Saturday, March 31, 2007


It was a shitty night in a shitty section of Tijuana. On the slummy north end of the Red Light district where the tacky lit whorehouses give way to crumbling rotting homes, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron - a block of sordid wooden dwellings like chicken houses - the smell of musty clothes and clogged toilets. I love places like this.
There was nobody else in the street. A black mongrel trotted by covered in mange and it's genitals a swollen red mass of lacerations and glistening pus. I turned into a narrow side-street near one of the big bus stations. He was standing near a doorway in the wall, under a streetlamp that gave hardly any light.
He had a young face - high pointed cheekbones, long Indian nose, pencil thin moustache over thick lips. Wavy black hair was combed back, his clothes were old and tattered draping his thin toned body.
He asked for a cigarette and a Lucky Strike exchanged hands. He asked what I was looking for. I asked how much - he said twenty dollars.
I went with him through the doorway and across a backyard into the basement kitchen, an odor compounded of bugs and dirty clothes and stale cooking grease. I faced him, kissing, rubbing stiffening cocks - he takes me by the shoulders and whirls me around - we tear our pants down in convulsions of lust. He spits on his long skinny cock and works it up my ass in a corkscrew motion. We grunt and wheeze with his arms under mine, wrapped around my chest constricting me. "Jeeeeeeeeesus!" Both ejaculate at once standing up. We move away from each other and pull up our pants.
I take a twenty out of my wallet and he asks for five more. I slap the bills into his hand and step back out into the cold night. I light a cigarette and head back to my room.
I still feel so empty and alone.

Thursday, March 29, 2007

Sickness of Self.

I do not know what is wrong with me. My stomach feels as if it is infested with maggots. I have no energy to do anything. I do not eat. I do not drink. I lay in my bed for days immobile - incapacitated - wracked in full depression and a body that has given up.
Yesterday I wretched myself out of bed and decided to take a walk. The afternoon was quite nice; bright blue sky, a warm wind blue - the beginning of spring.
I just felt so funky. At one point I stopped to have coffee and a smoke - and looking at the brass hinges on the cafes window shutters, some of them broken, I was hit by a feeling of universal desolation and loss. I am left with the impact of unbridgeable distances, the defeat and weariness of a long, painful journey made for nothing, wrong turns, the track lost, a bus waiting in the rain...
A wave of anxiety over took me - I stumbled home lightheaded, shortness of breath, hands tingling, sharp pain in the chest - I spent the evening tossing in my bed in pain. A couple of days ago a friend asked me what I want out of my life. I gave my answer and it hasn't changed.
I want to die.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Enrique the Junky.

Enrique is a social liability with his attacks he calls them. The Mark Inside was coming up on him and that's a rumble nobody can cool.
I was standing outside myself trying to stop this joker with ghost fingers...I am a ghost wanting what every ghost wants - a body - after the Long Time moving through odorless alleys of space where no life is, only the colorless no smell of death...nobody can breathe it and smell it through pink convulsions of black blood filters of flesh.
Enrique stood there in elongated court room shadow, his face torn like a broken film by lusts and hungers of larval organs stirring in the tentative ectoplasmic flesh of junk sick, flesh that fades at the first silent touch of junk.
I saw it happen. Ten pounds lost in ten minutes standing there with the syringe in one hand and Enrique holding his pants up with the other, his abdicated flesh burning in a cold yellow halo, there in his ratty Tijuana hotel room...night table litter of candy wrappers, cigarette butts cascading out of three ashtrays, mosaic of sleepless nights and sudden food needs of the kicking addict nursing his copper colored baby flesh...
Windowless hotel room with blue walls. Dirty pink curtains cover the door. Black bugs crawl on the wall, cluster in corners. Naked Enrique in the middle of the room twang a ranchero tune on old string guitar, trace an arabesque on the floor. I lean back on the sagging old bed smoking meth and blow smoke over his erect cock. We play word game on the bed see who fuck who. Cheat. Fight. Laugh. Roll on the bed snarling and spitting like young cubs. Enrique seizes me by the ankle, tucks the ankle under the armpit, locks his arm around my calf. Other ankle pinioned. Enrique tilts me back on my shoulders - my cock extends along my stomach - his float free pulsing. Enrique puts his hands behind my knees, push my legs over his head. Spit on his cock. I sigh deeply as Enrique slides his cock in. The mouths grind together smearing saliva. Sharp musty odor of penetrated rectum. Enrique drives in like a wedge, force jissom out of my cock in long hot spurts. (The author has observed that Enriques cock tend to be wide and wedge shaped.)
I am impaled by him who thrusts and lunges himself in circular gyrations, lending fluid motions to the squeaking bed. "Aaaaaiiiieee, cabrone!!" Screams Enrique - face contorted in flaming orgasm as his sperm spurts up over my chest. One gob hits the corner of my mouth. Enrique pushes it in with his lean brown finger and laughs, "Comer mi leche, guerdo."
I decided to lop him off if it meant a smother party. Enrique is a drag on the Rentboy industry and should be "led out" into the skid rows of the world. (This is an African practice. Official known as the "Leader Out" has the function of taking old characters into the jungle and leaving them there.)
Enrique's attacks become a habitual condition. Cops, tourists, dogs, hookers snarl at his approach. The Aztec God has fallen to untouchable vileness. Rentboys don't change, they break - shatter - explosions of matter in cold interstellar space, drift away in cosmic dust, leave the empty body behind. Hustlers of the World, there is one Mark you cannot beat: The Mark Inside...
I left Enrique standing on a corner, yellow, blue, and turquoise adobe slums to the sky, under a rain of soot. "Going to hit this vato I know. Right back with that good pure, you wait here - don't want him to rumble you." No matter how long, Enrique wait for me on that corner. Goodbye, Enrique, goodbye kid...Where do they go when they walk out and leave the body behind?

Sunday, March 25, 2007

Sapo Verde.

Today is my birthday. Happy birthday to me.
Wading through all these bitter petty shitty people for four months you actually see who your friends are. I was walking past El Norteno Cafe when a waiter - Miguel - called me over. He and the other waiter, Phillipe - both longtime friends, surprised me by buying me dinner - a huge plate of chicken fajitas and a small cake in shape of a cock. There are still good people in this world. I ate and talked and got in a festive mood. So, what am I going to do now? Well...
And yes, I´m sure there will be obese transvestites there.

Friday, March 23, 2007

Novel in Larval State.

Dear Loyal Readers,

The time has come. Many of you whome have been reading my blog BORROWED FLESH have commented that I should edit it into book form and publish it. Over the last few months I have been doing just that - It is complete with more information, wacky anecdotes, travel tips, and loads of pictures I have taken during that period.

I am asking you, The Reader to step up and assist me in publishing this novel. I have acquired a company that cheaply puts out 1500 copies for the small price of $850. I need your assistance to hit the April 9th deadline.

If you, The Loyal Reader could mail a donation of $20 or more to the address below within a self addressed envelope - I will personally send you an autographed copy hot of the presses. If you ever wanted to do one cool thing in your life, this is it...

Thank you for your support.


Luis Blasini

Please address all envelopes, money orders and checks to...

Luis Blasini
1255 Imperial Ave. Suite 120-119
San Diego, CA

Thursday, March 22, 2007


"Thoughtcrime does not entail death - Thoughtcrime is death."
- Winston Smith, 1984

For a long time I have roamed, without a goal or direction. Always on the fringes of the norm - I am in no directory, no data base, like the grey spectral citizens you do not see shuffling down the sidewalks with their possessions in backpack, shopping cart, trash bag - the ones you do not see but they are there! I look like a banker, a store clerk or a cop - but that is not me. I blend into the crowd, both wondering transient and time clock punching citizen - but I belong to neither. I am out of the box - cut out - severed.
Is it a choice? Partly. I choose to be free, set outside of the probing eyes of the State. Also it is my so called sickness - can´t connect with the indigenous population of this planet. I feel that I am not from here - a wondering being from another world waiting for a ticket back to Galaxy X.
But at least I am free. But is it all worth it?
On the Red Line from Tijuana to San Diego, an old Fallen Angel throws great bags of salvaged memories and shopping cart onto the train. Sits with me - funky cowboy hat, ragged clothes and sandals of chapped dirty feet. We swap stories of our intercontinental travels - we both have swam in both oceans and the Gulf, saw great and esoteric things in between, lived in strange and foreign lands south of the border all the way to Colombia and back - our lives one constant moving adventure.
This ancient sage of the Lost Highway smiles and nods, "Yeah, can´t beat the freedom, kid."
"Is it all worth it - the freedom, I mean?"
"Of course! Look at the folks around you - how bitter and sad and lost they are, Am I going to make that car payment, pay the rent, utility bill? Why should I have those unnecessary worries in my life? I am free and I am happy."
Orale. He spots me two Camels and a couple of bills when I mention I haven`t eaten in a couple of days and departs the train to continue on his way.
I sit here in the free clinic at St. Vincent de Paul waiting on the doctor for...for...for...I don`t know. Meds? Letter certifying me as nuts? To start that SSI crap again? My feet brought me here because I guess deep in the maelstrom darkness I still cling to the notion that I want to be like you, Dear Reader.
But, that is an impossibility.
Is it crazy to be a minority of one? A ver, I have accepted this existence and perhaps it is time to dive head in - step out of this frightened dying flesh and join the ranks of the free.

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Machine à écrire mutante.

"Your reports must be much more carefully detailed to be of any use to us. Your experiences must be cataloged... with painstaking accuracy."
I said it before and I'll say it country simple: The Reader will frequently find the same thing said in the same words. This is not carelessness nor is it for The Infatuation With The Sound Of Own Words Dept...It indicates space-time juxtaposition...a folding in and back (the universe is curved, feller say)...point of intersection - PAY ATTENTION PLEASE! - point of intersection between levels of experience where parallel lines meet...
Tijuana: Easy to get in and hard way out...Junk sickness stands at the control box, the yammering Rentboy need intercepts a queen's rush for the Big Brother frontier, the INS warrant waits in San Diego...
Depression hits full force, haven't gotten outta bed all day. What is important when nothing is important? Grey pictures on a grey screen, fading slower and slower (Was this before or is it now?)...Centro, rich yellows and blue hashis in the streets like deep stone canyons, blue doors yellow lights...little bars where sad old Mexican drunks sniff pensively...Tapas and soccer scores on the wall...
The town is an intricate decaying concrete/wood structure in some places six stories high overhanging the street, propped with beams and pillars and railroad sections to form arcades where the inhabitants can keep out of the swarm of baying fat tourists that crowd the frozen concrete...
"Hey meester, you wanna see what's in my shop?" "Pharmacy?" "You want some pussy?"
Ambiguous flashy pimps - Negroes, Chinese, Indian - drift under blazing humming neon drinking frescas under the obsidian eyes of placas, lean against outcroppings of rusted steel and crumbling masonry, talk in silent, catatonic gestures, frescoes of delicate depravity, flat, two dimensional, telepathic...plaintive boy-cries drift through the night..."Paco. Joselito. Enrique." Stale patter of commerce: "A ver Luckies!" (Look here, Luckies!) "Nice girl Meester..." "Panama hats?" "Squeezed-down heads?" (The best Panama hats are not made in Panama.) A hideous mouth blows smoke rings rings into the night..."Fuck me Meester I'm so hot...."
The cold night invades the city in great rank hustler infested parks where rats infected with Earth-Eating Disease gambol through ruined kiosks, the stone Liberator, tired horse and tired rider...stone generals like frozen lunatics advocate liberty under the iguana's eye, an old Mayan, fine and yellow as an ivory chessman, sits on an anthropomorphic limestone seat, sipping paregoric...
The smooth brown loin of the pimp swells and rots with 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...
There is something here you never see or find, in a silk stocking thrown over a rotten teak balcony, up under town's sizzling iron roofs where plants in tin cans grow on perilous balconies, federale in a black suit and black glasses, the dull liver-sick hate congested in his eyes like toad poison...Smell of el Mar and the mud flats, sewage and drying marijuana...There are sinister hoochie houses in Centro stocked with whores, purposeful agents of disease. Dope peddlers lurk in the toilet with a loaded needle dart out and shoot it into a tourist without waiting for his consent - the doormen are cops, expert lushworkers like all cops in the area, can lift the generalissimo's wallet with a macho goose, and club a drunken sailor into the mud...
A boy named Josilito moved in next to my room, suffocating me with soccer scores...was thin and sickly and always making magic with candles and religious pictures and drinking aromatic medicine in little plastic eye cups...A cockroach crawls slowly up the blue chipped paint wall...I look out my window to the hotel across the street. A whore half Negro and Chinese with high small breasts and white teeth stood in the door and asked for a cigarette...She steps in and takes off her pink slip and stands naked...the boy drops his clothes - erection swinging free - and lies down on the dirty bed, chewing gum, hard and waiting...
Cut to the Plaza Santa Cecilia...Spilling out in ambiguous dancing and sudden electric outbursts of violence, a young man leaped to his feet - thrusting out a knife and spinning around, his knife vibrating with a sort of electric life scream...No me toca, maricones!...His eyes light up, flicker and go out...he collapses and shits his pants with fear and rushes out...Theft and murder are epidemic here and usually go unpunished...There are whole areas, etc...People walk about with the shadow of paranoid madness in their eyes...
Stroll through The Park for borrowed flesh. The old queer squirm on a limestone bench. Indian adolescents walk by, arms around each other's necks and ribs, strain his dying flesh to occupy young buttocks and thighs, tight balls and spurting cocks. A boy turns, grins at him and yells, "Hola, chief," their boy innocence aching whip across his sagging buttocks and drooping loins. Inside, he screams, an enigmatic Sybil with dark glasses and a grey face. Piss blood warm on his withered thighs...

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

The Mad Russian

Everyone - fag and breeder alike - needs a gimmick for some short con lovin'. Take the Mad Russian - cheapest sugar daddy in the Plazita - there he is, toothless old woman face and canceled eyes. The Greek Chorus squeals that this old fart used to troll Plaza Santa Cecilia in search of Rentboy in full regalia of the American Air Force - and he heralding from some Soviet block, mind you - grey cap and hunka plastic pinned to his shriveled and milkless teet.
Was a good con until like so many of the old time queens that haunt the place, was burned so many times he is now a charred bitter old thing. Trick now is he lures some vital and sticky fingered boywhore to his lair and is said sexworker's cock is too short and not up to snuff - the evil old fuck locks the boy penniless in the room and returns with another more suitable to his tastes. But the word is out - Rentboys of the Plaza are hip to this character - your dry goods better be what is promised or you lose to the Mad Russian.
Now like a desperate vampire, this polyester clad phantom shuffles the concrete way, rheumy eyes searching for his next victim.

Monday, March 19, 2007

Fence straddlers.

And I quote from an email from a long time reader:
"actually, what really annoys me about your authoritative and totally hilarious (yeah, i read it again today) gay guide to Tijuana post is that, to this day, this completely brilliant gift to your readers remains comment-less--NOBODY--not ONE of those suck-asses who claim to be your followers--has acknowledged its brilliance."
That is why I write this for myself. No body cares. I see that map I put up looks like an atomic war zone - but nobody wants to acknowledge being here. It's too dirty.
Said it once and I'll say it again just in case you're deaf - Fuck 'em all, squares on both sides.

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Dogs in the Dark.

My new job seems to be working out well. I think I can pull myself out of this humiliating poverty - but it may be too late. I do not have this weeks rent and I am without funds for neither food or drinking water. Payday is a week and a half away - and of course all who I had helped in the past has turned their simpering backs on me. (Sigh.) I have to fess up with the landlady that I will be a week late with my rooms rent - I pay weekly. My anxious paranoia is riding high.
After work, I was on the train heading to the border when I was happily reacquainted with Felicia - a fifty three year old transsexual I knew from my early days in Tijuana. A skeletal old thing of soft spoken elegance and angel heart. I spun my tales of woe to her and Felicia confided in me that she had rooms to rent in her house that she had inherited from her dead mother. I was invited to come with her to check it out - plus she was afraid of walking home alone in lieu of getting mugged.
So, Felicia and I strolled through the dark, broken, trash filled streets to her place. We chatted and joked and spun stories of her gay life in Tijuana during the '60's and '70's - "There wasn't as much crime and violence - people, including the fags, had more respect for each other. It was more fun."
She knew a little restaurant by her place that served her food on credit - because she said she was starving and I was, too!
The cafe was a long room with a low ceiling - a warped counter extended the length of the place and the plastic chairs were folded and already stacked - they were closing. The joint was ran by two pleasant elderly women - Juanita (Short and scrawny.) and Betty (Short and plump.) Felicia explained our plight and they agreed to serve us food. Unfortunately, with us in there and the front door open - more shabby street people wandered in to eat. Juanita threw her arms up and yelled, "Well, I guess I better get cooking!"
Felicia and I were served a dish of Spanish rice, beans, and cabbage wrapped in thin steak slices and we ate it with incredible voraciousness - it was delicious.
Felicia looked at me and said between nibbles, "I am forced to live off of the kindness of strangers."
"I am forced to live off of the strangeness of kindness," I croaked.
A few shady characters drifted in and out of the cafe as we ate - a filthy ugly little lump of a man the ladies called Shorty, then a dark hooded man with a deep baritone of a voice stopped in for a coffee and quesadillas, ruggedly handsome but as queer as can be, and finally a cholo and his fat pimpled girlfriend came in and ordered some take out - the cholo staring at me one eye whitened in milky cataracts. I just ignored him and rapped with Felicia and Betty.
Finishing up, Felicia and I gave our grateful thanks and said adios to the two ladies and walked across the street to Felicia's place. It was an immense lot of four houses crumbling into ruin. No running water and all the dilapidated shanties shared a common restroom. Felicia had only one tenant. Opening the fence, I was accosted by a pack of happy dogs in which Felicia promptly fed scraps out of the slop bucket from the restaurant.
Felicia and I chatted for a bit before I left and walked the few blocks back to my room. I hoped I am not forced by fate to reside in that lonely place.
Time will tell.

Monday, March 12, 2007

Lonely Place.

What am I doing with my life? The scream shot out of my flesh through empty locker rooms and bath houses, musty hotels, and spectral corridors of west Texas sanitariums, the muttering, hawking, grey dishwater smell of men's shelters, great, dusty warehouses full of old army cots - through broken porticoes and smeared arabesques, iron urinals worn paper thin by the piss of a million faggots, deserted weed grown shacks a musty smell of shit turning back to the soil - the way is broken...
I walk through the Plaza - Ivan sits on the steps - face burned like metal in the flashbulb of urgency. His eye's went out. A whiff of ozone drifted in the clear night riding on the banda music. The novia muttered over her candles and alters in one corner. A dingy white cat pulls at my pant leg and runs onto a concrete balcony. Clouds drift by.
"I could save my checks. Start a little business some place." I nod and smile like a mechanical toy.
"Ivan!!" Rentboys look up from card games, coffee houses, and sullen hooked stances under metal lightposts as the name whistles by and slowly fades away. "Ivan!! Saul!! Diego!! Enrique!!" The plaintive Rentboy cries drift in on the warm night.
"Need you to do me a favor," I croaked, wiping away the more obvious signs of distaste with a sloppy, casual napkin, seeing the grey ooze of junk in Ivan's face, "Don't ever invite me to do that again."
His body moved in little galvanized jerks as the junk channels lit up. "One hit never put anyone back on."
"I know what I am doing." Breathing the residue of methamphetamine out of my already scarred lungs.
I walk alone down Avenida Revolucion to my room amid the carnival of blaring neon and pounding discos everyone looks like a drug addict.
Stopping to sit on a metal bench in front of El Torito disco - wanna sit alone and smoke and think. Depression rising again. Moments pass and handsome cholo pelon sits with me - smell of dirty linens and unwashed bodies - we don't talk but he cackles and grins into his styrofoam coffee cup - he laughed, black insect laughter as patrol after patrol roamed by eyeing us.
This is too tiresome, and I drift home lost without purpose or meaning.
So I lay in my bed, naked, on top of the covers smoking a Faro cigarette watching a black cockroach scale the faded baby blue wall of my room - national sponsored program in Spanish mumbles from the radio - and I think I need to change.
But do I want to?

Sunday, March 11, 2007

Behind Pillars of Smoke.

Standing outside in the shivering night - the Plaza was pregnant with the twilight people - the bar adjacent to my frozen form thumped with laughter and merry making. Two old negro queens cumpleanos. And they flipping the bill for this swanky fiesta. Complimentary booze and vittles guzzled by nameless arrogant faces. I danced a little - scrawny attractive boy swirled with lithe movements - what was his name? Who cares. I drank a little with RJ and Derrick and Miguel - too many bodies that poured into the street so I stood outside in the shivering night.
Ivan, Rentboy turned waiter knew him for years passed sobbing that someone had stolen his money as Miguel sucked some stranger up in a cheap hotel. Big boobed hooker clops up to me as I stood there "Whacha looking for?" She asked.
"You don´t got it - plus I like men." Puffed on that Faro like a cock.
"I am a man." She croaked and it was time to cut.
Ivan fades in and invites me to his trap - why not? Old friend knew him for years you understand. In the dark streets leading up to his shabby hotel phantoms lurk offer me junk - Nope, I´m all right as Ivan cops a paper. Up worn wooden staircase the room had a bed and a squat bookshelf wadded with crumpled clothes.
He takes out a glass pipe and crushes the crystal into it lights up and smokes - billowing out huge plumes of that grey tinny smell. Hands me the charred pipe - I falter, promised myself never again. One inhale, two, three - we pass it back in forth in junky silence like a galvanized ritual. Been so long and so much it really doesn´t effect me - at first.
Ivan on the flipside degenerates into a shaking teeth grinding wreck - face sunken in skull like eyes open peeled and raw. When it is gone, he stashes the blackened tube under his stained mattress lies back and listens to banda on his CD walkman. I sit on the edge of the bed glancing around at the bare dirty pink walls as the tweek sets in more on Ivan than myself. That acrid heavy metal taste in my mouth the cigarettes don´t erase.
I sit and study Ivan in pity as he convulses in mechanical galvanized jerks - he had already dragged the book shelf barricading the door from paranoia Dream Police. Ivan retrieves his pipe again - scraping the residue from the stem for another round. Heavy boots and jingling keys pass the door and Ivan's schizophrenia flares - we sit a moment in silence, waiting for the stranger to pass. I decline the second dose and enough of this sad hopeless Fallen Angel - he was once strong and virile. At least the boy has retained his looks of strong angular Aztec features. But that soon will decay.
I stand - extinguishing my cigarette on the filthy warped wooded floor. "I gotta go." - and leave that wretch to his horror.
Walking the few blocks in that dark cold night - eyeing for patrols for my own paranoia is kicking in. I think of my future and of my plans - I cannot allow those past demons to control me. Reaching my room - I undress and get into bed unable to sleep as the drug tacks hold. Eventually I drift off, horrid nightmares abound. I wake up depressed and disappointed that I even committed the act - yes, I have changed in my exile to El Paso, TX and the way is clear.
I will never travel that Lost Highway again.

Saturday, March 10, 2007


Attaining some sort of employment I got - I have no idea why it has eluded me for so long a time. I walk through the masses in Tijuana Centro shuffling along those time worn blackened sidewalks and I receive hostile glances sniffs of disdain heads turn the other way - it's like those nacos can tell when I am broke. Fuck 'em all - squares on both sides.
I have crippling depressions. I wonder how I can feel this bad and live. Very few people are ever in contact with that area of human despair. I've survived by confronting it. I let it wash over me.
It is time to get offa my rusty dusty and handle my business - I have spoken with a fellow hobo and he had hired the attorneys firm Bender & Bender to handle his SSI claim. Said they are the best of the best - expensive to say the least but the wait is a fraction of time it usually takes. There's a thought - living off of $1000 more or less in another country - sounds real tasty.
Romance department is in full swing - strained - but good things come to those who wait, reet?
Had to be curt with one of the Rentboys - Diego is his name and a mooch to the bone. Followed me for two blocks for one dollar in which he continually pressured. Finally, I stopped in my tracks and spat, "Diego, you are by far the most annoying prostituto in the Plaza! You got nothing I want - scattah!"
"But, I'm hungry." He said hurt.
"That's the way I like to see you." I lost myself in the midday rush. I stopped to give a few pesos to a payaso performing with his little son - funny act.
I cannot shake my feeling of apartness from the rest of the human race. Enter the American tourist. He thinks of himself as a good guy but when he looks in the mirror to shave he had to admit that "Well other people are different from me and I don't really like them." This makes him feel guilt towards other people.
Still suffering from this hellish hobo-virus. I lay here blasting some 30 Seconds to Mars and I wanted to relax - but the retard of a vecino of mine is blaring his television seeping through the walls. Why are Mexicans like that? Televisions, radios, cellphones - they must insist on setting it to maximum volume with no concern or respect of those around them. Fucking third worlders.
Perhaps I can climb up on the roof and cut his power - nah, to much trouble for the likes of him. I just put in my earplugs and go to sleep.

Friday, March 09, 2007

Gay Guide to Tijuana.

You asked for took it and moaned for more - Here is the semi-definitive Gay Guide to Tijuana. I am an American gringo puto who has lived in Tijuana pert near ten years now...I think I know a little something of this town. I have included pretty much everything your faggoty little heart can desire. So grab your ruck sack....pack light, only the necessities and let´s have some fun down ol´Mexico way.

Okay, kiddies - we're going to the happiest place on earth: TIJUANA!

Let's take for granted that you have a Friday, Saturday, and Sunday to kill. I'll break it all down for you in a suggestive day by day routine. Of course these are only suggestions and you can mix-n-match to whatever your perverted little minds can decide on. Also, the addresses and directions may seem a little vague, but really isn´t exploration half the fun?

NOTE: It is a fact...a tired, long winded, well known atrocity of a fact that Americans come down here and treat the locals like crap. Like you're visiting freakin' Disneyland and the locals supposed to cater to your every whim. Leave that attitude at the border, bitch! You'll be eaten alive. Respect the locals and everything will be fine. Okay, on with the report:

Do not drive across!!! Walk, fatso! It's not that far. Take the blue line trolley from San Diego or leave your car on the American side. There are many cheap parking lots to choose from - most run about $5 to $10 a day. Don´t worry they´re safe. Then again, who would want your old clunker, anyway, right? Once on the other side, it takes fifteen minutes to walk to Revolution Avenue. If you don't want to walk, take a cab, chubby...but only TAXI LIBRE, they have meters. It'll cost you about twenty pesos. (Two dollars for you gringos.) If you take a yellow cab expect to pay up to seven dollars. So, pass those fuckers up. Taxi Libre's are white and orange. Once you pass the metal revolving gates at the border you will see a McDonald´s. If you can resist the temptation of stopping to stuff your face, waddle the next block south of Mickey Dee´s and you will come upon the stand for Taxi Libre´s. Ask the cab driver to take you to Plaza Santa Cecilia. With any luck he will either drop you off under the Arch (you'll know it when you see it.) or on the corner of Avenida Secundo (Second Street...learn Spanish, ferthechrissakes!!!!) and Constitution Ave.

 If you are going to walk, then go with the flow. Follow all the tourists to that big ass arch in the distance. With elbow and teeth you have to make it to that arch at all costs!! Pass all the little rug rats asking for change, dodge the filthy heroin addicts screaming obscenities at you, take a big whiff of Rio Tijuana as you stumble over the footbridge into downtown. You have to make it to that arch and to the beginning of Plaza Santa Cecilia! C'mon, move it, princess - I don't have all day!

Now, the point of this is that Plaza Santa Cecilia is Tijuana's Castro St., Santa Monica Blvd., Greenwich Village, South's fag central, folks. It is a block of innerestin' gay bars. Once you depart the cab, and please tip the guy at least a dollar, you will notice the Plaza is perpendicular to Revolution Ave. (the main strip of shops, bars, and restaurants.) and very crowded with vendors and shops. Walk around and enjoy the scenery. But first, you might want to find a place to rest your little head.

On the north east of the Plaza next to the Arch corner is Hotel Nelson. It is clean but pricey. They don't mind if you invite visitors up into your room for a little hoodlyhoo. A block north is Hotel Alaska...cheaper, rattier but they do not mind visitors, either. This hotel Alaska also caters to hustlers. Many live here, so watch it. Don´t let the outside fool you though, it´s all right. Clean rooms, but real thin walls. I´d rented a room there once with a boy and me and the kid competed with the straight couple in the other room in who could fuck longer and louder. We won.

But, hell, there are hundreds of hotels within a block of the Plaza, from fancy to jesus christ I paid for this trap, so just pick one that suites your whiny ass. All you need is a bed and a hot shower, right?

"But I don't want my things to get stolen!" You shrill.

Leave the freakin' tiara at home, only bring a toothbrush and clean shorts, okay!? If you have personal items that you think will get stolen, leave them behind. Use your street smarts 'cause I tell you, you're gonna need them.

Okay, so you found a hotel. Let's knock out the bars in the Plaza.

El Ranchero:
The famous...the notorious Ranchero Bar. For the first five years of my move here this was my second home. Everything you have read online about this place was probably true. When you enter, there will be a bottom (stop giggling!) floor. Here it is a little more relaxed. They have strippers every Friday and Saturday night. Shoo away the first three guys that ask you to buy them a drink - they are probably going to rob you anyway. The economics of Tijuana have risen. So, if the asshole can't buy his first beer, he needs to go back home. Check out the scene, the waiters are pretty cool. Tip them! But, don't overdo it, you start waving the green backs and the hustlers will be crawling all over you like flies to honey and within minutes you will be broke and frustrated. Check out upstairs. Go ahead...don´t be a fraidy cat. It's a bit more social. Younger crowd, too. Dance floor and drag shows. You'll get the drift.

Villa Garcia: 
A couple of bars down the plaza and there's the Garcia. It's just like Ranchero except a little cleaner. Though the penis peepin is more rampant here in the bathroom than at other places. Same thing, Drag shows below, Strippers upstairs. Buy a beer and then move on.

Hawaii Bar: What freakin' American pansy opened this eyesore?! It's a new bar/restaurant that opened a few years ago. Between Ranchero and Garcia. Real snooty. Food sucks. Waiters pushy. Not a second in the door a waiter asked me what did I want, I said I just want to check the joint out, he asked me to purchase a beer or leave. I left.

Bar D.F.: This is a fun little place on the south end of the plaza. Older crowd but real laid back. If you've met somebody by now, here is a good place to kick it and get to know them better.

Okay, ask somebody where the hell is Bar Taurino. Then walk around the corner to it. It's a hellifyingly huge turquoise building with a giant red neon sign on it that says "Taurino" on it. By the way, look to the right and above Taurino and see "Banos" don't worry your gringo ass about the name of the can't read Spanish, anyway, remember? Just remember "Banos" is "BATH". Ding. Ding. Ding. Guess what that is?! Yes, Virginia, you're right. It's a public bath house!!! Now if you are going down first street around from the Plaza to Taurino, on the right hand side above those feelthy chicken restaurants is another "Banos" Dig it? That's two. But don't go ape shit just yet, you'll have plenty of time for that later.

Bar Taurino:
A loud den of locals and a smidgen of Americans. This is a pretty cool place. Unlike Ranchero you don't have hustlers flinging and clawing at you at every step. I know you are lonely and like the attention, but they are only out for money and usually just end up robbing you. Bar Taurino is a nice dive with a dance floor and friendly people - on the weekends ask for the waiter Gustavo, he'll take care of you and how. Highly recommended.

Want skanky? I know you do, you perv. Find your way to Avenida Coahilla. Exit Taurino and head down the sloping sidewalk. Dodge the prepubescent girl hookers. (Girls, ewwww!) At the first corner, hang a left and gawk at the street that you just stumbled upon. Every horrid vision you ever had about Tijuana nightlife comes true on this street. Row upon row of whorehouses bathed in candy colored neon, trashy multicolored spandex clad hookers stand shoulder to shoulder grabbing at your crotch. Drunks materialize out of dark cracks and bum you for money. Intoxicated and rowdy military stumble around incoherently sprayed with their own vomit. Walk to the end of the street and make a right. Look across the street. Find the bar called Kin-Kle. If you don´t see it ask around. Trust me you will get a chuckle or a raised eyebrow and expect to be hit up for a tip. But it is worth it.

Kin-kle: (Pronounced Kin Klay.) I recall that bar in Star Wars...the drug crazed transvestites paw you as you come in the door and you will be greeted by a cadaverous waiter. He is a tall, thin man in a dirty ill fitted tuxedo. Real nice guy. That's not sarcasm, he really is a nice guy. Order a beer and sit and watch the show. Meaning the people around you. Transvestites, junkies, parolees, deportees, thieves, super butch dykes, and they are all queer. Trust me, people will sit with you and they will strike up a conversation. It won´t matter if you speak Spanish or not...they will talk to you. I love this place! Go into the restroom...go on, I DARE YOU.

The Anchor: On the corner next to Kin-Kle is the Anchor. It's about six notches above Kin-Kle but caters to the same clientele. Lots of locals for you to talk with. You´ll be sitting alone then all of a sudden, some guy sits next to you finger bangin´ a hooker, while some cholo sits opposite you passing around a joint and asking you all kinda dirty questions. And the beer´s cheap!

Noa-Noa: A block around the corner from the Anchor is Noa-Noa. Amazonian Transvestite Street Hookers patrol the front door flashing their post-op silicone atrocities at passing cars and if yer lucky one will hit you up. ¨Wanna plo chob?¨ It has a bar and a dance floor with the obligatory Drag Show. The last time I went into this place the waiter had these boys do a line up in front of me and asked me wringing his hands lasciviously, "What do you want?" "Uh, a Tecate?" I stuttered. A thirteen year old boy flopped next to me and smiled, "You like beeg one, Meester?" I got up and left. I'm not a pedophile. you wanna dance? You just gotta dance!!! Fag. There are several Discos to choose from so's ya can shake a tail feather. Find yer ass back to the plaza. Heading east away from the Arch...the way back to the United States, after you pass the first bridge over the bubbling Rio Tijuana (Take a whiff...Ah, the smell of untreated sewage right next to all them restaurants!) you will head into Plaza Viva Tijuana, the gaudy tourist plaza. Scream at those little Indian kids to leave you the fuck alone...Once in the Plaza, go left of the bridge, behind "Mr. Taco" and you will find:

Extasis: You've heard of this disco right? Why don't you just go to snobby Hillcrest in San Diego and dance big difference. Glitzy, gaudy, attitude, rich, snobby Mexicans. I blame MTV. I went there with friends once...lasted ten minutes. But they do have an innerestin' dark room if you wanna play duck, duck, goose...

Run as fast as you can back towards the Arch. Whilst you’re in the neighborhood, have that boy you found to take you to Mike's. You did find a boy...right?

Not yet?


Oh, well...remember you gotta dance!!!

Back at the Arch and you find yourself at the foot of Revolucion Blvd. Breeder Heaven. Primly sashay down the way and gawk in horror at all the drunk college kids. Gasp in terror at the Strip Bar Doormen pounding you to come see their "Titty Girls and Pussy women". Shriek in passion at all the horny drunk military stumbling out of said strip clubs with hard-ons ready for the pluckin'! But, YOU GOTTA DANCE RIGHT?!!! So down on the corner of Fifth and Revolucion you will find:

Mike's: Very popular and very trendy. It was THE dance club before Extasis opened up. Real friendly crowd. They have the obligatory drag show at midnight, so expect everything to grind to a halt at these untalented escapades.

X Palace: Pronounced Eckies Palace. Another boogie down disco across the way from the Jai Alai Stadium. A nice little place. Good dance floor. Eclectic crowd.

It's late. What to do now? What else, take the boy you found back to your hotel and fuck the shit outta him!!! Give 'em a good helpin' of God Bless America! (Use a condom. No wait, like my Dad said, "Condoms are fer sissies, whatcha think the face an' ass are for?" Serious, he said that. But, use a condom anyways...YOU KNOW WHY!!! Don't want my pretties to become another HIV statistic.)

God, your ugly in the morning. Drag your ass outta bed, take a shower and head down to the Plaza for breakfast. Ah, the smell of coffee and refried beans. Makes me mouth smack just thinking about it! Okay, as you will notice there are several restaurants to choose from. THEY ARE ALL THE SAME. Choose the one with the cutest waiter and sit the fuck down. May I suggest La Fuenta - cause that's where I eat. 

After you slopped down some grub, here's what your gonna do. You’re horny and that boy you met last night took off. (With twenty dollars and your bracelet! Asshole!) So what to do? Go take in some theater, of course! Find your way to the corner of Second Street and Constitution. Walk kitty corner across the street. Walk up second until you come to a touristy plaza selling a shitload of candy, cheese, and nuts. This is the 2nd Street Old Mercado. The smell alone will knock you on your ass!! Stand there a moment and watch the flies do the Macarena on the candy. Find your way inside, all the way to the back. Make a left and:

Cinema 2000: Oh, yeah...a freakin' porno theater right smack dab in the middle of nowhere! Plunk your 25.00 pesos down and go in. Grainy Italian porn from the seventies with American overdubbing and Spanish subtitles! It doesn't get any better than this! Wocka-wocka-wairn-nair!!! Look around at the clientele. They're locals. They're men. And they're reeeaaalll horny. I dare you to whip out your big nasty...they'll be all over you like vampires to a nekkid virgin. Go into the bathroom. So you don't know Spanish? Just point at their crotch and make slurping sounds. I have participated in full blown Roman orgies in this place. It's a hoot.

Okay, you freakin' cockjunkie...still want more? Wipe your mouth and exit the plaza. Walk straight out and across the street you will see a big brown department store called Dorian's. It's the Mexican version of Macy's. Fight the urge to shop, you little queer, and turn left out of the plaza. You are now on Ave. Nino's Heroes. Walk a couple of blocks to Fifth Street and you'll come upon a tan and purple theater. I know, sometimes I think Mexicans are color blind.
Cinema Latino:
To the left of the main entrance is a small arched door. This is the entrance to the porno theater. Waddle your fat ass up the ramp and pay the 40.00 pesos. This place is a porno palace - A cockjunkies paradise. There is more action in the theater seats than there is up on the screen. Your mind will reel at the amount of cock sucking in this place! Go into the dungeon like restroom. Trust me, even if you look like Ernest Borgnine, you will get some action here.

CRUISING TIP: If someone is rubbing themselves. Sit next to them and grab it, it means they want to anyway. Americans are so fucking paranoid and defensive. You are in a Porno Theater. In a foreign country. No one knows you. Do what you want!! Let loose!!

Okay, after that madness, your mouth is tired and you need a message. Down on Revolucion Blvd, behind the Gigante Supermarket is Tijuana's only all male ethical massage parlor. I'm talking 100% all natural Crisco oil neck to balls body message! I asked the owner what the name of his establishment was. He just shrugged and said, "All Male Message." I thought, how boring and suggested calling it "Me Rub You Long Time."
So every drop of semen has been drained out of you and you still want more! Oh, you randy bitch!! Well, stumble down fourth street west of Revolution to Ave. 5 de Mayo and you will find a very pretty park. Have a seat on one of the metal benches under a gently swaying tree and watch the parade of hot men stroll by. The boys here are rather delicious and is worth the trip.

Just sit yer ass there and twiddle your thumbs. Do not worry, within minutes a guy will sit with you and start up a conversation. It's funny, these guys are so blunt and will flat out ask you to go somewhere. Maybe his house? What? The guy you found lives with his Aunt, six cousins and a chicken named Pepe? Not to worry, on the far corner off 4th and G St. across from the park you will find Banos De La Parque. Yessiree, Bob! It's a conveniently located Bath and only three fuckin' dollars per head! (Stop snickering!) Go on in with the guy and have a spot of unclean fun. Don't forget to clean those nooks and crannies!
Bet you are hungry. I know you are. On the opposite side of the park is a chain of family owned restaurants and are frequented by the local queers. The food is cheap, a plate of carne asada, beans, salad, and a drink will run you around two fifty, and the dishes are finger lickin' good. You can sit there, rehabilitating your asshole, watching the boys walk by, and occasionally flicking the small roach off your table.

After eating, why don'tcha go back to your hotel and take a nap. It's Saturday night and yer gonna do it all again. You're a pro this time - a seasoned traveler. You'll be all right. If yer lucky you won't get robbed and your ass kicked for being a snotty American.

Go home. Please. What else you want? Shop? A taco? GO!! It will take forever to cross the border anyway, so start early. And as you stand behind that fat tourist with the whining kid you can relish the memories that you will take back home. Some memories you will never forget. Some will take up to six to eight weeks to get rid of.

Thursday, March 08, 2007

"What's with all the Mugwump jissom?"

Spent the previous night wracked in pain on accounta this damn virus I had gotten - most likely from some transient when I had eaten lunch. One hella hobo-virus - kicken my ass! On a lighter note, and this is kinda good - I have attained employment as a Reservations Agent at some company that does those things. I start tomorrow at 9:30am. It will be a relief to finally shred this poverty that I had put myself in and get on with the bigger more important shit in my life. But what person will I metamorphosis into?
"He has the mark of a certain trade or occupation that no longer exists. If junk were from the earth, there might still be junkies standing around in junk neighbourhoods feeling the lack, vague and persistent, a pale ghost of junk sickness...
So this man walks around in the places he once exercised his obsolete and unthinkable trade. But he is unperturbed. His eyes are black with an insect's unseeing calm. He looks as if he nourished himself on honey and Levantine syrups that he sucks up through a sort of proboscis. What is his lost trade? Definitely of a servant class and something to do with the dead, though he is not an embalmer. Perhaps he stores something in his body - a substance to prolong life - of which he is periodically milked by his masters. He is as specialised as an insect, for the performance of some inconceivably vile function."

Tuesday, March 06, 2007

Meet Lack.

Spent the morning - beginning anyways, drinking coffee with the Old Man, that is the Canadian Chuck and his bevy of boys. I cut into the cafe and there is Chuck huddled in someone else's overcoat looking like a 1910 banker with paresis, and Old Joe, shabby and inconspicuous, dunking pound cake with his dirty fingers, shiny over the dirt. Had to jet for an early meet with RJ - he had extended an invitation to his home in Rosarito for an afternoon barb-e-que.
Stood in the Plaza for three hours waiting - chain smoking, people watching. These people in this Plaza…well Mexico for that reason basically a machisimo culture that reflects two thousand years of disease and poverty and degradation and stupidity and slavery and brutality and psychic and physical terrorism. It is sinister and gloomy and chaotic, with the special chaos of a dream. A square tourist wants to come on hip....Talks about "weed," and smoke it now and then, and keeps some around to offer the fast Hollywood types. "Thanks, kid, "I say, "I can see you're one of our own." His face lights up like a pinball machine, with stupid, pink effect.
Was accompanied by a waiter from El Tourino named Gustavo. Hella handsome - has a sincere little boy look, burns through him like blue neon - but un burracho. Wasn't feeling it for work today so he called in sick - so he claimed. Sexual innuendo flew out of his pouty lips like Niagra Falls but I wasn't gonna have it - not in the mood me. He left and RJ never arrived - three hours had past.
Bit disgruntled, I returned home and lie in my bed wracked by waves of anxiety and depression before falling into a troubled morbid sleep. Was awoken by me cellphone and it was that bitch RJ stating that he overslept and for I to meet him at Bar Villa Garcia for drinks. Okay.
A bucket of Lager waiting and we both got ripped playing coy with the Rentboys and the trannies. Again - my head was pounding so I called it an early night and returned to my trap.
Penniless and without food - with no aspect of what to do with my life at this moment - I actually had a good time. I sat on my balcony in a major frump, smoking - lungs are searing with pain and I decided to do nothing. I always state that I am on a precipice looking out into a deep black void - metaphorically speaking and I wouldn't have it any other way. But about that precipice - I think it is time to jump.

Monday, March 05, 2007


A bad dream from one of my favorite films. Classic and disturbing.

Saturday, March 03, 2007

Down but not Out.

Bright sunny morning - layed in bed smoking a Faro empty bottle of Fundador on the endtable - like I said layed there forming a plan, depression weighing on me to much to get out of bed but I gotta. Shower brush up pull a comb through my hair - vision staring back at me from the mirror a disembodied phantom - where has my youth gone? Yup, I am feeling it.

Coffee with Chuck and he flips the bill - for now I am without funds. Jealousy burns in my mind with him - Chuck receives monthly check from the State on account of his depression - he´s happy as a lark. Shoulda stayed in El Paso, me, and waited it out for my SSI benefits. Another if and shoulda in a long history of let downs and bad choices.

The Rentboys can sure smell Chuck´s money because soon there is a table full of these fuckers working the morning circuit. Chuck offers to loan me some cash to pay next weeks rent. I agree only unless my food stamps - in which I plan to apply for this afternoon - do not pull through. I confide in him my plan to sell them and use the money to pay rent until that gig at Petco Park rolls in. Another if.

So I start my cross to the frontera - stop to chat with MS13 hottie covered in innerestin tattoos working a taco stand. Que onda, pelon - que dices? Takes forty five minutes to walk across and another forty five for the red line to San Diego.

The train arrives in downtown Diego just in time to zip over to Vinnie´s for lunch - puke on a plate but it is substance, I reckon. Head over to Human Resources on 9th and Avenue C for my food stamps. Processed quickly - young black queer tries to put the make on handsome sullen Pacific Islander in the lobby, he yawns at the queers blatant advances - I am interviewed by a case worker and given appointment to return Monday for my EBT card. I can work with that. While standing outside waiting on the train back to the border, my name is screeched out - always a bad omen - the squawk belonged to a rotund albeit plump white piece of trailer trash named Krissy. She bounced out of a barber shop and we both greeted each other with a what´s up. Krissy was waiting for her boyfriend - that lanky drunk Raul to get a haircut. Both were acquaintances from my days at St. Vincent de Paul.

As we sat joking and me making witty quips of Raul´s cut, she invited me to dinner with them to the Outback Steakhouse up in Mission Valley mall. Least I´m eating dinner tonight - life is funny, huh?

Raul was already lushed - Puerto Rican rum stashed in a Pepsi bottle - so the dinner was not only delicious (I had a 16oz. prime ribeye steak, steamed broccoli, and clam chowder - best meal in a long time.) but entertaining. After I had hid Raul´s spiked Pepsi bottle under our table when he stepped out to the men´s room - whining and moaning like an alcoholic about his missing bottle - the drunk crawled on his hands and knees under the booth to retrieve it in front of appalled diners. I walked out to smoke as Krissy laughed like a herniated donkey - never a dull moment with these two.

Stuffed, we wobbled back to the trolley line for downtown - saying my thanks and so longs - I returned to the border and sanity of Tijuana. Walking under the navy starry sky over the bridge spanning the polluted Tijuana river - I wondered what other surprises await me in these turbulent days ahead...

Thursday, March 01, 2007

Coffee Hag.

My life is one long wacky soap opera.
To save money and just for the fuck of it, my pal o' mine RJ invited me to flop fee and gratis at his beach side mansionette in the town of Rosarito and I happily agreed - could use a change of scenery, you know?
A good thing too, my fifty bucks a week rent was due and I possessed a paltry hunnert. So, I packed my shit and headed out for a coffee with that tried and true expat Chuck. Text on my cell from RJ noted that he'd meet up with me at 7:30pm - so I had a day to kill. After I left old Chuck, I decided to wait in Cinema Latino - wouldn't you?
Paid the forty pesos and entered the stagnate gloom to some moaning cooch getting bulbs yanked out of her hieny. Sat up in the balcony and quickly hooked up with a Johnny Depp clone and that boy sucked cock like a champ - and his wittle wiener was an olympic ceiling squirter! After that joker split back to Stateside (?!) some chunky joto buzzed me but I made it clear I had no interest in his unappetizing person. Plus side was - I learned the Mexican slang for goosing someone - wowies they call it. Had to laugh at that one.
After that hippopotamus wobbled off tail between his fat ass legs, a bonefide male prostitute - super macho with muscles like bricks - flops next to me bums a smoke, whips out his steel cock and hits me up for $100 pesos - all in one movement. What a professional! Scattah, I say - but before this fallen adonis splits - Fat Boy returns and gobbles the manwhores big and nasty like Sunday buffet. The macho brute comes to a quivering climax - a dramatic act on my behalf I'm sure and Chunky pulls out some coins and hands it to the man. I am left alone for a bit to chain smoke Faro's. Twenty year old cutie is next - Valfredo he says his name is - and I blow the fucker twice. We make out a bit like high school lovers on the lips before I jet for my meet with RJ. - leaving Valfredo heart broken in darkness.
Stopping to down some Chinese food - and that crap was nasty - I hightailed to the Plaza to wait for my rotund negro friend. And I waited and waited and waited and waited - during this and amid six cups of strong coffee I am happily reacquainted with an old transsexual friend from my salad days - her being Felicia. I am jazzing her with hints of remodeling her crappy flop house into an international bed and breakfast. We nibbled pan dulce with two old relics of hers - a snaggle toothed old thing that waitered at Villa Garcia and a drunken bejeweled hag.
Time dragged and they split and I still wondered where the fuck RJ was. Rapped with the cafes cutie waiter and joked with my rentboy friend Diego who was on the clock for hotel money. However, I would not help him - no matter how hot he is - because he had been branded a thief.
So 'round eleven I recall - I gave up on that fool RJ and trudged home with my sixty dollars - fifty for rent and ten to sustain me until when ever. Well, this shall pass - I been in stickier situations...