Sometimes a Wind Blows...

On screen some Filipina fob was getting it nasty in her tattoo snatch. The coughs slurps and random gasps of anonymous lust from the Baker's Dozen of fat or ugly or old perverts permeated the murky theater. Two seats next to me handsome Latin transient kid stroked his wiener like a masturbating idiot. I try to make him but get hostile flashes from cold undersea eyes. Whatever.

I pull out my own and dingle dangle to the nastiness on screen when out of the inky blackness young Mexican kid - khaki shorts, blue knit polo shirt, white baseball cap - slithers next to me silent and furtive. Takes my stiff joint in his frail hands and wraps his tongue around my head. Sucks and blows like a champ - my hand glides along his lithe backside, feeling sinewy muscles as he bobs slowly up and down on my cock. He's good - minutes later I am squirting semen into his mouth with gasps and grunts. Before I can button my fly, Little Faggito slinks back into the void - to the mens room where the Pompadoured Fairy lurks.

I walk outside for a smoke - wind howling under that bright blue Texas sky. Puffing on my Camel Wide, Little Faggito exits blinking in the sun - but before we can chit or chat, Old Carnale rides up shirtless on a rickity bike and starts yapping.

"Hey, guero, what's up?" He smiles toothless face of an old woman, hair a mane of grey knots.

"Not much." I croak. I don't know this person.

"Need anything?" Old Carnale whispers down empty alleyways.

I think and half jest, "Got any coke?"

"Come on." He says and I follow him into the dusty trash filled alley next to the theater - Little Faggito in tow and I haven't the slightest idea why. Red brick walls in black soot graffiti claw at the sun. Smell of urine and dried shit and dust that clog nostrils.

After preliminary checks for patrols Old Carnale pulls a small plastic bag out of the folds of his ratty clothes and smiles. Behind a smelly green dumpster as the wind blows and moans I sample his wares. Snort - wheeee! Snort - wheee!!!

Little Faggito disappears with the look of a wounded fawn as I slap the ten into Old Carnale's calloused dirty hand. Look of tired petulance - Old Carnale zips off down the dusty alley on his bicycle and I bebop back down town.

Coke takes effect and I hit centro feeling quite yummy on this dead El Paso Sunday - streets void of pedestrians, void of life. Nothing but empty buildings, wind, sand, and sun. The sun seems to suck the very life out of you and you want nothing - nothing but death. I digress and stopped at the Tap for three quick beers...

When I get back to the mish I get the bum kicks - my little Willy is gone the way of a ghost as outside amid broken bottles and rusted tin cans a tramp staggers past The Factory, his dirty right hand glides along the concrete wall leaving an iridescent trail of greasy slime...