Whore.

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.