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?

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