Sunday, April 30, 2006

Ravey Rave.

The sun shifted and long yellow rays beamed through my living room. Dust danced in the light. David Bowie warbled The Man Who Sold The World.

“It’s mighty hard to get at any price,” Oscar said, looking for a vein in his leg. He finally hit a vein and shot the liquid in with an air bubble. “If air bubbles could kill you, there wouldn’t be a junky alive,” he said, pulling up his pants.

I stood there, taking a gulp from my rum and coke from the highball glass I held, watching the junk hit him. Oscar sat there, shirtless in khaki pants. Hunched over – little beads of sweat rolling down his thin copper colored frame – those dark nipples poking out, those rock hard, jagged abs – he lifted his head at me, wet shaggy black hair over dilated eyes, hawk-like features, asked slowly – dreamily, “Are you still going to that rave with Espie and Ricardo, tonight?”

I looked at the invite card on the end table. It read Marsha Brady’s Bedroom. Why would they call it that? A psychedelic photo of Marsha smiled back at me.

“Of coarse,” I said, lighting a Lucky Strike. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I pronounced it wurlt.

Oscar smiled, “Hand me one. Why do you smoke these 1950 cigarros?”

I took a long drag, exhaled, “They have mythic qualities.”

Oscar laid back, holding his head, “Estan raro.” (You’re weird.)

Later that evening.

A cab was called and we found the gang outside a large warehouse somewhere southside Juarez City. The wind was blowing and dust and debris swirled in little eddies. Music from inside the corrugated iron building resonated and thumped as a hundred catatonic youths dressed in Day-Glo costumes meandered outside drinking cervezas, talking, smoking mota. The new style with the guys is gangsta faggito, I call it. Pink and black, flashy, saggy, baggy frilly clothes with little band-aids on your face and over sized tinted sunglasses, baseball cap sideways. I think it looks cute.

Espranza looked great in her shiny black tube dress and her hair was fierce. Big smiles from ruby lips and hugs and kisses. Ricardo, already drunk, tottered up looking like a Latin model for Abercrombie and Fitch. I mentioned he really should try his hand at modeling, the boy is strikingly handsome. He laughed and said let’s all just go in. We smacked down our fifty pesos at the door and entered under the watchful glare of some gorilla looking bouncers. I expected machine gun nests and barbed wire.

The warehouse seemed more spacious inside than outside and was a seething mass of gyrating sweating bodies. Scattered throughout the dark cavernous space were several boxes with dancers precariously perched and jerking to the techno and house beats. Glittering multicolored lights played over the candy colored masses.

“I’m thirsty, baby.” Ricardo says to me, the disco lights playing in his big amber eyes. “Let’s get some beverages.”

“Good idea.” I say, hooking Espie’s elbow in with mine and with her, Ricardo, and Oscar follow us throw the crowd to the bar. This is the best kind of rave; the beer was only five pesos. But the line was hella long and we had to elbow our way up there. The two beer attendants were a couple of gorgeous guys from Paraguay and seemed to be having the time of their lives. From behind, I am shoved so hard that I am almost lifted off of my feet and up onto the bar. I look behind me over my shoulder it is this cowboy in a wife beater, sweaty and puffing from the dance floor, with his crotch well planted firmly against the backside of my black Kenneth Cole pants.

“Excuse me,” I start.

Hola.” he smiles. Handsome in a rough Mexican Marlboro man kind of way.

“Would you kindly take your cock out of my ass, I’m trying to purchase a beverage?”

He laughs – pop – and returns back into the smoky darkness.

After we attained our drinks, finished them and take in the surroundings, we hit the dance floor. Espie, Ricardo, and I jumped up on a twelve-foot high lime-green box and shook a tail feather as Oscar found some broad and stayed on terra firma. The DJ from Argentina was pretty good and the music selection kept us going for a few hours – techno, trance, house, reggeaton, European disco, local Mexican music and others I haven’t a clue kept the place jumping. Then they let the foam go. Everyone was waist deep in the stuff and knocking beach balls around. From the rafters someone had constructed a couple of swingsets and kids would precariously swing screaming at supersonic speeds through the crowds.

Hours pass and Espie and I are ripped. Somewhere – where? I have no idea – Espie or me, found a television picture frame in the junk that littered the corners of this warehouse. Well, elbows hooked, Espie and I would work the crowd, Wonka glasses and all, with me yelling, “Make way! The television lady! Can’t you see you are in the presence of a Star?!” And Espie would hold the frame up to here face and wave as we walked by. The people applauded, the fags cooed and screeched – “Fabulous!” “Look at her!” “Love the show!” Yeah, two drunk fools.

Because of this debacle, we had lost Ricardo and Oscar in the mix. Esperanza and I hit the bar tore up from the floor up with the terrifying news that they had run out of beer. Run out! What now? We stumbled around the warehouse and towards the back, standing by one of the huge concrete girders that supported the building was this little cholo. Hidden in half shadows.

Psst –psst. Hey, you want to buy some beer? I got a case for fifty pesos.” He asked me, putting his hand on my arm. He was one of those little tattooed, shaved head, tank top, khaki types.

“I don’t have any money, man.” And I walked on. Then – ding – an idea hit me and I drunkenly dragged Espie back with me to the little cholo.

“Hey,” I said. “If my girlfriend sucks your cock, can I have the beer.” I mean he wasn’t that bad looking. He looked at me, looked at Esperanza; Espie was splashed and just drunkenly tottered and giggled.

His eyes widened, little red tongue licked his lips, “She doesn’t mind?”

“You don’t mind, Espie? I mean, the bar is out of beer and we do need more beer and this gentleman is offering us this case. How about it? Pleeeeez!”

She smiled, “Por que no?” (Why not?)

We walked behind a large trash dumpster that was against the far wall and with the glare of the yellow light above, the cholo pulled out his short fat dick and Espie went to work. I leaned up against the wall and drank a beer and had a cigarette watching. Out of the shadows, like a cockroach, comes this guy’s friend, similarly dressed, except tall and thin – hard and with his wiener out, long and skinny – so, there’s Espie crouched down, taking turns sucking off these two cholos. That was until this big ass security guard showed up waving his flashlight all over the place, snarling “Hey! What’s going on!? You can’t be doing that shit here! Take that bitch out to you’re car!”

Great idea, I thought. Both these guys were kind cute in an I’ll cut you and steal all your money kind of way and Esperanza agreed and by this time was very horny. So we four went outside the warehouse to Hectors car. Hector being the guy with the case of beer and his friend was Francisco. Francisco and I sat in the front seat drinking our cervezas Tecate as Espie and Hector got undressed in the back seat and put on a porn show. Francisco watched wide eyed with crotch throbbing as Hector banged away, what a tight body he had, and a little round brown ass. That turned me on. Ten minutes went by and Hector squirted into Espie. Switch and Francisco jumped in the back. And began rutting Espie like his life depended on it. These guys must’ve felt special getting someone this beautiful – they are lucky indeed. Skinny Francisco finished in a few minutes and pulled his long penis out, hard and still dripping semen. “I think he want some more, Espie.” I breathed.

Vamanos.” Esperanza moaned, rubbing her red vagina. Francisco rolled back on her and began thrusting and lunging. Sweat rolled down his lean back and off his muscular smooth ass as he pumped furiously. Grunting, he let loose a second orgasm and collapsed on top of her. I raised my beer bottle,¨Ole!” Hector laughed and did the same, “Ole, compa!” We all began laughing. Francisco slid out and began dressing; Espie did the same. In the most boyish timid way, Francisco said something to her that made her smile, she leaned over and kissed his cheek, saying, “No import, Mi amor. No importa.”

Saying our good-byes, Esperanza and I walked around front to find Ricardo and Oscar waiting for us. Hailing a taxi, we stopped at Café Central for four in the morning coffee and sweet bread and talked of things that friends talk about. Afterwards, we four crashed on my bed at my house to sleep a contented sleep. If I wasn’t hooked on junk again, I would be content, but I am, so I am not.


Sunday, April 23, 2006

Transvestite Porno Sluts.

The powers that be, the nameless assholes – ahem, excuse me, the city fathers, have decided to close down the Porno Theater that was adjacent to Park Independencia in leu of the grand unveiling of the newly refurbished statue of el primo Benito Juarez and the relandscaped park. Gone are the cruising boys and the pedophiles that chased them replaced by mobs of blubbered families with screaming snot-covered younguns. The day they closed the Porno Theater, nary a queen had a dry eye in the city. I stood there misty eyed myself. A dark day, indeed.

So, I am forced to take my cockjunky business elsewhere. Namely that shithole porno theater on Avenida Lerdo. Small – filthy – obviously built in the 1930’s - only one theater (The other at the park was a grand terraced porno palace sporting two theaters where you could cruise both at your leisure – I’m getting choked up.) the movies played on the curved soiled screen are decent video projections and current runs but the theater is hampered by one thing: the God damn ugly assed transvestites that prowl the two isles on either side of the rows of seats.

Contently sitting in an isle seat, smoking a Lucky, my big nasty out cocked and fully loaded, the sodomy flickering across my eyes, the sounds of grunting and moans permeating the stale musty air. Waiting for one of the Mexican hotties that are there to sidle up and taste my forbidden fruit. But no – the mood has to be shot in the ass by one of these thunderlizards clopping down the concrete aisles, stopping next to me to converse with one of their fellow puta bitches. Not in hushed tones – but loudly and arrogantly quacking away only like they are the only two in the whole place. My first urge is to leap up, screaming obscenities, ripping their ratty wigs off and hurling them into the darkness of the theaters.

Like there was this once when I was cruising around the theater with the rest of the circus and I sat next to this real cute guy. Well, not next to him – there was a seat between us, right – I mean these things must be done delicately, so as not to scare the prey – anyhoo, the guy is grabbing his crotch, giving the signal to go! Go! Go! And when I am about to make my move this obscenely obese cow that looked like Fred Flintstone in smeared Helen Roper drag sits between us and does a complete cock block. The cute guy, disgusted to sit by this monstrosity in frills and spandex – and who would blame him – took off. I went nuts, took out my lighter and singed his wig. I never saw someone of that bulk move so fast. Fucking drag queens, a bring down on modern society.

When I go to a porno theater for an afternoon of leisurely delights, I hate transvestites almost as much as old men, but that is another report.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

Jail Time.

Thirteen hours in and Manuel, Lazo, and I are sick

So many I hear their sighs and whimpers in junk kick and junk orgasm half hard on rubbing along the smooth wooden edge of a precinct cell and a drunken snarl “What are you doing?”

And I look at him with metabolic hate, drawing myself away…

“Leave me the fuck alone will you?”

And he knocked me into a corner, blood running out of my mouth and I wouldn’t look at him…now he is shaking the bars and screaming “Let me out of here!” … I mean for the Jail House Pest Dept…. and an old red-haired junky came over and sat beside me with a handkerchief and a cup of water and washed off my face with gentle larcenous old woman fingers…

And I gave them all a sleepy benediction…and snuggled down into my junk and went on the nod…

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Run for the Border.

I stood vibrating like a tuning fork in the long line that crossed through customs and back into the United States. I was extremely paranoid. There were immigration patrolmen everywhere; the crackle of police radios echoed in my fried skull. I knew those junkie bastards back at the hotel would come here looking for me. But, I stood there, not glancing around like a moron waiting for the ice pick to penetrate my skull. They always use ice picks! Those savage fuckers! I was a sweaty mess; all though I cleaned my face and glasses, there were still spots of blood on my black t-shirt and black leather jacket. I was covered in a fine layer of plaster dust and my hands were still visibly shaking; my nails gnawed down to the skin.

The line jerked forward, distressed that I was standing here for thirty minutes and had not crossed over yet. The heady fumes from the massive car jam that spanned the bridge from Juarez City to El Paso made me even queasier…I wanted to vomit. Thoughts flashed through my mind of some asshole sliding up behind me and slitting my throat. Paranoia raced up and down my spine like a poisonous centipede. Hands in pockets, I shifted from one foot to another. It was taking too long to cross over to the States. This fucking bridge!

Some fat Mexican lady in saggy red sweat pants waddled up past everyone and cut in front of an old man about sixty people in front of me. She had an oversized white t-shirt that said in plain black lettering: Damn I’m Sexy. Others behind her started whistling and yelling, “La linea! La linea!” (The line! The line!)

Never fails! Don’t these fuckers know what a line is? I fumed.

The line jerked forward. my memories raced from one image to the next like film whirring through a camera; what was up with the crappy heroin? Weren’t they supposed to buy crystal, instead? It didn’t make any sense.

A custom officer was walking around with a dog. The dog was sniffing the people in line for drugs. The dog came up on me. Sniff away, mutt. Nothing on me this time.

“That’s a mighty cute dog.” I said as the officer passed.

The officer ignored the remark and goaded the dog on, “C’mon, Sammy, sniff out the drugs! C’mon, boy, let’s get some of them stinkin’ junkies.”

The lined cued on. Finally, I came to the custom inspector. I pulled out my identification card from my wallet and handed it to the fat and balding inspector; sweat beading down creased forehead. The inspector wearily snatched the card and started typing in information.

“American citizen.” I said blankly, ignoring the bloodshot gaze of the inspector.

“What happened to you?” The inspector asked incredulously.

I became conscious again of my appearance. I realized I must look horrible. “Nothing.” I said matter of factly, smugly shrugging. “You know…Juarez.”

“You best be careful over there son. You bringing anything back?” The inspector asked, looking me over. “What is that? Blood?”

“No…not at all.” I said, surprised at my amount of control. “Just a friendly game of food fight at a taco restaurant. It’s just salsa.” I made a vain attempt at wiping it away from my shirt.

“Oh. Okay.” The inspector said returning my identification. “Welcome home.”

“Thanks.” I took the card and exited the customhouse. I walked to the corner and took one of the city trolleys that were lumbering down the street. I plunked my quarter in the slot and took a seat. I was the only one on the trolley except for an old Mexican queer that kept staring at me.

Goddammit! Why won’t you just leave me alone! I thought, returning a hostile glare back at the old queen.

I got off of the trolley at the corner by an apartment of an old friend. Actually he's a little hispanic hottie that waits tables at a diner in downtown El Paso. I needed a shower and to lay low for a while. Plus he had the yummiest dope in South Central El Paso. When I arrive there he was, little Edward M. sitting and watching his novellas drinking soda pop and cutting up baggies of coke. We hit a couple of lines and I hit the shower. Edward watched me as I bathed and I related the botched score in Juarez.

After the shower, we drank some tea, smoked some coke and watched his novella. That's my life. A never-ending novella.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Lazo and Burrito Row.

Finally. Finally scored for another laptop. A good friend at work let go his Compaq Presario for a mere $100! And the thing’s fully loaded! Now I can write my innermost secretes at my leisure. However, it broke my already broke ass. And me already in the hole for blowing my wad – no giggling, girls- I meant my rent money the other weekend on my birthday and that ass Toby. Welp, watcha gonna do?
So, I get my pay every Thursday and for some reason the neighborhood mooches seem to sniff this out. Like, that teeny-bopper Jose banging on my door for a dollar at the wee hours of the morning or that drunk Elpidio on the corner who keeps grabbing his long and nasty and asks for ten pesos every time he sees me. Late that evening after signing my paycheck over to my various creditors and my impatient but understanding landlord, I was exiting my trap and I hadn’t even pulled the key out the lock when I hear, “Hola, mi amigo!”
God, how I cringe from those words down here. They are usually always followed by being hit up from cash. So, I whirl around with that Hollywood smile and there he is right on time: Lazo. Right on time being here on Thursday, the only day he seems to visit. Covered in dirt, I assume he had been working and try to veer away the topic that I have been paid today. But I can see it in his eyes. That it is on the tip of his tongue. He cheerily informs me that he indeed has been working today, up roofing some house.
After casual chatter, “Where are you going?” He asks. “Uh…El Paso.” I say in a quick attempt to ditch him. I’m not going to El Paso, I just was going for some burritos, take a walk, maybe cruise the Mercado. I mean, the boy is hot eye candy, got a killer body, shaved head and I love his tattoos, but dough I ain’t got and that’s what he wants, right?
“Well, I’ll walk you to the bridge.” Damn.
So, Lazo and I strolled down to Centro and talked of casual things mainly nothing me strongly banging in his head that I was broke, but since he is a friend and a fun lay when I do got some pesos, after I bought some smokes, we munched some burritos before returning back to my house.
I showed him the laptop and he was impressed, but the guy did get a dollar outta me for the bus. I mean, I ain’t no miser. Satisfied with that, Lazo took off. Bored, I returned to Burrito Row.
One of the main reasons that I visit Burrito Row, not because that it harbors a certain air of danger. It is the hub, the very axis of all drug transaction in the downtown area, certainly if it deals with the club areas. Hotel Roma is right at one end and that junky warren is well known. A decrepit dilapidated crumbling red brick eyesore that sits tottering on the edge of a river of sewage. And Burrito Row also feeds the army of transvestite hookers that prowl the night scooping up the stumbling drunk American and sucking his life-force out of him in some shit strewn alley, while pickpocketing their cash to boot. No, I enjoy visiting a certain stall called Burritos Meny. Why?
There is a really handsome guy that works that stall named Beto, hopelessly heterosexual and he is fucking hot. I have known him since I first moved to Juarez and today the strangest things came out of his mouth. I was hungry after a long afternoon of cruising the Old Mercado and decided to take a break from that and eat. When I sat down, Beto was making my burrito with small chit-chat, “So, guedo, do you have a wife or a girl friend?”
“No.” I said flatly. Blankly. Behind my Wonka glasses. Lucky Strike hanging off my lip.
He continued flipping the tortilla, “Really? No novia? Novio? Ha! Ha! Just kidding!”
I stared at him with cool insect calm. My face as blank as a poker dealers. He began to get nervous.
“I gotta black guy for a noviosi! And he’s gotta a beeg one!” He said laughing nervously.
“Thanks for the info!” I said sarcastically as Beto served me my food. As I ate, Beto said nothing, working…too embarrassed I guess to say anything. To break the ice, I started talking about going out to the clubs and he lit up. Then he mentioned he never has any money. He said he just works, goes home to his wife and baby daughter and watches television. He explained he was having trouble making ends meet. I joked that what he needed to find was a Sugar Daddy. He looked at me peculiar and said, “You mean fucking the jotos for money? I used to do that, guedo. Fifty dollars all night. Si…when I was younger, before I got married.”
When he was younger? He’s only twenty-four. Was this Beto’s way of coming out to me? In his cute little timid macho way?
He went all dreamy and looked at me; “I wouldn’t mind doing that again…I need the money.” Then a group of people came up and he got busy. I lit a cigarette, paid up, said goodbye and walked away.
Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?

Sunday, April 02, 2006

Afternoon Requiem.

Walking through the Plaza in front of the Cathedral…the sun hot beating down on my pasty skin, eyes full of lusty tension meet and lose contact. Everyday dig a little it takes up the time…jack off phantoms whisper hot into the ear…Shoot your way to freedom. The sun creeps across the sky. Stop for a cold drink…some fruit concoction. Try to find some shade but it is all taken up by bloated and wrinkled fucks gasping in the heat. The junky sits with needle poised to the message of blood and the con man palpitates the Mark with fingers of rotten ectoplasm…

A beautiful boy of eleven thick black eyelashes and rosy cheeks sits in front of the fountain admiring the sculpture with an obese pedophile lurking nearby, bloodshot eyes burn behind black shades. He squeezes sad and tiny cock in sexual frustration. I find a hole on the long concrete bench between two old geriatrics and sit under the spreading chestnut tree and light up. Legs crossed, Wonka shades, black cotton button down summer shirt, blue jeans, black Kenneth Cole shoes; I am feeling it. I sit there puffing on my Lucky Strike with American Imperialism. Two young Mexican guys sit opposite me and size me up. I check them out through my Wonkavision and they both are quite the lookers. Poorer class, shabby clothes, dirty shoes, but still hot…who am I to judge? The two buy an ice cream from a vendor and make a show of sucking them so nasty.

The sun swings into mid afternoon and the boy parade hits fullforce. For the entertainment of the touristas, the faux Aztecs have began their daily show in front of the Cathedral, dancing amid the tribal thumping and drumming of the native muse. Waving away an army of shoeshine boys and candy vendors, this old humpback gash drops her bag between my feet and pulls out a bottle of water. In Spanish I tell her I don’t want any which then brings her to wave it in my face. “Okay,” I say in Spanish, “How much.” In which she replies one dollar. I explain to her she must be outta her fuckin mind because I can go into any shop and get a bottle of water for a quarter. She began looking around helplessly and bleating, “No intiendo!” (I don’t understand him!) Some hottie slid up to translate in which the price was negotiated to fifty cents and when I handed the old cunt a ten-peso piece of course the old gash didn’t have change. Withered old bitch. Cunt wobbled off cackling.

Well, said hottie introduces himself as Javier and we chit-chat and he asks obvious why-are-you-here-questions. I see that he has been drinking and invite him for a beer at Bar Buen Tiempo just around the block. This Javier is just my type: Dark copper skin, straight black hair parted down the middle, little pencil moustache, thick lips, amber eyes, thin, his face has those classic Indian features, high cheekbones, hawklike nose…whew!

We entered Bar Buen Tiempo and took a seat at the back of the bar. The cantina was sparsely populated with only three or four fags. The fat lesbo bar attendant gruffly asked for Javiers identification, “Are you a National Citizen?” She snapped. Javier irritatingly and drunkenly fumbled for his identification in his backpack.

She looked at me and I smiled, “Do you want to see mine? I’m from Planet 10.”

After getting Javiers papers in order, we drank two caguamas Carta Blancas and got a good buzz going. Javier had one hellava sense of humor and had me rolling with laughter. Deadly aphrodisiac, humor. Javier confided in me that he wasn’t Mexican after all, but was actually from Honduras. He was trying to cross the border to go live with his brother in Dallas, Texas. I also noticed that he kept checking out my ass everytime he got up to go take a piss. And I mentioned this. “You have a nice ass, guedo.” He smiled running his hand down my back to my ass. He flashes me a smile as I light up a cigarette, “So, what’s the deal?” He asks.

“Well,” I said, taking a long drag, “First we’re gonna finish our beers…then we’re gonna go to my house and you’re gonna show me how many positions you know.”

Glug, glug, glug…that beer went quick. On second thought, I don’t think we finished them. Back through the Plaza, past the pigeon dung covered bronze bust of El Primo Benito Juarez, cut the corner of my street, past the Mexican Communist Headquarters (So ominous looking…so Orwellian.), turn the key lock, slam the door closed. Man, was his body hard and tight. Lips slid over lips, tongues wrestled, hands fumbled to get clothes off and the two of us jumped onto my queen size as Daddy Yankee thumped Rompe from the hi-fi. On top of me, Javier grinded his erection onto me as he bit and licked my shoulders and neck causing me to moan and gasp uncontrollably. I just let loose. My legs wrapped around his waist, I grabbed his head and said to him, “What ever you want to do to me…my body is yours.” He shoved his tongue back into my mouth while reaching around and fingering my ass. He continued with his hand as he bit up my neck and he was driving me wild. Javier lifted my feet up over his shoulders, spit into his palm and lubed his penis up. Slowly he slid his thick cock into me, slow at first until he had it all the way in. Then he started to fuck me like I haven’t been fucked in some time. We lay on our sides and he got behind me and jabbing it in, Javier held my ribs as he thrust into me, kissing my back. “Aqui! Aqui!”, he gasped. And I felt the hot spurts of semen squirt into me as we both shivered to a climax.

Afterwards, we showered together, kissing under the hot spray. Dressing, Javier and I walked over to Burrito Row and had some burritos and Pepsis, talking of life in the United States and how he wants to get over there. I walked Javier to his bus stop and after shaking hands, said goodbye. I walked back to the Plaza and the night was cool and the stars were out. There was some hip kids sitting by the gazebo with a guitar singing Mexican folk songs, I sat there and listened. A couple of friends of mine showed up, Ignacio and Alfredo, and we strode over to Café Central for coffee and sweet bread and talked of movies, Che Guervara, deodorant, guys, and flying saucers. Afterwards, we all said goodnight and I returned to my trap and snuggled up to a good DVD viewing of The Day the Earth Stood Still before I zonked out for the night.