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...