Monday, February 27, 2006

Banos Roma

Felt quite drowsy after work, so I dragged myself to bed and took a snooze before I decided to go out. OUT. The word itself held notorious implications. I was in a party mood. The week was weird and I had to let off steam. I showered, had a small toke of ganja, gulped a shot of tekilla and bolted out the door.

I first hit Burrito Row to yak a bit with Beto and Andrian the two Eye Candies that work at this one shop as I munched burritos mole and smoked a Lucky Strike we chatted and chortled about cars and cocaine in which Beto swindled me outta fifty pesos to purchased said narcotic. Back room and - snort...wheee! Took off like a rocket, daddy-oh! Feelin´ it, I walked down the strip, checking out the chilongos in thier goof suits and dashed into Bar Buen Tiempo for a caguama and a chat with Ricardo and or Alfredo. However, the place was devoid of any acquaintance of mine. Three freakin´caguamas later and one mean buzz, I decided to call it quits and after talking to an inneresting character in the terlet (Insulting his virtue about cleanliness- some folks just don´t need to shake hands when your taking a piss, don´t care how hot yer cock looks, ya know?) I walked outta there and into the cobblestone maze of the Old Mercado and to this little queer bar that I remembered from the old days called Cabalitas. Let in the steel door by a grinning dyke the place was packed and after being served by a tattooed and well scared cholo named..well...Cholo, I was finally reunited with my good pal Alfredo. I was introduced to his two friends the Ignacios. Both being named Ignacio but not related.

Much gaiety and faggotry commenced and a good time was had. Hit on by some real hot hotties, but I was coming down with a flu or some kinda cold virus and I wasn´t in the mood for no homosexual I just played the hard to get role, ya dig. Never saw so many horrendous transvestites outside New Orleans was a goddamn horror show! Amazonian half men in multicolored spandex that many resembled neanderthals in drag paraded around in flowers, furs, and fluff. The screeching and squawking! Ech!

Alfredo, the Ignacios, and I stumbled next door over cracked and garbage covered pavement to a shabby barnsized disco. I never got the name, but had quite a good time. The place reminded me much of Freegay. Many a gay cholo and bi curious men strolled through the dank smoke choked darkness. Mexican Ranchero music mixed with Reggeaton kept the small dancefloor packed in which Alfredo and I would frequent often. Still gotta learn that mambo!

This one skin headed shorty asked me to dance, I obliged and we boogied. Next thing I new we were tongue wrestling up against the wall and he kissed so hot, I could feel his stiff organ through his khakis. But, his friends had to go and he left with them...oh, well. Another skinny cholo with a scraggy goatee asked me to by him a beer and I said sure if you kiss me with you tongue. He mumbled something to the effect that he wasn´t queer and I said, well that´s my price and he faded into the darkness. Eventually, Alfredo and I decided to split...I felt real tired because I began to get sicker from this head cold. We said good night to the Ignacios and took off. I walked Alfredo to his bus stop. However, since we both were hungry Alfredo and I stopped to get a bite to eat at an all night chicken joint. Pollo Feliz. Alfredo invited me to go to Banos Roma with him the following day and I said sure, why not? After the late dinner, I said goodbye to ´Fredo and went home and crashed.

Waking up with a slight hangover I downed a shot of Jose and showered, dressed and clomped up to a small cafe to eat breakfast. Great juevos rancheros! At ten in the morning, I then met ´Fredo in front of the Cathedral to start our day of wicked debauchery at Banos Roma. I´ve always heard of this bath house, but have never been to it. We briskly walked the short blocks to the corners of Majia and Constitution and entered the old dilapidated building. In the lobby, an old man took our personals and placed them in a lock box. We payed him 76 pesos each and then entered the baths proper. The place was real dirty. There was black mold in the cracks of the pink and white tiles and the paint peeled off of the green walls. We found a little cubicle that was covered in obscene graffiti that had rusted hooks on the walls and a small cot. The attendant issued us each a ragged brown towel.

Alfredo and I both undressed and split up. There were several good looking men walking around naked. I felt kind of self conscious, everyone was dark brown and my skin was so pasty and white...but that was soon to become an advantage. I found the steam room. And I was quite the popular one in there. I was fucked fore and aft. Over and over and over and over...Dear Reader, I lost count. There was so much good cock...around the middle of the afternoon I told Alfredo I had to leave. I was worn out. There were hickeys all on my back, between my legs, on my ass...I had no sperm left, cock didn´t work no more...ass sore...

´Fredo and I dressed, tipped the towel guy, and left. I wobbled with my good friend to his bus stop and said my goodbyes. Returning home and to a deep sleep, I now realize I have a new place to while away my Sunday afternoons...and with any luck I can conquer this cold.

Friday, February 24, 2006

The Clock is Off.

The sky is illuminated by blue bursts of electrical fire. Rain falls hard, drenching me and the scrawny hooker tittering on the corner in her see through plastic pumps. She looks like a melting wax figure, like she has some hideous cancer. She squawks at me and through the rainy haze and the sound of her voice the she is a he. I press on home streets now have become rivers and sewage outlets spew forth a dry winters worth of back up.
I cut the corner to my trap, soaked to the bones, turn the key and slop my wet shoes into my house. Lights are turned on and I peel my clothes off like a used condom. Stove burns blue flame, water boils and steams, and a cuppa hot coffee is made. I hunker down and watch Eraserhead just to make sure my life isn't that bad. The credits roll and I slip into my bed. Rain always has made me drowsy.
I had a headache, me, and took a handful of aspirin before knocking off for the night.
Poom! Poom! Poom! Somebody is knocking at my door. The clock reads 2:36 a.m. Poom! Poom! Poom! I fling the covers off and reach for my pajama bottoms (I have always slept naked. Can't have it any other way. Wouldn't you?) I pull the front door open to find Jose, a teenage kid from the neighborhood standing on my landing with kind of a glow. His eyes were all pupil and he sniffed constantly. He went into some tirade about how he was in need of money and that his Grandmother was sick and that...Basta! Can't you tell how late it is!? I was sleeping! Some of us hafta work for a living instead of staying up all night taking dope! Don't bother me again! Slam!!
Had a hard time sleeping after that. Put on some Juliee Cruise and she always makes me drift away. So, the alarm goes off, reggaeton blares forth; it is 5:20 a.m. I stagger to the shower and bathe in lukewarm water, dress and hit the dark streets...still wet after last nights storm. I buy two burritos pulpa from the plump smiling lady on the side of the road, traffic whizzes by to the United States, there is black dust in the cracks of her face. I gobble down one burrito before vaulting the turnstile to the International Bridge. A phone call is made and a coworker happily picks me up, stopping first at Starbuck's for a frappaccino mocha. Delish!
Work dragged like a wounded snail and I was nearly comatose by time it was to get off. I hitched another ride back to the border and jet across that long divide. Shriveled shit covered junkies in rags and ponchos, hands outstretched, looking like beat Christ's beg for change down under the bridge. You can hear their pleaful cries...they go unnoticed as all I see in front of me is a wall of fat asses, bouncing ahead of me. An impenetrable wall of flesh.
Stop by Burrito Row, a small street offa Meriscal Avenue that cater to junkie, fag, hooker, and hobo alike. Row after row of metal shacks - twelve of them and the smell of seared meat and stale beans waft through the dusty air. I order a burrito mole with manzana fresca and shoot the shit with Adrian, the hottie that works there. I chomp my mess all the while wondering what'll it take to nail that fine ass. But, I digress...I was still very sleepy and decided to make my way home. Saying adios, I walk through the muggy air - the occasional tsk tsk from the prowling hooker - dodging the kamikaze bus, the suicide taxi. I reach my humble flat and reach for the $150 I stashed under a copy of Edgar Rice Burrough's A Princess of Mars. Next door I pay the rent to the slightly crazed landlady and her oily son watches over me - the old haggish bitch counts the money and miscounts twice before agreeing this is the rent. Heh - crazy ass bitch.
Back at my place, I sit with a Sol Cerveza and switch channels on my big 32inch flat screen telly I had just purchased with my tax return. Nothing but crap, but there was a rap at my front door and was surprised to find Lazo, a self styled street guide for gringos. He tried to impress me with his showmanship the first night we met, but I up'd him one by not only knowing all the dives in Juarez, but ended the night with a jack off competition on my couch whilst watching feelthy porno. Lazo being the straight and narrow and no room for jotos in his life. Still he spurted a lot of jizz onto my tiled floor that night.
Anyhoo, inviting Lazo in he began bleating the same old same old and needed cash and, well, one thing led to another and I found myself sucking that short fat cock of his as the DVD Pick Up Chixxx flickered on screen. The boy, though reluctant at first but when ya need the money well ya need the money, must've been pretty damn horny. Not ten slurps up and down his stiff brown shaft and he was squirting gobs of semen into my mouth; clenching the bed covers with one hand and grabbing the back of my head with the other. He squirmed and grunted as he nutted a mouthful. What can I say, I'm a natural.
Both of us showered, I gave him one hundred pesos and he split. I marched over to the Internet Cafe - the late afternoon streets teeming with life. Fat fag in pinstriped jeans checks me out as I pass the shoe store, smells of mouthwatering chicken are displayed in neon blasted windows with bum pissing onto the outside wall. Small Indian children, snot caked black on their faces, grab my pant leg as I walk by - moanay! moanay! - a clown, a fucking guy dressed as a circus clown DJ's in front of a record shop. My way is clogged by a group of young boys in soccer outfits - they stand laughing talking, I stare at them with broken limitless insect lust. Shoe shine boys call out to shine me leathers as I stroll past blue, yellow, pink adobe houses and buildings erected a hundred years ago. The stores vendors hawk their wares - vying for my attention. The music from various shops is deafening - I cut into the Internet Cafe, order a cappuccino, and bang these words out...

Saturday, February 18, 2006

Pink and Green Sombrero.

How I loathe women. A human virus on this planet. God created Adam to worship and adore Him and out of the kindness of His heart He made Eve for companionship, but that hateful bitch fucked it up and women have been a hindrance ever since. There is this cooze at work that has taken a definite dislike to me. Always fucking up my orders. Spreading rumors. However, I will show her. I'll paint her little red wagon.

But, I am not bitter.

A co-worker, we shall call him B.J., is taking a week off to venture to Alabama to visit his sister and has entrusted me in purchasing him a sombrero for him to take as a gift. Make it real festive. Heh, you got it, bucko. But, how I hate going into those Mexican curios shops - the pushy sales people, the bartering, at which I am terrible - but, I agreed and I am a fag of his word. So, after work, I hit the frontera and stomped down the main drag past the dirty Indians hawking silver crosses that will turn black within an hour, pass the taxi drivers who know the feelthiest pussy, past the sad mariachis playing music to no one and walked into a small mercado that sold tacky tourist trinkets. Instantly about five merchants jumped up, caked dust falling offa them, rushing towards me...

"Blankets, meester?"
"Fine leather wallets?"
"Silver jewlrey?"
"Authentic Mexican knives?"

"No, I need a sombrero". I stated. And India Maria escorted me into her dark shop and showed me her wares. Various sombreros were offered until I found the most outlandish and ugly one there was and purchased it for five dollars flat. I later would tell B.J. that I bought it for ten dollars. Yeah, I'm like that. The eyesore was made of straw and garnished with green and yellow ribbons with pink fuzzy balls around the rim. It was emblazoned with Viva Mexico! across the top. Fabulous.

I paid and as the sun went down and the stars came out I started home with my bundle. Turning the corner on my street, I stopped to light a cigarette when from the other side a tall skinny Mexican came running up to me.

"Oye, oye!" He said. He was not bad looking. Goatee. Brown, short hair. Long thin nose. Slim build. He stopped in front of me. He began to babble on about how his grandmother doesn't have any money for gas to heat her house and that she is very cold. He isn't asking for money for gas but he needed bus fare to go see her. I explained to him that I didn't have any change, I only had a ten dollar bill and that I was sorry I can't help him. As I was beginning to walk away, he grabbed my arm and pleaded to get change at the seafood restaurant on the corner. I looked at my arm and then him.

"Look", I said in Spanish, "The place is closed and it's late. There is no where to get change." He dropped his arm and I saw the suffering in his eyes. That suffering in the cells alone. He was junk sick. There was no grandmother. The boy needed money to score for junk. But, he was so damn hot. I played my trump card. I mean the guy was real attractive. "You really need this money?" He shook his head yes. I continued in Spanish. "I'll give you the whole ten dollars if you come to my house."

He looked at me blankly, "What for?" I blurted out to have sex and without a pause he agreed. "Where do you live?" He asked. I pointed just two blocks away. He said his name was "Joe". Not Jose, but Joe.

I pushed my door open and invited Joe in. We both drank a beer as I popped a straight porno into the DVD player. Joe laughed when I pulled out a joint and we passed it back between each other as he sat on the couch eyes transfixed on the blond puta getting the bajeebus getting fucked outta her on screen. Joe took one last drag and looked at me then said, "Listo, Americano?" Joe and I got undressed. What a body. Dark and fucking ripped! What abs! He laid me down on my bed and climbed on top of me grinding his pelvis into mine as he bit and sucked on my neck. My legs wrapped around his hips and I clung to his back, biting and licking his ears, neck and chin. I gasped and Joe breathed in my ear how handsome I was and I tried to kiss him but he would always pull away. Joe was very careful not to kiss me - have to understand, the boy ain't no queer. God, I love this culture!
Rolling Joe over onto his back, I licked down his brown chest and rock hard stomach to his long skinny penis and worked on that for awhile. He hissed through clenched teeth and whispered nasty words in Spanish as I sucked and licked on his cock. He grabbed my hair with his thin fingers and guided my head in a steady rhythm. Joe pulled me back up and pushed me onto my stomach, sliding on top of me, he spit onto my asshole and fingered me so nasty, I squirmed and moaned - lunging up into me, he thrust and pounded until with a guttural sigh he spurt his semen hot into me. Slipping out of me he walked over into the kitchen, he used a dishrag to wipe himself off. I dressed myself in my pajama bottoms and a t-shirt and lit a cigarette as I watched him get dressed. At the door, I handed him the ten dollars, shaking hands and said in Spanish, "Say 'Hi' to Grandma for me." And he was gone.
I took a shower and popped on some Blondie. I looked over at the couch and the mess of yellow straw and green and yellow ribbon. That asshole better like that sombrero.

Thursday, February 16, 2006

Death Wish.

Today, in downtown El Paso, I was standing in the Central Park staring at some Mexican cholo boys and sucking on a Lucky Strike in my Wonkavision glasses when all of a sudden I heard this tremendous crash. I whirled around, as did everyone else, except the pigeons who scattered to the four winds shitting a rain of feces on all below, just to witness the end of a collision between two transit trolleys. These trolleys are small buses that scoot around El Paso and resemble streetcars from the old frontier days. Well, the two drivers, who with my vivid imagination, must've been doped to the gills with coke and rammed completely into each other, causing one to lift off of the ground, careening sideways and bouncing up onto the sidewalk barely missing several scrambling terrified pedestrians. Metal and smoke and parts were everywhere! Me and several gawkers hooted and hollered and all I thought! Those lucky motherfuckers on board those trolleys are freaking rich!!
Take two nights ago, I am standing at a hamburger stand on Avenida Mariscal in Cuidad Juarez, Mexico and chomping on a burger al fresco when a coworker from El Paso comes stumbling by and goes into this long spiel about how he was hit by a taxi crossing the street. I asked was it here or in the States? He said the States and the taxi hit him at a red light! He got the plate number and the taxi number. He has an ambulance chasing lawyer filing a claim and the company is Yellow Cab...a fucking national company.
Or my friend in San Diego who's shoe got caught in the escalator at Horton Plaza mall and ripped his little toe off before he could yank his foot free. Settled for $25,000,000.
All I ask is for where is my piece? You read my blog...I should be dead. Not even a scratch. Why can't I ever get hit by a bus or shot by a coke bottle top in the eye or hot coffee dropped on my crotch in Jack in the Box? No!!!!! I hafta be the luckiest fucker in the world!! All I want is one goddamn accident so I can sue some fucking fat cat company for an obscene amount of money and invest it in my movie.
Is that to much to ask?

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Earthbound Junk Ghost.

5:20 a.m. The alarm goes off.

There is nothing better - nothing in the world - than waking up in the warm arms of a handsome man on a cold morning. Oscar turns up at me, slow and sleepy like a turtle - buena dias - smiles, rubs sleep out of his eyes with my thumb gently...together hit the shower with the tiles still cold and the full moon bright and stars twinkling. Down a cuppa instant coffee and out the door - not without a smooch goodbye - and we part ways on the corner littered with trash that damn mangy dog nuzzles through yesterdays garbage dies a day later from stale rotten meat.

I walk briskly huddled in my black leather with cigarette hanging and puffing through adobe and brick haciendas - fat young whores, purposeful carriers of diseases lurk in darken doorways selling their wares. Dirty latex stretch over bruises and pimples. Tsk...tsk...wanna fuck me baby. I walk on, ignoring the filthy bitches. Pigeons swarm high above the green gymnasium where Oscar and I witnessed the midget Luche Libre the night before, funniest shit I hadda sit still for, I tell ya. Walking through Mariscal Avenue this early you see the junkies in full scope, Dear Reader.
The world network of junkies, tuned on a cord of rancid jissom, tying up in furnished rooms, shivering in the junk-sick morning. (Old time schmeckers suck the black smoke in the Chink laundry back room and Salbador Robles dies from an overdose of time or cold turkey withdrawal of breath.) In San Diego, Tucson, New Orleans, New York City and Tijuana -- shivering under the air hammers and the steam shovels, shrieked junky curses at one another neither of us heard, and The Man leaned out of a passing steam roller and I coped in a bucket of tar. (Note: Tijuana is being torn down and rebuilt, especially shabby junk quarters. Tijuana has more heroin junkies than NYC. ) The living and the dead, in sickness or on the nod, hooked or kicked or hooked again, come in on the junk beam and the Connection is eating Chop Suey on Orizaba Street, Juarez, dunking pound cake in the late night cafe, chased up Exchange Place by a baying pack of People. ( Note: People is New Orleans slang for narcotic fuzz. ) The old Chinaman dips river water into a rusty tin can, washes down a yen pox hard and black as a cinder. ( Note: Yen pox is the ash of smoked opium. )

Yeah - remember my old junky days, me...This is a yen of the brain alone, a need without feeling and without body, earthbound ghost need, rancid ectoplasm swept out by an old junky coughing and spitting in the sick morning.

So, I jump the border munching onna burrito pulpa and drag through work with the most dreary of people. Man, these people I work with just don't dig it - you know. They are not there. Their idea of a good time is watered down drinks at Hooter's, ferthecrissakes!! Whistle blew and I ran back to the safety of South of The Border, man!

Note: Upset that I had to change appointments with my psychiatrist. Couldn't make a meet. A meet lack - and that is a drag. Came a long way in therapy. The only thing to conquer can I describe my mind? Okay. Say you have a television with picture in picture capabilities and that television had cable with over three hundred channels. Now, you where flipping through those channels continuously very fast all the time nonstop. The way I talk to people or focus on something is where the picture in picture comes in. That is the way my mind is - twenty four fucking hours a day!!! Now do you understand? Of course you don't. All you care about is how many times I get my ass fucked, you perverts.

The sun setting, glorious orange over desert mountain ranges I stop and buy a pack of Lucky Strikes when I am approached by old acquaintance named Pepe. Old friend. Old and nasty. Well, actually he is quite the looker and using his seductive ways tempted me back to his one room trap with the grey concrete walls and the dripping toilet and the dirty dishes piled on the rickety table - but the guy is hung, right! Well, Pepe and I lay on his cot...yeah he got a fucking army cot to sleep on...kissing and pawing when he stops and asks if I wanna take a bang first. A what? A bang, shoot? Man...I stopped doing that weird shit. One hit won't put you back on.

So, Pepe pulls out his works and we tie up and that shit goes in all clean and pure, right.

Broken images exploded softly in my head, and I was moving out of myself in a silent swoop. Clear and sharp from a great distance I saw myself sitting in a lunchroom. Overdose of H. Oscar shaking me and holding hot coffee under my nose. Outside an old junky in Santa Claus suit selling Christmas seals. "Fight tuberculosis, folks," he whispers in his disembodied, junky voice. Salvation Army choir of sincere, homosexual football coaches sings: "In the Sweet Bye and Bye." I drifted back into my body, an earthbound junk ghost.

"Roll up your sleeve, kid." The boy fumbled his coat sleeve with a weak hand.

"That's okay. I'll get it." Pepe undid the shirt button at the wrist and pushed the shirt and coat up, baring a thin brown forearm. Pepe hesitated, looking at the dropper. Sweat ran down his nose. The boy was looking up at me. I shoved the needle in the boy's forearm and watched the liquid drain into the flesh. I straightened up.

The boy lay down, stretching. "I feel real sleepy. Didn't sleep all last night." His eyes were closing. The vegetable serenity of junk settled in his tissues. His face went slack and peaceful, and his head fell forward. I sat back in my chair, crossed my legs and lit a cigarette. Digging Your Scene by The Blow Monkeys started on the radio. I grabbed my coat and walked out. Stammer out into the crisp night. Everything sharp and clear. Over to the Internet Cafe to pound this out...

Good night, World.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Wet Black Meat.

Dirt blows over cracked cobblestones. Razor barbed wire catches plastic bags singing horrible noises. Cold air bites hard and nasty through thin pants as I bolt across the bridge international hands in pockets, the winds blow fierce. Slap the thirty five cents down under the watchful eyes of the grossly obese rent-a-cop. He comments something...mumbles from fat chapped lips caked with white ectoplasm. That is why he has this job bloated fuck can't get anything else. It is a race up and over. Couple huddle scamper past me - I dodge around two old ladies, bags blocking my way. Halfway over tall handsome Mexican boy looks off over at the river. What is he looking at? A friend crossing? Dreaming of his next trek? What are in those sad brown dry eyes...
I walk down the garish arabesque neon of Juarez Avenue. Not a soul. Drunk corpse lies in some one else's overcoat, shiny over the dirt. Cowboy a foot away talks to Durango via cellular. Taxi drivers don't even bother me. The wind blows harder. Trash and dirt swirls in eddies across the street up up into the blank dark. Dirt in my eyes. Fucking desert! I cross a street in front of Tequila Derby - Weekend be-bop joint for teenage revilers and high school hipsters - look down the alley. Taxi? Said meekly. He knows I need nothing. I stop to buy a pack of Lucky Strikes from my friend huddled in a cove of crumbling masonry, small television emitting black and white images of The Simpsons in Espanola. We chat on the weather. Nasty. Muy feo.
Two queens walk by and give me the eye as I pass The Cafe. I stride up to the corner and cut down my street, hands in jacket pocket, cigarette hanging from mouth in a real James Dean fashion, you dig, giving the fags their B-movie production. Down my silent street. Lampposts emit yellow glows...some areas dark and foreboding with shadow like phantoms moving in them. Black dog drags something grisly and wet in its maw. It whines and stops. Scratch. Scratch. Picks the black wet thing up again and trots off down the dark street lined with brick and adobe houses. Is it meat?
I light another cigarette and walk to the corner, the wind is howling fierce. I stand under the lamp and listen to the buzzing of the condenser. I think of Oscar. I think of William. I think of Tony. I think of all the things I have done the previous year. Sometimes I wish I never left Tijuana. Juarez is not bad, but the climate is so hellish. It makes me maudlin and lonely. I finish my cigarette. Enter my house and pound this out on my computer while listening to Blue Bob.
I am really in a funk right now. I feel so lonely.

Monday, February 06, 2006

Sunday, February 05, 2006

Saturday Night Be-bop.

After one of the slowest days at work- ever -God, can work drag. I ran for the border in anticipation of my meet with Oscar. Who is Oscar, you are wondering? Oh...guess you deserve a little back up history or ya'll be lost in the sauce. The previous night I was in one of my pensive moods - you have had them, those dark little moments, those moody little spells, times you wanna be alone, take a stroll and think and think hard - well, Your Reporter was sitting on one of the stone benches in Plaza las Armas in front of the cathedral in Zona Central enjoying the crisp night air, twinkling stars, some finger snapping old Mexican samba music was squawking from hidden speakers, and I chain smoking my Luckies when out of the dark walked a nostalgic phantom gliding up the Alameda like a spectre. I know this person.
I had known the boy five years previous when I had lived in Juarez City as a fugitive. He had no job. No home. He hustled the streets for sex and drugs, a faceless rent boy among many that populated the Plaza Friday and Saturday nights. Running with a pack of Wild Boys hell bent on narcissistic annihilation and wanton perversion. Back when I found him, Oscar was very annoying, always hitting me up for pesos and cigarettes and then zip he'd be gone. What really disturbed me was him and his friends would get wasted snuffing paint thinner from paper bags. Spooking it was called. An insidious way to get high, if you ask me...nothing like a nice clean spike to do the trick, shiny metal and oh you can smell it going in, ahhh...but, I'm getting side tracked. Where was I...Oh yes, it was Oscar's looks of coarse that I liked. He was adorable. And now this cute boy had filled out into a very handsome and striking young man.
His build was tall and athletic with copper skin. Straight thick eyebrows, strong thin nose, thick eyelashes, hazel eyes, and that same smile that would melt your heart. He sported a black ski-cap, black dickies shirt, and khakis. His pointed chin ended in a cropped goatee.
"Hola!" He smiled, walking towards me, palm opened. We shook hands and updated each other on our lives the past few years. I wove my tale of travels and various adventures an. Oscar said that he now works for Clorox and rents an apartment and has been living a responsible life for the last two years. I felt so truly relieved for him. I explained that all my old friends are either dead or incarcerated, so it is a relief to hear a success story for once. Oscar said how truly happy he was to see me again so I invited him to dinner the next night.
Which brings you up to speed, okay? Okay.
Anyhoo, after crossing the border I took a Mexican bus to my trap (Thank God I don't have hemorrhoids!) and rested for an hour. Swept the joint out, cause living in the desert has its disadvantages like the layer of dust falling on everything - constantly! Showered, dressed to the 9th's and 10th's, gulped down a shot of Jack, smoked a stick of ganja whilst listening to Blue Spanish Sky by Chris Isaak. When 6:45 rolled around, I jetted out to the cold night to the Plaza and my meet with Oscar at seven.
Oscar was punctual and as handsome as ever. And glad he wasn't late; there was an impromptu Christian band wailing on the gazebo and, mien Gott, they sounded like crossing the sounds of mating moose and strangling clowns. Horrid noise. We both plowed through the teeming masses of Saturday night revelry, past packs of drunken hipster kids in goof suits, junkies furtive and aware, hipsters on the hustle, dodging zipping cars and kamikaze buses to a secluded taco shop of Oscar's choice. Except for a sullen paraplegic, we were the only clientele. Ordering two plates of mouth watering tacos carne asada, Oscar and I laughed and talked of past experiences, his failed attempts to jump the border, his work, my work, Hollywood, and Heavy Metal.
After dinner, Oscar asked if I'd pick a bar for some drinks and we hit La Cruda, a hole I'd frequented for years. I ordered two caguamas Carta Blancas and we took a table. La Cruda was the bar el primo I stumbled into when I first hit Juarez years ago and liked it ever since. A non attitude place of non-interference. One one end of the small bar several fags shrieked and posed, in the middle working class machos gesticulated and roared in animated discussions about soccer scores and pussy and at the other end two fat whores, bloated and sordid in purple and pink lycra cooed and swayed around a drunk old American. All this under the garish yellow and red neon of the blasting jukebox playing American Rock and Mexican Pop. Alone on the other side against the wall under a portrait of Marilyn Monroe was a handsome, sad, lonely man singing into his glass to the tunes vibrating off of the green cracked and flaking plaster walls.
Raul, one of the waiters, whom I've known since day one, sat at our table and drank and joked with Oscar and I. After a couple of caguamas and a few good jokes, Oscar said, 'Let's go' and we hit the concrete.
A little buzzed, Oscar stated that since I picked the last bar, he'd pick the next. Stumbling down Juarez Avenue, we cut into a cavernous hall. "You like cholos," Oscar said, "You like this bar." We sat at a table in the gloomy darkness and in this hangar sized bar were about seven people at the blue lit bar and all were lined up in this order: Two young queers, one very fem in black slacks and black turtleneck, the other macho and would yell the grito de los vaqueros every time a ranchero song would start on el Rockola (Jukebox.), a fat, glassy eyed drunk in a grey suit one size too small and kept eying everyone with contempt and suspicion over his fuzzing beer, a handsome cowboy in tight white jeans with the best ass I'd ever seen - ever! He would nod and smile, tipping his white cowboy hat, at the fag who would let loose with the yell and his partner would squirm and coo. Next to the cowboy was two sleazy looking women, one looked like she was pregnant with her belly plopped out between her skirt and her halter top. But, no, it was just her flab. Ew. Next to the women were a well dressed elderly couple who danced a slow waltz to anything that played. It was like a Fellini movie.
Excusing my self to the men's room was a mistake. The smell nearly knocked me on my ass. When I was at the urinal, the stench of decaying feces was too much and of coarse I had to look over the porcelain wall and both toilets were filled to the brim with rotting shit. An inch of urine covered the floor. Lovely.
The chemistry between Oscar and I started to flow and crackle and the next thing we were striding over the broken sidewalks and garbage past Indians with outward palms up, past blue and yellow colored adobe houses, past smells of seared meat and dried vomit back to my trap. We sat on my couch, sipping coke colas and Oscar looked through my photo album, especially he kept returning to the two pictures I had taken of him so many years ago. The night progressed and we talked and looked into each others eyes and we both began to yawn. Oscar asked if he could stay the night because he lived so far away. How could I refuse, Dear Reader?
The lights went out and we were in my bed next to each other, Oscar had thrown his thin muscular arm across my chest and his leg across my leg and then...we talked. He confided in me how important it was for him to get across the border and how he needed my help. His destination was Denver, Colorado. I told him I would help him anyway I could. he thanked me by kissing me on the cheek.
A few moments of silence. Our foreheads met, then our noses, automatically tongues flicked at each other. Oscar slid on top of me, kissing and biting my neck while grinding and thrusting his hips into mine. He was as hard and excited as I was.
I stroked the back of his neck, whispered into his ear, "I want you...I want you inside of me."
Getting onto his knees, Oscar put my feet up onto his shoulders. Cupping his hand over his mouth, he spit into his palm and lubed his thick uncut penis. With grinding hips he slid into me - my breath hissed through clenched teeth - our bodies contracted and writhed as Oscar thrust and lunged into me, softly grunting and whispering words in Spanish - I grabbed his slender smooth ass as he thrust into me, I closed my eyes and all seemed so good - He bent down and began biting up my neck - I felt his cock stiffen even more and pounding harder, with a loud sigh Oscar shot his hot semen into me. Collapsing on top of me, I was shaking as he kissed my neck and rubbed his fingers through my hair.
"That was so fucking great!" I breathed in English.
"Bueno...muy bueno." Oscar whispered, licking his dry lips.
Our heavy breathing subsided and wrapped in each others arms, we fell into a deep sleep.
The Morning After.
I woke Oscar up with a kiss on the forehead. He looked up at me and blinked like a sluggish turtle. He grinned, "Buenas dias." We showered, dressed and went for a delicious breakfast of juevos con churizo, fijoles y colorado rojo. With a cuppa strong coffee. During our conversations, I asked Oscar if he liked his life. He said sometimes. Sometimes it is very hard. I don't know why, but at that moment I asked Oscar to move in with me. I explained that he can keep his job and save up to pay for his passport and Visa. I'll take care of rent. He looked at me, outside, then said okay. But, not until next weekend.
After breakfast, Oscar and I walked back to the Plaza in front of the cathedral so as he could catch his bus home. I made the appointment to meet with him next Friday at 7:00. When his bus pulled away with the sound of screeching gears, I stood in the Plaza watching Indian kids perform a religious dance in garish silk pink and white outfits. Under the great blast of blue Mexican sky I stood there with the natives and tourists, smoking a Lucky Strike wondering if I'm doing the right thing.