Red Skies at Night.

I am doomed to live a life of repetitiveness. It may be my depressive sickness - it may be the curse of the fates, but whatever it maybe I am damned to it.

Roberto never arrived from Idaho to transfer to San Diego - I text him and his response was that his father had fallen ill and he was now asking for another week. Muddled, I text him back asking if he was dicking me around - I had already waited three weeks for this boy, he assured me that he really wanted to move to San Diego so I am giving the little schister his week. Why? I am having my doubts. My logical rational side is saying to stay here in El Paso and take advantage of the two year free rent I am getting from MHMR. Get a job, bank my feria and figure out what to do the rest of my life. But on the flipside, Desolation Angel, that swaggering wacky bitch - wants to sell all my shit, race to San Diego to suck cock in that homeless shelter Vinnies again only to wind up moving back to Tijuana getting banged by every Mexican hustler he comes across. Sigh. I will let things take their course. As Major Grubert says, "What is meant to happen will happen."

Last night walked over to Juarez City with Hector to extraordinary Arab restaurant that looked like a remodeled bus station. Bare, galvanized iron roof. A huge banana palm growing in the barn-like or hangar-like room with bamboo tables scattered here and there. Served by a snotty Arab queen who was barely courteous when we ordered two plates and one order of cous-cous. An Arab stew of chicken, nuts, raisins, and corn meal. Delicious. I was high offa mota and never got such taste kicks. We had just been in Bar Buen Tiempo, where I encountered a barrage of hostility. Oscar P. was there and wanted to cut me, but I am learning the practices of this dreary tribe. I never saw him, he never had the chance to cut me. Bruno - the owner, wanted not to serve me, rolling his eyes in disapproval, but there was Hector, a good customer. (Bruno has heard that I am a dope fiend. More than that, he instinctively feels me a danger, far out, an ill omen.) So I sat there, loaded on mota. Savoring their impotent disapproval, rolling it on my tongue with a glass of good, dry martini.

Two drunken faggots as faggots can be drunk - Hector decided he wanted some tacos and then some coke in that order. Ditching those lifeless bitches through dark cobblestone streets of the Old Market - whores, fat and nasty, stand and wait forever sucking on a silver tooth. Black phantoms lurk in the alleys between closed shops - reek of stale urine and vomit - house the quivering junky. We stop for chicken tacos, slop on a plate, down two glass bottled Pepsi - then jet down Avenue Mariscal - furtive glances from pimps as we dodge buses belching air so dirty that it clogs your pores.

Up to Burrito Row. Angelic Beto is working his stall - his fine ass smiles and greets us, Hector and I make small chit-chat. Some of the doormen of the titty bar across the street - Erma's - catches glimpse of my gringo ass and starts the hustle:
"Hey buddy - no cover!"
"Over here! Big pussy!
"Nice lady! Nice lady! Pussy women!"

I wave them on with a poker face, cause I mean business and they sulk away only to pounce on three other American assholes.

Heated conversation between Beto and Hector en Espanola that ends with Hector handing Beto some crumpled pesos, which were placed under the till - a small white packet of wax paper was placed in Hector's hand and we walked out the door - both saying, "Gracias!"

"Orale." Said back.

We cut across Juarez Avenue, past loud and drunk college touristas in hip-hop garb, past taxi drivers on the hustle under the glaring ugly neon of teeny bopper discos catering to the El Paso University crowd. Down the dead end street paved in beer bottle caps to Hotel Bombin - $20 a night trap, pay the haggish lady behind the grill, up the white tiled stairwell, unlock the deadbolt.

A snort or two of the coke offa the dresser - wheeee! - clothes are flung off fall onto the bed naked, clinging to each other, kissing passionately. Fingers, tongues, and cocks are sucked - lying on our sides in the position of 69, giving each other the best of the best. Rolled onto my stomach and lube is applied, Hector slides himself in so long and nasty. Shiiiiiiit! With quick jabs the Mexican pounds my ass for a good haffa hour more or less - bed springs boinging and I squeal and moan like the loud puta I am. His thin muscular brown hips smacking against my smooth and tenders, grinding that cock up into my ass hot and savage he grunts into my ear, "I'm almost there - let me cum in your ass!"

"No!" I groan,"Cum on my face!

He yanks himself outa me and flips me on to my back - my ass hurt and throbbing. Hector sat on my chest, masturbating wildly, "GODAMGODAM!!"

Creamy! Eyes closed, I feel the hot squirts splatter across my face and chest - hear Hector gasping. He rubs his erection across my lips, my tongue licks the thick tan head. I look up at him - that silly look on his face. Pause. Laughter. "Let me get a towel, guero." Hector retrieves a ragged towel from the bathroom, long skinny cock still hard and glistening - swinging free.

After I clean up, we lay side by side and share a joint. Hector takes it from his mouth and places it in my lips. As a mariachi band plays ghostlike down a dark street, I stare up at the ceiling fan whirling slowly - maybe I should stay off leaving. Rolling stones gather no moss - so they say...