swinging free.
After I clean up, we lay side by side and share a joint. Tony lays on his back with his arm folded back under his head. My head is propped up by a pillow by his side. Silence. "Everyday is Like Sunday" by The Smiths warbles over the radio. Tony takes the joint from his mouth and places it in my lips. I stare up at the ceiling fan whirling slowly. He is the one, I think, he is the one. If not, the prototype. I think I am in love...again.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Do You Love Me?

3:45a.m. Lo que paso, paso by Daddy Yankee bops over the hi-fi. Only the fluttering light from two scented candles and the orange flame of the gas heater lights the dark room. Shadows jiggle and dance. We lay naked in messed sheets, with drained scrotum, embraced. Tony lies on his back and I lay on my side propped up on one elbow. My thumb brushes gently across his thick black eyebrows. I look deep into his brown eyes, distant sparks deep inside. My finger glides down the bridge of his nose, notice the light freckles, to his thick lips, he kisses my finger. No words are uttered.
What if he is just playing me? He sees a lot of girls, what if he just is using me? Or worse, fucking some other guy behind my back. The pain surges in my heart, I can't control the rush of blood to my face and I blush. When he leaves my apartment, does he go to lay in someone elses bed?
I kiss his lips, so sweet, a peck on his chin, a smooch on his neck. Mmmm, God, he smells so good. Slowly, up and down his neck. I nibble his earlobe, my nose brushes against his neck. My hand brushes across his pecks, down across the rib cage, the hard brown stomach.
Is he just after my money? Does he plan to steal my things? My CD's? My DVD's? My cell phone? If I gave him the key to my apartment, who else would he fuck on my bed when I am at work? Would his friends help him carry out my stereo? Steal my clothes? Sell it all for junk?
With his hand he holds my chin and reaches up and kisses me, his thick tongue flicks in my mouth and we exchange saliva. Sweet and warm. He pulls away and lays his head deep into the pillow. He stares into my eyes, my soul. There is admiration and serenity in his face as he stares at me. His thumb caresses gently across my lips. His other hand strokes my back and it feels so good. It makes me feel so comfortable, so at calm. I lay my head on his chest and I hear his heart beating, beating, beating. So warm. So smooth. So smooth. No words are spoken.
Does he shoot up like his brother? Is he infected with diseases? AIDS? Hepatitis C? Will he kill me with his virus?
Presently, his breathing goes calm and regular and I notice he has fallen asleep in my embrace and I cradle him in my arms. I casually stroke his shaved head before I drift off into sleep. All is well in the universe at this moment.
Do you love me? Like I love you?

Sunday, November 20, 2005

Junkies and a Drag Queen.

I sat back on the squeaking bed in my hotel room and took a long drag off of my cigarette. I had checked in two friends who were visiting me from Los Angeles at the Gateway Hotel on San Antonio St., a cheap and run down building a few blocks from the international border. The hotel had to date back to the beginning of the twentieth century and it showed. My two friends who so graciously decided to fly out here was Edison Diego, a very intense fellow filmmaker, though straight, he is gay friendly because he had brought Lola La Chata with him, a four hundred pound Filipino drag queen with down syndrome. What a pair. Edison went to the corner market for more booze and I was in his room and waited.
I inhaled another toke, staring at the dusty fan slowly revolving up on the high ceiling. The pink walls were shedding and the toilet leaked constantly, the bottle of Jose Cuervo on the end table was almost empty, and somewhere down the hall the two stout housemaids were blabbing away in Spanish. Rings of Fire by Johnny Cash crackled over the FM station from the radio on the dresser.
At that moment, someone gently knocked at the door.
“Yeah?! It’s open.” I knew who it was.
The door creaked open and Lola LaChata entered the room. She was dressed in a tube dress of black and gray horizontal stripes with red pumps and a bouffant black wig.
I grinned through bloodshot eyes, “Shit, girl! You look like a big fat Mexican whore.”
“Thanks.” Lola said faking a big showgirl smile. She walked over and picked up the bottle of tequila. “I see you’ve been fucking with your buddy Jose Cuervo?” She studied my body sprawled out on his bed. “You’re drunk again, I see.”
“Don’t get any of them queer ideas.” I said sarcastically and tried to get up.
“Don’t flatter yourself, sweets. Anyway, we have to go get Edison.” Lola extended her chunky hand to assist me. I grabbed her forearm and pulled myself off of the bed. “It’s almost time to meet Fat Charlie at the restaurant.”
“Let’s go then.” I said fumbling through my pockets for the car keys. Edison had rented a Sudan, from the airport and I was the designated driver. I had a massive headache and made a mental note to take the Tylenol that I had in the glove compartment.
“Are you okay to drive?” Lola said as she watched me wobble.
“Yeah. Sure…I’m fine.” I said, belching into my fist. I was lying. I was feeling a little sick. It had been at least forty-eight hours since I had taken a hit of cocaine and my muscles ached. It didn’t matter, in a few hours I would make a beautiful score, a veritable mother load, and I would be smoothed out.
“I have a bad feeling.” Lola moaned. “We shouldn’t do this. This doesn’t feel right. I've never been to Mexico and they say this city is really dangerous”
“Oh, stop your whining and let’s go.” I stepped out into the hall and grinned. “Don’t worry, Big Mama, you’re with me.”
“That’s comforting.” Lola said as she closed the door behind her and followed me to the elevator.
We ran into Edison in the hallway, he looks like a thin Jack Nicholson, 40ish and a junky. He wore an olive blazer with a black knit shirt and black slacks. Thinning brown hair slicked back. "Ready, kid?" He said as we came out of the elevator.
"Let's go." I smiled.
We stopped to pick up Fat Charlie, you regular readers will remember he is the guy I sold my Food Stamps to when I was dating Vincent Guzman, before I went to Nebraska.
We met Fat Charlie at the border on the El Paso side. Fat Charlie wanted to go to Juarez City and score for some good coke. Why not? We passed over the International Bridge and drove down to Ave. 16 de Septembre, I had problems finding a parking spot; the traffic was horrible. I parked the car next to the old Guadalupe cathedral; a pile of ancient stone dating back a couple of centuries. From what I remembered, Juarez sprang up around the cathedral like growing fungus, spreading outward. Waiting by the bronze statue on Tin-Tan was Tony, exactly on time and looking grrr-jss in his cholo street clothes. We said hello to each other and the world seemed a little bit better know that I was with him.
The sidewalk was bustling with people; all dashing to and fro in their various affairs. As our group 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 thought. “I gotta get some smokes.”
He noticed a couple of boys selling cigarettes at the base of the missions’ steps. Good ol’ Mexico, I thought. I looked around; the area favored nothing stateside for sheer filth and poverty. Among the indifferent mass of pedestrians, people shit all over the street and then lie down and sleep in it with flies crawling in and out of their mouths. Entrepreneurs built fires in the street and cooked up hideous, stinking nameless messes of food that they dispense to passers by. Hot and dry like a Turkish Bath, and vultures eating a dead pig off a side street and everywhere you look there is some baboso scratching his balls. Yep, good ol’ Mexico.
At that moment, three little children, two boys and one girl, dressed in rags and dirty bare feet approached Lola and put out their hands and smiled.
“Oh” Lola cooed. “How adorable! Here you go.” Lola smiled, giving each kid a dollar.
“I wouldn’t do that.” I said.
And as if on cue, dozens of kids and men approached her with palms outstretched.
Tony yelled, waving his hands, “Oye! Vete de aqui ya!” (Hey! Get out of here, now!)
The group moved solemnly away.
A few feet away there was a public telephone. Without saying anything, Tony walked up and plugged a few pesos into the machine. He started talking to someone in Spanish.
An old man in a gray dirty jacket, shiny over the dirt, approached Edison with a cardboard box that was full of different brands of cigarettes. Edison pointed at a pack of Lucky Strikes and asked the street vender. “How much?”
Vente pesos.” The man said.
“What’s that…two dollars?” Edison asked.
“Yeah. More or less.” I interjected.
Si. Dos dolares.” The old man smiled and took the two crumpled bills. “Gracias.”
“Yeah…grashiass…Hey, Tony, where’s this friend of yours?” Edison asked, ripping open the package of cigarettes. Edison, Fat Charlie, and myself was to buy some cocaine from some shady friend of Tony's.
“I told him to meet us here. We’ll wait in a bar.” Tony said.
“There is one real good one just around the corner. See that row of shoe shine booths? It’s right around there.” I beamed.
Tony continued for a couple of minutes on the phone in Spanish and then hung up the receiver. “Okay, I told him to meet us at Buen Tiempo. It’ll be about thirty minutes. Let’s go.”
We crossed the busy plaza in front of the church, I new this place well. On weekends the plaza was packed with hustlers cruising for a few bucks. This was the meeting place for all the local men who wanted an afternoon diversion. Under the blazing sun, the teeming flesh eyed one another with unbridled macho lust. After the sun went down, the hustlers were a bit seasoned and more professional.
I looked at a young Mexican boy that looked back and smiled, I confided in Edison, “You know, when I moved to Juarez, the thought of paying for sex appalled me. My attitude was that I was looking for love and not sex. Guys should love me for who I am and not for what I have. This is a vulgar lie. In this gay life, there is no love…only sex. And for the most part that’s a disappointment. So, over the years I have come to look at the sex act as a commodity of necessity that can be purchased like a pair of shoes or a pack of cigarettes.”
“I wish you knew my old lady.” Edison said, taking a drag off of his cigarette.
Next to the gazebo in the middle of the plaza a group of performers dressed as Aztec Indians danced to a tribal beat. They were surrounded by locals and a scattering of curious tourists.
“Oh, why didn’t I bring my camera?” Lola moaned.
Across the plaza at the corner, the group led by me came upon a pair of old swinging wooden doors painted yellow.
I stopped and turned to the bunch, palm outward, “Well, here it is! Bar Buen Tiempo!”
Ahh…booze.” Edison said stepping in the door, removing his shades. The rest filtered in after him.
The interior was a dark low ceiling room. There where but a few patrons in the cantina; solemnly hunched over their beers, not saying anything. On one side was a long bar tended by two tough lesbians. On the other side of the bar were old booths where sex and drugs were bought over the table. There was a big jukebox that played the same tunes over and over again. And in the middle, the main floor where two hustlers stood and posed gazing out with probing insect lust.
We all filtered to the back of the bar and sat on stools. One of the ladies that tended the bar approached them was a heavily made up old woman with short blond hair. She looked far younger than her actual years and came to Tony with an outstretched palm and a smile. They greeted each other in Spanish; each with a peck on the cheek.
“Oh,” Lola complimented, “She is so pretty. I love her shoes. Are those cha-cha heels?”
Tony looked at everyone and said, “This is Sylvia. She wants to know what you want to drink.”
“Just order five caguamas.” I suggested.
“What’s a caguama?”, asked Edison.
“See those big bottles that look like forty-ouncers?” I said pointing at the other patrons’ large brown bottles around the bar. “Those are called caguamas. It’s what you want to drink if you want to save money. Single beers cost about the same. The locals order them to save money.”
“And trust, we all look like tourists.” Lola twittered.
Edison watched nervously at the door. The door swung open and an old man in black tattered clothing shuffled into the cantina. He wobbled while he walked, obviously intoxicated. As he passed Lola, he gave her a wink and a toothless smile. Though he stank of putrid urine, Lola smiled and said, “Hi.”
The old man continued shuffling on into the men’s room that was adjacent to where the group sat.
The bartender named Sylvia returned with our bottles and glasses. Serving them with lemons and salt.
Hmm, I feel right at home.” I said with a perk. “This is my old stomping ground. I used to come here and pick up all the time. This place can get pretty festive. I just love the romance of Mexico.” Like the others, I began pouring his beer into his glass.
Edison glanced over to the men’s room. From his vantage point he could see right into the restroom with an unobstructed view of the urinal trough. "Typical gay bar set up", mumbled Edison. "Freakin’ penis peepers."
The old drunken street tramp smiled his toothless smile, a black hole surrounded by a wild mane of frizzy white hair. His grin fixed on Edison; in one motion the drunk pulled down his trousers and loudly and abundantly plopped a big shit in the urinal trough.
“Lovely.” Edison said, face blank as a poker dealers. He took a big gulp of his beer.
Ignoring the crap show that Edison was witnessing, I spoke to both Lola and Fat Charlie, but loud enough for Edison to pick up what I was saying. “Yeah. The people down here are so cool…I’ve never had a problem with them. Unlike Americans. You know, I have so many friends in Juarez…and I mean friends for life! Americans themselves are a defensive culture…Mexicans I think are more open and friendly.”
Speakin’ of friendly,” Fat Charlie smiled at me and said, “Follow me into the restroom, young man. I want to talk to you.”
I new exactly what this conversation was going to be about. I followed Fat Charlie into the men’s room. The old tramp wobbled out, patting me on the shoulder on the way, cackling. The room smelled unbelievably foul.
Fat Charlie entered the only stall, “Just a minute, young man, I’ll be right out.”
I waited outside the metal stall for a minute. I heard the distinct sniffing and snorting from Fat Charlie that could only mean one thing. I shifted from one foot to another as my junk cells snapped into overdrive. I glanced down at the urinal trough that lined the opposite wall with the mound of feces piled in the middle; a putrid brown stream flowing down to the drain trap at the end. The steel door to the stall swung open with a resounding clang.
As Fat Charlie exited the metal cubical, he winked at me, his face distorted in a silly grin, said: “Please, step in my office, senor. First…do I have anything showing?” He lifted his head so I could see full view of his hairy nostrils; they were caked in meth and dried mucus.
“No,” I said. “You can’t tell anything.”
“Righty-oh!” Fat Charlie breathed.
As Fat Charlie returned to the bar, I entered the stall and noticed that there were two extremely fat lines of white crystal methedrine lying across the top of the graffitied toilet paper dispenser. With one fluid motion, I whipped out a single twenty peso bill from my wallet, rolled it into a tube and sniffed the meth up. I stood straight up and habitually leaned my head back and snorted the drug into my sinuses. I wiped the residue off of the dispenser with my index finger and casually massaged it across my gums. The junk circuits in my mind began to pop and crackle to life as the drug began to take hold. With twitching galvanized movements I returned to the bar.
Lola and Fat Charlie where whispering secrets to each other and giggling as I took his seat. I looked at the two, croaked, “What?”
Edison lit another cigarette and turned to me, ignoring Tony, who was having an animated conversation with the bartender, Sylvia. Edison said looking around, “You know, I bet it wouldn’t cost us that much to open a bar here. How much do you think? Three? Four thou?”
“Would it be a gay bar?” I said, tensely.
“Ah fuck no! I’d make it a swanky joint and fill it full of slot machines and teenage hookers! Ya know, fifteen, sixteen years old. Of coarse they’d all have to sleep with me to get the job.” Edison took a puff from his cigarette.
“You’d have to pay the cops off. Especially for something that crooked.” I said and grabbed a lemon and squeezed a few drops into his beer. Lola and Charlie started laughing and both got up and went into the restroom.
At that moment two men entered the cantina. The obvious leader of the twosome was in his early fifties. He was tall with salt and pepper hair. The thick mustache was also gray. He was in good health and handsome for his age; not a wrinkle on his solid masculine latino face with black slits for eyes. He was well groomed and dressed, sporting a mustard suit with a white t-shirt under the buttoned blazer. He wore a solid gold chain around his muscular neck that read Hector. His black shiny boots clacked as he walked with confident deliberation flanked by his lackey; a short stocky Mexican in a white tank top and dark brown chinos. His body was a mass of scars and tattoos. These were Tony's friends and our connections.
Tony introduced the older guy as Hector and I forgot his name. Hector asked edison into the men's room and a deal was made. Momentarily, Hector and his lackey left. For the next six hours it was a pi-snorting good time of a drunken coke fueled party. My two friends, along with Fat Charlie had a good time. As the hours passed the small bar began to fill with a multitude of local fags. They went nuts over Lola. We all got pretty ripped. La Tortura by Shakira blared and an old man in a cowboy suit and silver teeth danced alone to the reggaeton that blared. At two, we crawled across the border, smuggling the dope with us without a hitch. The following morning, I went to the El Paso airport and saw them off. Taking the bus back to the border, I thought of the possibility of maybe returning to Los Angeles.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Candy Shop.

object width="425" height="350">

Friday, November 11, 2005

Martian War Machines are go!

This is the coolest thing ever! EVER!!!

H.G. Wells The War of the Worlds is one of my favorite books. Steven Spielberg's take on it was okay, it could of been better and the one that came out in 1953 is still awesome. Anyway, I hear some company is making a movie that IS the book, meaning it takes place in 1899 London. Suppose to come out next summer on either the Sci-Fi Channel or direct to DVD. It is said to have everything: Big black tentacled slugs for Martians, the cylinders that fall from the sky with the war machines in them, Heat Rays that burst folks into fire and not poofs of dust that leaves your britches floating around, the black smoke, and the Red Weed. I now have a reason to stay alive.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Kafkan Hi-jinks and Tony Baloney.

Wake up and gargle a pot of Joe down, scrub my ass, and hit the dusty teaming streets of Juarez City. J-Town, to the brain damaged locals. I visit the market looking for a new manicure set; found it for fiddy cents. Buy gel, a shirt that says "Puta" with the Puma logo, and sit in front of the Cathedral Guadalupe and sip horchata.
Flashback to the first night in my apartment, short haggish landlady shuffles around in frayed slippers giving me a grand tour of my new trap. I inspect everything like a good American queer, flushing the toilet, checking the tap, bouncing on the bed, I notice a small cockroach skittering across the green tiled floor.
"Uh, is there a bug problem? You did spray when you cleaned the place, right, Maria?" I asked watching the critter scamper under the bureau.
Cough and a cackle, she assured me that I might see a couple roaches this being Juarez and all. So, that night I retire in my bed naked for a night of peaceful slumber. In the pitch black that's when I hear them. Skitter-skitter-skitter. Flicking on the lamp the floor and walls and ceiling are covered by a mass of small cockroaches. Yes, I screamed like a girl. Shaking out my clothes, I hurriedly dressed and ran down to the corner store that is opened 24 hours and purchased two cans of highly toxic Mexican bug spray.
With a bandanna around my mouth and nose and my Mike Teevee white goggles I kick open the front door with a can of spray in each hand. "Prepare to meet your Apocalypse, fuckers!" I growl and enter my pad, guns-ablazin'. After spraying every inch of my apartment, woozy and half blinded by the fumes, I sweep up the carnage and dump them into a large empty mayonnaise jar. Placing the jar in front of my landlady's door with a note that read, "Here are those one or two bugs that you said I'd encounter. Love, #12."
Flashbulb back to now, I chuckle at that and walk around the Plaza browsing the shops. I light up a Lucky Strike and I hear, "Hey, guedo, got a smoke?" I turn around to see a short skinny guy in wife beater, baggy khaki pants, with a skinned head. His brown eyes are large and sparkle with inner youth, brown freckles splashed across his cheeks and nose. He had a smile like a predator, showing small white teeth. Nice toned pecs. I hand him a cigarette.
"Thanks. Where ya going?" He asked, lighting up.
"I was thinking of going to get a bowl of menudo. There is this restaurant that I know and the menudo is quite toothsome."
"For reals! I love menudo. Let me go with you." He smiled that smile again.
"Uhm, what's your name?" I asked.
"Tony Sentimatalis." He said. And I told him mine and we walked the couple of blocks to Cafe Mimi, a ratty joint but has the best menudo in greater Juarez. We sat and talked. He is twenty one years old and he used to live in the States for eleven years, hence his perfect English, but was deported with his illegal parents two years ago. He can live in the States, but prefers to stay with his ailing mother. He then went into a long tirade about how he was hit by a truck while crossing the street and lay in a coma for three months, showing the scars here and there on his lean torso to accent his story. "I'm a little crazy. They took some of my brain out."
"Really." I said, slurping down my menudo. This guy is cute but definitely a strange character. Several cups of coffee later, he asks, "So, watta ya gonna do right now?"
"I was thinking of spending a day at the movies." The porno movies that is. Juarez has a nefarious porno theater that is legendary. It seemed like a nice way to while away the afternoon.
"Can I go with you? I haven't been to the movies forever." He asked, lighting up another of my cigarettes.
"Well, I'm going to the porno theater. You might not like it...a lot of fags go there and suck each others cock." I stated matter of factly putting on my Willy Wonka sunglasses and reaching for my wallet to pay the bill.
"Oh, man," He smiled. "I haven't had a blow job forever. If you don't mind...can I go with you?"
Yes. Why not?
Across the Park and pay the lady the sixty pesos for us both and enter the two theater building. The inside smelled of mildew and semen. Several Mexicans walked out of one theater to the other one, looking at me with a raised eyebrow. Tony and I walked into the cavernous first theater. Once a grand movie palace, now it was in ruins with huge gaping holes in the roof and great cracks rendered the flaking cement walls; it looked as if the building would collapse at any moment. Feeling our way in the darkness, we found the balcony and sat next to each other in old wooden seats. Flickering on the torn screen was an old American porno from the eighties, dubbed in Italian with Spanish subtitles. Scattered around the large theater sat several Mexicans, some in pairs, some alone, others cruising up and down the aisles.
Tony noticed some young guy blowing another a few rows away. "Hey, look! Omigod! Is he sucking that dudes dick?" He whispered.
"No, he's probably looking for his lost contact lens. Of coarse, tonto, what do you think they're doing!" I joked.
"A guebo, that's hot." I heard Tony whisper from the darkness. Suddenly, I felt Tony take my hand and place it onto his crotch. He was very excited. Zip and pull his penis free of his boxers, playing with his foreskin and the little drop of lubricant that formed at the tip. With the wacka wacka wacka music of the porno movie wafting through the stale air, I leaned over and gave Tony a blow job. Hissing "Aie que rico!", emptying his semen into my mouth. "Wow, that was the best head I'd ever had in my life!" He blurts out way too loud. "You need to get out more often." I say. We sit through two movies and five blow jobs later, the young boy is getting comfortable and clings onto me like a little monkey. I look down into his face in the gloom, "You know, when I first met you I never thought you would be gay."
"Everyone is gay." He said flatly and held my chin and gave me the most sweetest of kisses. We sat there, arms rapped around each other until the movie was over. Outside, I invited Tony to dinner and as we ate our burritos al fresco with a Sol cervesa each, we talked of Nike sneakers and science fiction, fat transvestite hookers and the fact that he never has seen the ocean, Mexican wrestling and the latest model of Mustang. Getting late, he had to take the bus back to his barrio which was a million miles away. I walked him to his bus stop.
"Can I see you again? I really like you." He said, eyes looking deep into mine.
We made a date for tomorrow night, to go to the regular movies. He wants to see Sin City, I said I saw it and was really good but wouldn't mind seeing it again. With people bustling around us, shaking hands, he squeezed my fingers, and boarded his bus. As the old bus farted out black smoke and chugged down the bumpy road, I turned and walked away wondering why I am such a sucker for love. Yet, my lust is drowned out by doubt and mistrust from a thousand nameless assholes.
Just the same, I want to see him again.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Home, happiness, and hookers.

Afterwards a man finds pleasure in his pains, when he has suffered long and wondered long.”
--Homer, The Odyssey
A ticket was bought, a bus boarded, and headed west.
The bus ride back to El Paso was mired in deep depression and loathing.
Through the custom checks and police patrols, through Eagle Pass and down in a blast of desert breeze, warm wind in the face and three armadillos ran across the road, down into the sound of running water (Brown sludge of the Rio Bravo, cabrone.) Everybody on the bus seemed high, laughing and talking at once, swinging around curves over a misty void, and the driver pointed out the white crosses with little brays of laughter and sipped aguardiente from a bottle proffered by a shy Indian cop.
Veinte y dos muertos.”
Dos jovenes quemados vivo.”
Viva la sport!” Ejaculates an American queen, two cameras dangle on his great bosom, extension and light filters across his breast, seeking the succulent young subject with a dead tinted eye…he leans back into the seat and squeeze the light filters...leering at my succulent crotch.
Shift of gears, squeal of brakes, we roll into El Paso, Texas. Here the dream is suffocating, more real than real, the past actually, incredibly, invading the present. It's like you can reach out and have your youth all over again so solid, nostalgia taking solid form and face... but the fraud is immediately apparent. And the horror, the fear of stasis and decay closes around your heart. Down to the end of the road town of El Paso. Black Stetsons and the grey malaria faces color of dirty paper, muzzle loading shotguns and vultures pecking in the streets…
El Paso. Black winds of hate blew through dead colorless trees. On a bleak day, rolled into town broke and stomach ached from doubt and hunger. Stumbled to the Rescue Mission, newly painted puke yellow, water tower torn down, trees uprooted, old Mexican man passed out in mud and piss near the doorway…
Met with viscous hostilities from Juana Ortega. The whole town seemed to scream:
Get out! You are no longer welcome! Go home!
Home? I have no home.
During my absence, my craftiness pay off as I received my last paycheck from the Wal-mart job that I held in Cooperstown. I lucked out again and attained a room at the old apartment building I lived in before in Juarez City over the border in Mexico. Even my old neighbor, an ancient black man who has lived in Juarez since day before one commented, “Damn, white boy! Cain’t you ever stay put in one place?” Other neighbors of dim past, the Amazonian transvestite Lupe LaChata and next door my queeny little friend Rene Nunoz.
The apartment is a clean studio, fully furnished, in a dead end alley behind a whore hotel. Rent's $120.00 a month American. Will get my ass out and hustle up a job. Things are going to get cool.
Ah, Juarez! There is something there you never see or find, in a silk stocking thrown over a rotten teak wood balcony, secret police in a black suit and black glasses, the dull liver sick hate congested in his eyes like toad poison…
The smooth brown loin of the pimp swells and rots in syphilis, albinos blink in the sun, boys sit in long rows under cool arcades reading manga comic books—they do not move their legs as people walk by…
Yesterday, afternoon I was shopping in Wal-Mart in El Paso when I ran into Juan Holguin and his wife. Juan just passed his wife and daughter over the border two weeks ago. After saying hellos and being very cordial, Juan offered to first take his wife home and then to drop me off at me apartment in Juarez. His wife, Maribel, eyed me with contempt and distrust. How was I to blame her after her finding out that I’d been banging her husband.
Once at my apartment it didn’t take us long to get the bedsprings to start squeaking. Man, I am such a fool for that boy! I don't need to go into the sordid positions that I was flung into, I was never the type to kiss and tell, sweethearts. However, after that little interlude of homosexual hankypanky, Juan and I decided to go play pool and have some beers. It was a pretty calm afternoon, until this guy walked into the pool hall wearing a white goddamn doctor’s coat and offered to sell Juan some cocaine. Juan, being his usual suave self, conned me out of thirty dollars and bought the coke. Like a greedy kid with candy, Juan raced me back to my apartment. He promptly pulled out a syringe that he bought from God knows where and shot the coke into his arm. I went ape shit! I called Juan all types of sordid names and threw him out in a rampaging fit of rage. My nerves a wreck from the long trip I just endured, I stood on my balcony crying, Rene, that little Mayan hero, at least came out of his apartment to comfort me. My heart sank and I became bitter and depressed. Why the ones we love are always the ones that hurt us.
What else was there to do? I blasted Girls Are Doing It For Themselves by Annie Lennox and Rene and I, with beers in hand, danced wildly until the sun set over the grimy landscape...