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.