Sunday, April 26, 2009

Quite Yummy.

Tired and sickened by that fucking loony bin hotel that I rent at, I found myself an apartment. Not a bad place, near Zona Rosa and close enough to the border so I can walk or make a hasty exit. And old Chuck, the world wise literary ex-patriot lives around the corner. Darling old coot, can score for anything and knows everyone in the Zone. Has been here since day one, grrl.
The apartment is near the end of a blind alley that hardly receives any sun. The room itself contains a well worn queen sized bed with dark oak headboard with matching nightstand. It has an armoire with full length mirror - cracked, a chair, a table and a window that looks out into a dusty alley. The walls are painted a light mint and the floors have red tile. A dusty ceiling fan wobbles above. The bathroom is wall to wall to floor white tiles, porcelain sink, and a toilet. The old kind that has a latch you pull from above. There is no shower - that is downstairs and shared by the tenants. Luckily has hot water. The kitchen has a refrigerator from the '50's that still runs, sink area, stove, and metal table with two metal chairs. All furnishings can be considered antiques. Slightly worn.
Not bad, I think, for $150 a month American currency.
Now, this is actually the second apartment. The first I received was consumed in cockroaches. At one point Ivan, my strikingly hot friend who works at café Norteno came over; we drank Tecate beers and smoked a little weed. However, every time we'd sit our glasses down on the floor or the table, one of those little motherfuckers would do a Greg Louganis into our glass. I would spray and spray, but those little black and brown buggers would return in force.
It was a Kafkian nightmare. I bitched high and loud like any good American to the landlord and was moved to another apartment, which was pretty much like the last except it didn't have any roaches. I might have caught two or three skittering across the floor, but it wasn't the amassed army as before.

Tried to seduce the kid around the block with whiskey and mota. Francisco was his name. Aztec hawk like features and a body like a ballet dancer. Two hours pass...back at my trap, we both flying high and me on my elbows and knees being screwed by this character. Mission accomplished.
Later that night, I have cocktails at Bar Villa Garcia with a Peruvian I know. Also there is old friend RJ and this 89 year old American tranny who calls herself ‘Norma Jean’. Crooked Andy Warhol wig, blue Capri and gaping black toothless hole. Black puffs of armpit hair jut out from dirty halter top.
“Made myself an artificial booty!” She cooed and cackled - swings around showing the obvious toilet paper padding. We all laugh. The martinis were quite yummy.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Wasting Away in Tijuana

Woke up to the sounds of kids playing in the trash littered streets below. My third floor room has a grey concrete balcony covered in pigeon dung overlooking The Red Zone or Zona Norte, if you're a local. I sit on the ledge in my pajamas and drink horrible Victory coffee and smoke my last cigarette. It in itself withered to a butt.
The city sprawl before me is a bland colorful hazy polluted mess. Various musical styles permeate the choked yellow sky. Lights keep changing, there are wires in the air and the asphalt, the asphalt is all around me. The ever present moaning of a transvestite hooker getting fucked down the hall echoes in my head. Shrivel in the cold shower and don my clothes and take a stroll two blocks to the Plaza and sit in with Chuck for breakfast. Orange juice and sweet bread followed by the best coffee…ever.
After banal chatter, made my way to The Hawaiian Bar to pay visit to my oldest and bestest friend in T.J.; a short guy by the name of Chuey. I have known Chuey forever and after much backslapping, handshakes, and six cervezas later I relate my woes to a kind ear. No big whoop, I say...time will sort all out. As always, Chuey kindles my hopes with uplifting patter.
After explaining some where abouts of a couple of bathhouses to some haughty queens from Los Angeles looking for a quick lay, I drunkenly wobble out of the cantina and down into the heart of Zona Norte, cabrone.
Preteen hookers coo and grab at me as I stroll by lost in the sauce - cunt for me. I am out on the hunt for some rough tattooed sex. Cause that’s the way I like them - always been a sucker for the bad boy. Chuey recommended that I hang out in front of the Tijuana jail. Now there's a thought.
I am stopped by a taxi driver that reminded me of a Mexican Yoda. I remember him; he once stated that he has the biggest pussy in Tijuana. His brother sat next to him nibbling a taco. A scrawny ancient little man in a black police uniform. With that fucking white police motorcycle helmet on his enlarged head he looked like Gazoo. Which I stated. Thought it was funny. He didn’t.
Pretty fucked up, I needed to get more juice, so's I go into some bar. El Dorado? The Happy Naco? Bar Vaquero? Who cares? Smelly dark den with pink coral tiled walls and some short chunky bee-otch in a black thong whirling and jiggling her wares in front of me. Bar had only two others, junky cholo who sat on the nod like a fool on a stool and a flabby old sweaty American who eyed me fingering his camera ever so nasty.
A tall Mexican hottie with Aztec features and pencil moustache donning a blue mechanic's tunic walked in and made a bee line to the men’s room in the back. A couple of Sols later, it was on like Donkey Kong. I am in the pissoir jacking off with the hot guy in the mechanics uniform and the obligatory old fart. The hottie had the most beautiful of peni I have seen in many a moon. One hand on my soldier the other traces the black hair on toned pecs. Me and the hottie cum in spurts onto lemons and ice and leave the quivering codger standing there wondering where his youth has gone.
The hottie, Miguel he says, we drink a couple more bottles and I ask if he wants to go back to my room for an afternoon of filthy rotten sin. No, it’s back with the wifie and kids, he says. Shake hands and part. Old queen glares at me from the shadows. Frustrated fruit. Short cholo with shaved head and wife beater is hip to the fact and smiles with silver capped tooth, hard on a-pulsing in the dirty khakis. I exit - leaving the cholo to the whims of the withered vampire.
Walking through the Plaza under the Arch to the 2nd street Internet cafe, that hub of homosexual intellects and purveyors of porn, I was approached by this horrendous prostitute. Hair a rats nest, face of a battle axe, drooping, floppy boobies in a dirty black tube top, flab spilling out of her black caprice and dirty bare feet. She smelt like baloney and farts.
“Hey, baby!” She blurted in English. Obviously a junky American. “Wanna little fucky-sucky?”
“No. You need to go back to the States and reevaluate your life.” Was my deadpan reply.
“You think I'm ugly, baby, huh?” She said earnestly.
“No. Not exactly. I think you're...well, you're special.”
She smiled a smile filled with rotted brown teeth, “Thank ya, honey!” And wobbled back to the Coahuila Alley.
My life can't be all that bad, reet?

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

What Homosexual Tendencies?

Spent the day holed up in my room pounding out that other book - I seem to be following a fractured nightmare. I am a published writer writing unpublishable horrors. I smile, knowing full well that I will be living in shit and degradation until my dying day - found slumped in a chair, face ashen gray with age clutching my final work. How maudlin. Thirty years later, they will be scrutinizing and analyzing my works at Harvard and Yale - a pigeon dung covered bronze statue of my ravaged ass outside the literary building. Life is funny that way, I reckon.
The sun sank in the blue sky - the day was bright and hot - and Abel invited me down to the ocean front for coffee. How can I say no? He has become everything I want in a friend. Not a lover, I am not that foolish to pretend such things - he is a friend.
We trotted the few blocks down to the beach - joking and talking like friends do - he had a meet with a young girl. That waitress - Michele? Yeah, that's it. Michele from the restaurant we had been frequenting. I asked if he liked her? Since he had broken up with his girlfriend earlier in the month. "Nah." He said dismissively. "Just wanna pound that cunt then toss her to the curb." Straight men are so vulgar.
Abel and I reached the cafe, Lat 23 - where a full scale Hollywood production was going on, goddamit! We took our coffees, weaving between power cables and johnny lights and primping fey actors to the veranda. I wanted to discuss helping my friend with his passport and Visa papers but have you ever had that icy chill knowing full well something insidious was approaching behind you? I slowly scan behind me at at the cafe a few feet away - the fucking beach is littered with said joints, all vying to 'outcool' it's competition - and sitting at a table waving maniacally was Robert and Roman.
I said my parting words with Abel and joined my new friends at their table. As the silver waves crashed onshore and the setting sun said it's firery Fuck You to the West Coast, I sat in mid-discussion of these two mad Desolate Angels. The highlight was Robert spinning a tale of horror concerning some spastic whore that he had banged the night prior - in wonderful detail Robert described how as he was banging this cunt good and plenty she projectiles forth a stream of goat cheesed chunked vomit of Linda Blair proportions all over said Casanova - all the while Roman guffawing like a herniated donkey, myself face pallid and emotionless taking it all in like I do - and the follow up of the yarn was, Robert continued his torrid rutting despite the facefull of acidic goo. I mean he paid - so he's getting his money's worth, right?
With that said and us all three coming down offa this story like post coital ejaculation - we sighed and strolled over to Robert's seaside hacienda to talk of things literary. Past the little dirty flower selling kids, past the public banos with rentboys prowling the entrance (Old American queer exits eyes furtive with guilt and empty scrotum), past cartel owned Escalades (Droopy eyed ruca huddles in passenger seat and strokes macho driver as he sits staring out into the abyss slowly combing his thick mustache.) Up to the the fine sea side hacienda.
Inside the words fly - the literary virus only artists can relate, abstract antidotes, wayward travel stories, coagulating future endeavors as marijuana and rum are consumed. Started taping larval states of Roman's documentary of this New Writers Movement that possibly will move - but, that fat bitch is tough to budge, I tell you.
The night progresses and I bid my adieu walking that cool night back home with thoughts a tempest in my head concerning this flailing literary career that I have stepped in - so far the smell of it isn't agreeing...

Monday, April 20, 2009

Ambivalent Antics.

Beautiful sunny day and I check out the scene at Plaza Santa Cecilia - stop at cafe Norteno and down some spicy delicious menudo and coffee. Blabbed the morning away with Chuck and flirted with the young waiter that they had hired - he makes my mind move in strange and sinister directions. Family to be sure - but we must do these things delicately so as not to hurt the spell.
After that coffee orgy, I walked over to Cinema Latino to check out what was what and what was what is the norm, my little faggitos. Cocksucking antics in the murky dark depths of the back of the theater and I curtailed headlong into that mess. Sat and enjoyed the company of a Mexican Indian - tall thin with jet black hair tied back into a ponytail, dark hawk-like features. Anyways, need to stop drooling and get on with this shit, he whips out his gun and I proceed to go to work. Halfway through, and believe me when I tell you this boy was wiggling close to climax - my cell phone rings and it is my old friend RJ asking to go to cocktails. Bidding adieu and leaving the hottie holding his erection I jet over to the Plaza for my meet with RJ.
I sez howdy and he sez hi and we hit Bar Villa Garcia and downed Sol and tequila and the music thumped and the rentboys paraded to and fro in their carnival of sex. All was well if it were not for the evil meddling of some drunken tranny. I said it once and you will hear it again to be sure - I hate transvestites! Make up your fucking mind, you quacking bitches - you wanna be a man or a woman?
Not wanting to hear any more of that clowns shit, we jolt around the corner to Bar El Taurino. A seedy furtive joint on the skuzzy edges of The Zone. We both got pretty lit as Gustavo, the handsome waiter, kept making his intentions very clear to me in person - even going as far as asking where I live. More boys paraded by and up to us, showing their wares - fat whirling fag giving me the eye bought us a round of beer, old coots scamming and cursing their lost youth.
Eventually, some fat broad and her dim boyfriend shows up - acquaintances of RJ’s from his wild years. Both already plastered, the girl blows halitosis in my face exclaiming it was her birthday. So a bucket of beer was somehow purchased by time I returned from the washroom and that just added fuel to the fire. We danced and I acted like a drunken fool - which is cool. Bought another bucket as another friend of RJ’s shows up - some beefcake in black named Manuel.
Money running low, RJ and I said our goodnights and went back to Villa Garcia’s not before stopping for a plate of greasy chicken and cold tortillas in a tiny crumbling restaurant surrounded by thieves and cartel.
Back at the bar, hit on by several hustlers but I was done. I guess my age is catching up to me - shagged tired I said goodnight and thanks to RJ and trekked back home. Of course being stopped by a squad car before I reach my trap and I fell into a fitful troubled sleep.

Friday, April 17, 2009

The Zone Takes Care of It's Own.

Woke up in a strange bed in a strange room. (Which is not odd for me.) I was wearing nothing but a black t-shirt and was lying on my stomach. (Again, nothing out of the ordinary here.) However, when my eyes focused I noticed a grizzled little old Mexican man sitting in a chair opposite the bed.
Hola.” He said, staring with glistening eyes.
Hola.” I croaked.
I felt like crap. My mouth was foul and evil tasting. My stomach hurt as much as my head and I was a bit disoriented. I was in a cheap hotel room. It was day time. The room was squalid and consisted of the sagging bed, an antique banged up armoire, and a wooden chair occupied by some ancient midget in soiled clothes. He didn't say a word. He just sat there. The room smelt of bleach and old linens.
“Pass me my pants, please.” I said in Spanish.
The old scruffy man handed me a pair of well worn green army fatigues. “No. No es mio.” (No. That's not mine.) He picked up a pair of black jeans and black cotton boxers. Yep, those are mine. Checked wallet - money gone. Watched as I got dressed. Old coot explained that he was the receptionist and came to wake me up, for it was time to check out. I stumble out the room and down the hall, swatting small swarms of flies that fluttered in the dark corridor. Walking through the shabby lobby and outside into the noisy polluted streets. Hotel Lupita, cheap $10 a night joint.
What the fuck? I shuffled under the relentless sun to a corner taco stand and tried to patch together the previous night. Two tacos and a horchata later...
I remember that I spent the first half of the day in Plaza Santa Cecilia at a sidewalk cafe, sitting outside drinking coffee and watching the hot guys pass by and shooing away the relentless onslaught of roving mariachis and dirty children selling gum. I was approached by a guy that seemed very familiar with me. He was tall and lean, wore all black and sported a goatee.
He smiled and shook my hand and said in English, “Hey! How are you? Did you have a good time at Adelita's last night?” He glared with fire in his brown eyes and a smile that melted your heart.
Now for the unwary, I shall educate you, Adelita's is a hetero strip joint. A place I do not frequent under any circumstances and hence my confusion. However, this person was unordinarily handsome, like a model for Interview Magazine. Tall, dark and really hot. Big muscular hands and long feet.
“ wasn't me.” I stated. I sipped my coffee.
“You sure?” He smiled and pointed at me. “You look like that guy.”
That guy? What guy? Why do I always look like that guy?
“No, kiddo, ya got me all wrong. It wasn't me. I'm…” And I made the Universal Fag Sign. I flipped my wrist down.
His face went blank. “Oh.” He said pensively - paused a moment. “You gotta boyfriend?”
Smiled leering - raising an eyebrow. “Well, you wanna...?”
“No.” I said flatly.
“Well, here,” he said scribbling on a piece of paper. “There is a fiesta tonight on La Playas. Be my guest. Call me.” We shook hands and he walked away. I stared at the paper. Scrawled: Pablo 011653-5362 besos.
Okay. Whatever. Paid the bill and went to Bar Ranchero. Bottom floor was empty except for several tired looking old fags and a plump transvestite that tottered drunkenly on her cha-cha heels. Sat at the bar, boy-whore stood on the other end of the bar kept eyeing me and rubbing his moneymaker. I ignored him and drank my Sol. Struck up a conversation with two guys sitting next to me. One real ugly and short and the other okay in a plain looking way. They kept after me and getting very drunk, I wound up paying for all the drinks. The ugly guy kept trying to kiss me, but I wouldn't reciprocate, which made him hostile. Then that guy Pablo from the cafe walked in and pulled me away from them. We ordered drinks and plopped into a booth. That was it! I remember! That fucker put something in my drink! I don't remember anything after that.
I went home after the tacos and took a cold shower. Carlos' house does not have hot water. Carlos asked me where was I all night and I related this story to him. He, in his beautiful sensitive way, cautioned me and talked me into going to get tested for AIDS and everything else tomorrow. I agreed.
I don't get him. He knows me. He understands how I am. Anyway, the Zone takes care of its own.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

The Third Mind.

Via spectral connections through the miracle of modern technology, the finger has been put on me from a reader of this tripe. Asked if I'd like a meet to discuss literature and dead writers. Sure, wouldn't you? Wary of his kind - I mean face it, this blog seems to attract the dredge of this planet - and I don't blame it, ain't entirely Disney material that I transcribe - right?
Cold winds howl over foaming silver waves crashing - I stand smoking in front of that mad picturesque cafe waiting for this person - smoking smoking smoking - thinking that he has to be one of three things: 1) He's legit and a wee bit mad, 2) Just another predator waiting in lurch to rob me of my virtue, or 3) Some phantom villain from my forgotten past who's got nothing better to do than ruin my day.
Step inside to hide from those winds blowing offa the sea, I am approached by a disheveled hippie surfer like beach type long hair who introduced himself as the 'writer' of said email. Said his name was Robert Smallwood. Expected the first word uttered would be "Dude..."
To my surprise luckily he was #1, the bloke was quit literary, dears - well read, well traveled and attained quite the intelligence in such matters. We sat at a table in the cafe gulping coffees and chatting of each others works, the beats, and the potential downward spiral of literature today - cause ya dumb folks won't pick up a fucking book now and then and read.
He went into a supersonic spiel concerning a great travel from Tijuana to Europe - to contact and co-op with unheard of but brilliant artists hidden in far flung lands, wants to travel like the ghost of Ken Kassey through our Land of the Free promoting himself and others like - to surf that cresting wave of literary starvation that has awashed over our fair land. Asked if I was interested to go along for the ride. Ha! You old time readers know I never say no to a wacky adventure...
Invited to the humble hovel of a friend of his - a monstrous kind mad Croatian named Roman. We sat in his well lived flat by the sea for hours talking in crazy tones as the waves crashed outside and the wind howled - Robert rambling like a speed freak, Roman in his thick Slavic accent gesticulating his words with huge meaty paws, myself smoking and commenting at all this hyperphrenic mad dialogue consisting of self promotion, a European trip to meet fellow writers, and some archaic idea of documenting it all on YouTube for posterity.
Night progressed into early morning and we said our good nights. Walking home, I thought of the outcome if it outcome - I was invited to join this supposed New Wave of International Writers, take off to Europe all the while pushing my book, meeting fellow artists from San Diego to the Carpathian Mountains...
At the moment I smiled under that baleful moon - the dreamers continue to dream...

Wednesday, April 15, 2009


A warm morning and I walked over to Plaza Santa Cecilia and breakfast on good coffee and Mexican sweetbread. Joked with the waiters Miguel and Victor. Made small chit chat with two vatos that had been deported the previous night - they at least had some money for breakfast.
Victor confessed that he too got the boot from the Land of the Free, Home of the Brave.
“Your President does not like me.” Victor smiled.
Went to the flicks to pass the time. In flicks, I mean Cinema Latino - Tijuana's only porno grind house. Had some kicks - the movies were decent. When I entered the dank cinema, some blond broad was blowing three studs on a couch onscreen. I took a seat in the back - one down from a very macho looking man sporting a goatee. Hey, you start grabbing your crotch in a porno theater and someone’s going to goose you. This guy was rubbing his nether region and I 'went for it'.
He flinched - pushing my offending hand away and laughed, in English, “You want to play?”
Long uncomfortable pause. Then he unzipped his khaki shorts, leaned back and mumbled, “Vamanos.” And I did my thang. He had a man cock. Big and thick. I took no prisoners and sucked that fucker like a champ - pulling my head away as great white globs gushed out - splattering the back of the seat adjacent and glazing his thick muscular hand. All I could say was wow.
I left this handsome man to his mess and went downstairs to the men's room. The fags were lined up at the urinals watching each other masturbate. I dodged into a stall and took a piss. Exiting up the stairs leading to the cinema, I was stopped by a wild eyed cockjunkie and he meant business. The little hottie pinned me in an alcove and before I could say Que onda, guey? my pants and shorts were yanked down around my ankles and the little shit took no time doing the doing. But he turned me off by repeatedly pressing to go to a hotel. No way Jose - so I composed myself and returned up into the cinema.
Next was a little Indian vato - cute is what I'm aiming for. Slurp slurp squirt. The entire back row was a goddamn blowfest - six or seven fags all doing that which is inconvenient. A little annoyed by this goofy fat fuck wouldn't leave me alone.
One thing that always surprised me attending these establishments - how can a guy bring a broad into one of these dens of homosexual sin? How can they sit there in peace when all around them it is basically a gay Roman orgy? And I am talking of Mexican porno houses. Stateside, there have only been a few experiences of some loathsome guy bringing a woman in and usually ends up with her being gang fucked by all that can. Weird.
Well, my jaw got tired so I cut and visited Daniel tending the Bar DF in the Plaza and we shot the shit. Said my goodnights and started down Revo. Ran into an acquaintance who bought me a pack of smokes and a hamburger from Carl's Jr. He explaining that he is down from San Diego the afternoon for a rentboy's skillful message and lunch at swanky Sanborn's Restaurant. Said adios to said person and wondered off down El Revo.
Warm night like an Indian summer, so I decide to peruse the bars. El Taurino, Villa Garcia - sit there guzzling icy cold cerveza and not an amigo around. Hit the broken streets and they are bustling with late night activity, damn festive mood but me getting the bum kicks because there nobody I know. As fate would have it I run into an old acquaintance - my portly screaming fag friend RJ and his roomie are out and about and I tag along.
Hawaiian Bar is closed - guess they didn't pay the right officials - so we hit a new joint called Azteca and it is jumping. Wall to wall hotties and we are the toast of the town. Much liquor is consumed and ciggies puffed and we go on a swishing drunken crusade down Revolucion to bar hop - amid the catcalls and witty comments of the machos.
First place we go - up flight of dangerous stairs but rolled out the literal red carpet - was a swanky joint called Exotics. Nice - like some haughty fag place in New York. Fuck danced with three very handsome locals and downed more orange juice and vodka till we sauntered over to Medusa's - new place, so I am told. We's the only fags in the bar but enjoyed a good transvesti show and then the best stripper ever! What a body - and with each bill I caressed that Adonis physique like the perv I am. Danced to great reggeaton - and you bet I used that brass stripper pole in the middle of the dance floor like a pro - wild applause from the staff.
Stumbled back to Azteca - first RJ stopping to purchase $150 gold bracelet like the glamourpuss he be - made good contacts with the handsome waiters at Azteca. I like their type - will come home with ya if you are so inclined. One tried to impress by balancing a shot of vodka on his head. Danced, drank, smoked, yapped.
Around four, I call it a night - cause I am way fucked up - say adios and stagger home. A block from my room the obligatory stop from the cops - against the truck spread eagle and asked the routine questions Wass ur naim? Tienes ID? I reply drunkenly holding up my card, “Corbin Dallas Multipass.” At least both were cute. No problems - so I get home and crash in my king size.

Monday, April 13, 2009

Slurpin' Oysters on the Halfshell.

I can't control this. I don't even know why I pretend I can. I believe if I had just accepted the fact that my life is this weird unpredictable psycho drama being transmitted via satellite to viewers in another galaxy - I wouldn't be the mental mess I am now. Yeah, somewhere out there - they are laughing their antennas off.
My pal Abel decided that it would be 'fun' to try and repeat the prior drinking binge that we endured last Saturday. Sure, I say - wouldn't you?
Problem was - it was Winter's last attempt at getting everyone sick so the weather at the beach was unendurable. Abel and I returned to the same restaurant - empty and void of patrons, below us the beach was occupied with no more than ten hardy beach goers all frolicking like there wasn't zero degree winds blowing freezing air up their cahooties. Even the shivering waitress - the same that so coyly slipped her number to Abel on our previous outing - braved the elements to serve us out on that blustering balcony.
But, I digress. After two buckets of beer and slurping down an order of oysters - the world seemed like a better less bitter place. But, I had to admit among these freezing festivities to Abel that it is goddamn cold and could we not get the fuck inside? With the fates shining on us, Abel received a call on his cell from his patron (That's boss fer ya ignorant fucks that no speeky spanish) that he needs to drop what he's doing come downtown to the plant and fill the service truck up with petrol - or gas far ya 'mericans.
Good thing, too - cause I couldn't tolerate that shitty weather no more. So, we split the bill and jumped a cab to Tijuana centro. As you readers may or may not know - frankly I don't givva fuck - Abel is a delivery driver for JerseyMilk here in Tijuana. Felt a wee bit macho pootin' around town in that truck cab to the gas station and back.
I suggested to Abel that since we were downtown and it being Saturday night - let's hit the strip. Sure he grunts and we wobble off to El Revo. Depression hit as I noticed because of the current economical shenanigans how many long standing discos have gone defunct.
Abel being the hopelessly heterosexual fucker he is - we strolled down to Las Pulgas and the joint was jumping. Inside vaqueros whirled and swirled with their girls to the beat of live bands but my dear friend didn't want to go in. He confided that though he liked the place - he used to work there but had attained a reputation of ill-repuke.
No prob, I says and we dart over to Patio Bar - that tranquilo bi-sex bar nestled in Plaza Santa Cecilia across from the row of fag bars. Inside we sat at one of the well worn wooden bench tables as Nirvana blared over the rockola. Abel was happy because the small dank bar was crawling with young "chicks". I really like the bar, too - it is definitely the spot. My new spot, anyway. As Abel ogled the girls, I salivated over caguamas of cerveza Victoria at the pretty boys that meandered through the crowd. The clientele was all young college type kids in their Che Guevara denim costumes sitting chatting drinking. No whirling gestulating pinch faced fags here. The air was permeated in cigarette smoke - a blatant FU to the newly ordained nonsmoking ordinance in bars all under the blood shot appalled glare of the fat drunk tourist in the dim corner.
I was freakishly happy when two old friends showed up - Daniel, he of Bar DF and Philipe, the waiter from the Patio restaurant. The four of us downed booze after booze, shots of whisky and tequila and exchanged stories and antedotes that lasted late into the night. I excused my self to the little boys room - that penis peepin' menagerie - and as a fact there was an old fuck in there with a tacky purple sweater checking out every ones dry goods. Fucking pervert. However, to alleviate that madness, Philippe entered the restroom - called me into the stall and shared a couple lines of the old booger sugar that made the night real tasty.
Unfortunately, since Abel had to be at work the following morning to deliver milk at the ungodly hour of 5am - we said our goodnights and jumped a cab back to the beach.
Once home - it happened. Now I know what your thinking - I cast one of my wicked hoodoo spells and caused these events - but, no! I had no hand in it. While Abel was in the restroom taking a piss - I prepared me a bowl of diced fruit with yogurt, cause I was famished and devoured that shit before Abel even exited the toilet. I stood there at the sink washing my dishes - I keep a tight ship, kids, I hate clutter - when said Abel, prowler of the ladies, last of the red hot playboys - started his flirting shit again. He stood behind me grinding his crotch against my backside - in which I played along, wiggling seductively in a playful manner. I stopped, knowing it was all in play.
"Que paso...que paso?" I muttered returning to my dishes.
"Oye...mieda." He said to my left. And there he was tottering and glaring with bloodshot eyes, standing with his zipper open brandishing an erection. What did I do? I did what you would have done - what any red blooded homosexual would have done - I dropped to my knees right there in the kitchen in front of God and little baby Jesus and sucked that fucker like a champ.
Just about before he popped, he suggested turn off that damn water and let's go to the couch in the living room. Plop! Onto that couch and I kneeled beside him and slobbered all over that beautiful organ. Kablooey! White hot goo splattered in my mouth and I swallowed - whatever.
Afterwards, we made a couple of jokes and retired to our separate rooms.
Man, I just hope it doesn't get weird between the two of us now...

Friday, April 10, 2009

Mucho Macho Muchacho?

As you may well know, I live in a huge hacienda on the beaches of Baja. Not bad, actually. Beats the grottoes, the roach infested rooms, the squalid hotels, the homeless shelters of yore.
The owner of said house is that cantankerous old Canadian Chuck - been living in TJ since day one, dearie. You old readers of my blog can smirk in remembrance of various adventures with this old coot.
Well, the first of this month he invites a young lad to rent the extra room - the last guy left under a cloud, disappeared in a puff of smoke to a far off place called Oaxaca - never to be seen again.
Well, this new character, name of Abel - is a smart and kind lad and is quite self sufficient. Not at all like the teeming legion of mooching rentboys that assault the house constantly with outstretched palms bleating for pesos and will give nothing in return. Nope, not this Abel. He has a great job as a delivery driver for Jerseymaid Milk.
To bridge the gap of diplomacy and friendship (cause I can be a distant and frigid old thing when I wanna be.), I had invited Abel to stroll down to the beach last sunny afternoon for exercise and chitchat. We found a nice bar with an outside balcony under shady palapas enjoying a gorgeous view of the ocean. Below us, teeming beach revelers splashed played walked among the surf - men pushed wobbly carts selling frozen ices or drinks in coconut husks. We both had great eye candy - he checking out the bikini clad tarts and I eyeing the swim trunk donning hunks.
Abel and I not only became good friends but rip roaring drunk. Back at the house he had accepted my invitation on the deal of having one beer. Well, four buckets later we both were giggling slobbering messes.
Not belligerent drunks us, we sat and watched the sun set over the ocean in a warm glow. For hours we sat and talked about each other - our lives, our loves, our goals. I explained to Abel that he had no fear of me trying to take liberties with his person - I have a strict rule of not forcing my life onto anyone. I explained how his friendship is more important than what dangles between his legs. He laughed and said it was alright, he has long time gay friends. Abel is hopelessly heterosexual and very handsome. More so that our young waitress slipped her phone number in with the bill for him - she even comped the plate of oysters on the half shell that Abel and I so greedily devoured.
Night fell and we closed the bar - saying our adioses, Abel and I stumbled out into the cool, dark dusty streets and turning a corner found a carnival going full swing. We played a few games - losing at all of them natch (I used to be a carny in my salad days and I can tell you with experienced honesty you will not win. Ever.) Nearly puked on the Tilt-o-whirl...
Drunkenly laughing and staggering home, Abel and I laughed at each others antidotes under that big yaller moon and all went well - until we got home. I do not know if it was the alcohol or his hidden angst but once Abel closed the front door his hands we all over me.
"Hey, what's the deal, Grabby?" I smiled.
Wordlessly he pushed me to the couch in the living room - his bloodshot eyes intense and with purpose though slightly crossed - flat on my back with him on top. Hands fumble at belts, shirts ripped off. The uncomfortable bliss of kissing, tongues probed and licked, hands caressed.
Then I stopped.
"Que? Que, guedo?" Abel pleaded breathlessly.
I explained that our friendship is far too important to foul in lieu of fleeting sex. I like the way things are and don't want them to get weird. He looked at me, smiled and agreed. Mechanically we composed ourselves and went to the kitchen and finished off the civeche he had prepared earlier.
The last few days have been so cool with him. We talk, take walks on the beach, play pool, drink beer in dusty cantinas - I have changed, I suppose. Abel still grabs my ass and rubs my chest when I am preparing food - but, that is another story...

Wednesday, April 08, 2009

My Fellow Bloggitos.

I am finally a published writer and the book is ready to go! A sadly witty story of what happens when you do say "Screw it" and actually walk out of your comfortable stable existence and never look back. It has been critiqued as the On the Road for the new millennium - a Naked Lunch of the cyber generation. If you would like to get a copy here are the two links. The first is direct from the publisher and the second is the site. Read my book and write a review!

Monday, April 06, 2009

Creeping Over the Horizon

Spent the morning - beginning anyways, drinking coffee with the Old Man, which is the Canadian Chuck and his bevy of boys. I cut into the cafe and there is Chuck huddled in tattered denim overcoat looking like a corpse, and Old Joe, owner of Bar Villa Garcia, dunking pan dulce with his dirty fingers, shiny over the dirt. Had to jet for an early meet with RJ - RJ was a jovial black friend that I had met at a bar one night. He rented in Rosarito and commuted to San Diego daily to work in temp office jobs. A total Santa Cecilia barfly - quite popular with the expat and rentboy population and just fun to be around. The last time we drank, he had invited me to his seaside place for an afternoon bar-b-que.
Stood in the Plaza for three hours waiting - chain smoking, people watching. These people in this Plaza. It is sinister and gloomy and chaotic, with the special chaos of a dream. Was approached by a waiter from Bar El Taurino named Gustavo. Hella handsome - has a little boy look, burns through him like red 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 Niagara 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 cell phone 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 front concrete porch 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.
And so it goes...
From all the authentic Mexican restaurants to choose from, I had lunch at the Burger King on Ave. Revolucion. I am an American, ferchrissakes. At the register was a most handsome Mexican boy. A native Indian with green eyes and a great smile. He had black shiny straight hair parted down the middle and copper colored skin, slight of build and very obviously gay. We struck up a conversation, he speaking fluent English, and said his name was Giovanni and flat out asked me to join him for dinner after he got off work. I usually don't go after feminine men, but this little guy was delectable.
Later, I met Giovanni at a sidewalk cafe in front of the Jai-Alai Center, a huge ornate sports arena set in 1930's art deco. Chatting over a brief dinner of a delicious grilled beef burrito and soda - he was very funny and well mannered.
Afterwards we visited several discos; Mike’s, Terraza 9, Los Equipales. We danced and had a good time. Queer joints usually depress me, Mexican or stateside, but I made the exception.
I am very comfortable with my homosexuality, but I cannot stand being in a smoky den filled with squeaking squealing queers. All cooing and giggling at every crotch they see. Sometimes I feel like a piece of meat or being sized up like a goat in an Arabic Bazaar.
These squinty eyed, pinch face ‘girls’ talk to me and try to be pleasant, all circling me in a vain attempt to get me in bed. What would make them think I would be interested in their unattractive person?
And just let me try to take a piss. Several follow me into the restroom and line up at the urinal and glare in ambiguous lechery. “It's just a freaking' penis!” I once snapped, and marched out of the restroom.
My first impression was the dance clubs here in Tijuana were very small compared to the mega-discos in Los Angeles, California. Here the discos consisted of almost the same motif: mirrored walls reflecting the light show, itty-bitty tables and chairs in which yourself and beverage precariously perched, a bar, and if you are lucky, video monitors. At all the discos around midnight the boogie frenzy grinds to a halt for the inevitable corny transvestite lip-sync shows.
Gads what a boring mess! Ugly and bloated drag queens belting out sordid Mexican love ballads. Not at all the humorous romps of West Hollywood drag shows.
When dancing did finally commence again after these talentless productions, the music was an odd mesh of Top 40 and Mexican Ranchero music. Giovanni and I both hit it off very well. We gyrated on the dance floor until four in the morning.
Outside I waited with him as he tried to hail a taxi. Giovanni told me that Mexican gays love white Americans and if they acquire one they use him as a trophy to parade around in front of their friends. Wow, imagine me...a status symbol. A cab rattled up to the curb. We shook hands and said our goodbyes.
I returned home as the sun began creeping over the horizon.

Thursday, April 02, 2009

White Hobo.

Dragging my ass through the Plaza, I stopped in Bar DF to give the glad hand to my handsome friend Daniel - who was bar tending the joint. I said howdy; he said hi.
Ordered a frosty cerveza Sol and sat at the end of the bar as Daniel carried on a conversation with a doctor friend - tall thin mustachioed character and shocking queer. So queer he shocked you. There were three other hombres at the bar; all working class.
I sat gulping my beer when I heard the distinct hissing lisp of a fag asking me where I live. Turned to my right and looked into the old fags dead, cold, undersea eyes - at once cold and intense, impersonal and predatory.
I told him I live in Tijuana and the thin reptilian fag cooed, “Soy encanta San Diego.” (I love San Diego.)
I croaked something to the effect of agreement and lit a cigarette. “Do you have a girlfriend? Mexican or American? Do you live alone or with her? How many times you have sex? Does she like it? Do you like it?”
Fuck! What is with all the questions? I thought but mechanically agreed to all of his lascivious queries.
He finally hissed, “I love to suck American cock.” Leering at me with those bloodshot eyes.
“That’s obvious.” I snapped and resounding laughter from the others in the bar. Yup, I can still work a room.
“Am I bothering you?” The fag asked putting down the hurt little boy routine.
“Indeed you are.” I said icily, finishing my beer and made a dramatic exit.
On the corner outside, hot cholo pelon asks for the time and I flash over his body with eyes filled with mangled lust. As we walk briskly together down Avenida Segundo - he goes down the list to try to sell me Ray-Bans – designer jeans - drugs. But sooner than I pop the question on how much for the dick - a paddy wagon screeches up and before I know it I am spread eagle and being goosed by two hoggish cops.
Only this time the rotten fuzz was really pressing on where I kept my car and my money. After checking my person it came to my attention that these assholes where on the hunt for cash. The shorter fat cop looked at me and sneered, “Why don't you have any money, gringo? Where is it? What are you - un gabacho pobre?”
“Yes I am.” I stated humbly retrieving my property off the hood of their truck and placing them back in my pockets. After grumbling together the cops shooed me on my way - leaving the cholo to them - I thought, That is what I have become - a gabacho pobre.