Finish Up.

I sat in Café Taco Lucas chomping down some crunchy flautas on the corner of Avenida Juarez and Calle Ignacio Mejia - eyeing the handsome vaquero with his henpecked wife two tables over - he looked over and smiled - I grinned back, lit a Lucky and my blue eyes all sparkly and the man blushed.

His bitch grabbed his square jaw and jerked him around, “Are you listening to me?!”

Ugh - women.

Pablo decided to show up and looking like Pablo did, his lateness was pardoned - he kissed his wife hello - the cashier/hostess Gracelda was indeed his wife. Nice as far as broads go.

Pablo was dressed in his dark denim and black leather and I nearly creamed my dry goods lusting over that thick, stocky man-frame as he scraped up a chair to my table and ordered a beer and some tacos al fresco, cabron.

We ate as men eat - great gulps of flesh and swigs of beer - laughing at antidotes of wild drunken times of adventures and sexual escapades.

A few of my cigarettes later, Pablo asked, “Hey, guero, have you ever drank tequila called Xuxupaste?”

Pronounced Chu-chu-past-eh for you dumb fucks that don’t know Espanol.

“Nope.” I said, ordering another beer. “Can’t say I have. Is it any good?”

“Ay, guey! The best. Finish up - I’m taking you around the corner to the oldest bar in Juarez and offers the best Xuxupaste.” Pablo explained like an excited teen ready to burst my cherry - eyes a poppin’ and biting his bottom lip.

“Okay.” I sighed.

As we walked to the door ‘where are you going’ or more like ‘donde vas’ was roared at us from that mammoth woman of his.

Whirling around - Gracelda stood there like some supreme Aztec earth goddess, arms crossed and flanked by the condescending, greasy cook.

“Out for a beer.” Pablo sheepishly said to her.

She clomped over and towered above - holding up one finger. “Bueno, Pablo - ONE BEER! Okay?! Solamente uno!”

“Okay, baby!” He smiled - kiss on the cheek. “One beer - I promise. I love you.”

Out the door, the hot concrete passes under our feet. Past the crumbling adobe and the ravaged, heroin hookers - past the piles of garbage and the roving packs of cholos - we came upon a small cantina called El Arbolito.

I remembered visiting the bar with Oscar. As usual, the cantina was populated by the friendliest group of working class guys I had ever encountered in Juárez City. Behind the counter, the bartender was a friendly, jovial man that emitted warmth and hospitality.

Pablo ordered one beer each, cerveza Sol. He then ordered two shots of Xuxupaste. It came in a clear bottle with some sort of large root in it - to me it resembled a petrified hand. Slice of lemon - salt on the wrist. Slamming it back - the taste was bitter, with a hint of clove. Not bad - smooth kick.

Ten more and Pablo and I were fucked up. And we still hadn’t finished our first beer.

A fat guy at the end of the bar produced a guitar and the entire cantina burst into singing old Mexican folk ballads - it was something out of a movie. We all laughed and slapped each other on the back - told jokes and stories and downed more of that delicious Xuxupaste.

Eleven thirty rolled around and the bar shut down. Pablo and I - arms around each other for support - stumbled back to Taco Lucas.

Waiting at the door - arms folded and mad as a hornet - was Gracelda. “Look at you two! Borracho! I told you - one beer!”

Pablo looked at her - focused for a moment, “I didn’t break my promise, honey - we had one beer.”

“Ten tequilas - but one beer.” I snickered.

We both fell on the red cobblestone sidewalk, wracked in uncontrolled laughing fits.

Gracelda tapped Pablo across the back of the head, “You’re impossible!”

Pablo and I were both so gone that two pot-bellied Mariachi had to help us to a table as Gracelda brought us black coffee. However, when Pablo went to the washroom - he never came back. For over an hour, he remained in there.

First, Gracelda was at the locked door, angrily banging on it - calling his name - but to no avail. Then a line of mariachi continued knocking, calling out his name – but, Pablo still would not come to the door. Finally, the police were called to force open the door and there was Pablo - curled up on the soiled floor under the stained and cracked sink with a smile on his face, passed out.

With a splash of tepid bucket water - Pablo was revived and it was my duty to walk his drunken ass the two blocks to his house.

“Fine.” I told Gracelda. “I’ll crash on your sofa.”

“Look at you two! Borrachos!” She shrilled, as I helped Pablo down the cobblestone sidewalk.

Once back at Pablo’s house and after thirty minutes of drunken Three Stooges comedy of trying to get the door open - Pablo and I crept into his bedroom.

It took Herculean effort to control myself as I stood there and watched Pablo drunkenly peel off his clothes and crawl in bed. Damn - he had a physique like a pro wrestler - muscles bulging all over the damn place. He flopped onto the sagging bed in blue boxers.

He passed out again, snoring loudly and abundantly. I stood there a moment, until I simply staggered out of the house and returned to my own lonely, empty apartment.

Is everything okay between you and God?

My stint south of the border had taught me the fact that nothing was free. Nothing. Not even friendship. Everyone had a price or more correctly, “I don’t care what or how much you have; at least give me something.” Gets to be a bore and a strain on the old ego.

One morning, I strolled to Café Central, stopping at the Plaza in front of the Cathedral for a smoke and people watch. I was about to continue to Café Central for breakfast, when my friend Javier approached me.

We chitchatted about things; work, money, going out, when I invited him for breakfast. After a good meal of huevos rancheros and a taza de café, we walked over to my pad and took no time in getting down and dirty.

Several positions later, Javier and I took an afternoon siesta. Because, a good morning of humping can take the wind outta ya, know what I mean?

Woke up around noon, showered and said our good-byes. Not before Javier hit me up for some dough. All I had on me was sixty pesos and I was chagrined when Javier asked for more.

“You don’t have cien?”

“C’mon, Jav - don’t be like that.” I said.

I escorted him to the door, I mean really.

Later, I was standing out front of the Cathedral enjoying the sun and a fresca. A performance artist dressed as a cowboy and covered in silver paint was doing the old, robot routine, drawing quite a crowd, when a young, handsome guy stood next to me and began a conversation on the matter.

I glanced him over, not bad.

Above the racket, he confided, “I’m looking for my wife. I’ve been waiting for a couple of hours. I know she is going to be here with her new boyfriend.”

I thought this angle was quite droll and laughed it off. Eventually, money was brought up, on his part.

“Seriously, that bitch is draining me of all my cash. All she does is spend, spend, spend…I’m so fucking broke!”

I continued to watch the show, not looking at him, said flatly, “That’s too bad.”

We stood a moment in silence, then he chirped, “Well, I’m going into the Cathedral, Mass is going to start.”

With that, he was gone. Moments later, said mooch came out of the church and continued on how sad he was over his ailing mother.

“Shit. I need fifty dollars. My grandmother is so sick, you know?”

I asked, “Don’t you work?”

“Si!” He smiled. “I am a waiter at the Old Juarez Market.”

“That place is always crawling with rich, American tourists.” I pointed out. “Your tips must be very good.”

That shut him up for a bit. He then mumbled something about going to the International Bridge to get some money from a friend. I wished him luck.

At that moment, Oscar walked up and said "Hola."

“Where are you going?” I asked, smiling.

He pointed at the Cathedral’s entrance, “A la iglesia.” (To church)

Oscar shook hands and entered the church for Mass.

The previous guy, who I finally got his name as Antonio, started up on how he needed to get his son some new clothes.

I thought, C’mon! If you need some cash, come out with it and cut the corny stories of woe!

Seeing this was going nowhere, Antonio asked, “What are you doing later tonight?”

I said, “Drinking with some friends.”

“Where?”

“Oh, I don’t know the name of the bar…I just know how to get there.”

He smiled coyly and asked, “It’s a gay bar, right?”

I looked at him with mocked shock, “What? Gay bar? No…it’s…okay, yeah; it’s a fucking queer joint. You have good eyes – though, I pegged you, too, when you began talking to me.”

“I’m not queer, dude.” He smiled.

Of course - the old ‘I’ll blow you, I’ll fuck you, but I won’t kiss you, because I’m not queer’ line.

With that, he mumbled, “Look, man - I’ll meet you tonight at eight o’clock to party with you and your friends.”

“Sure.” I mumbled.

We shook hands and Antonio took off for the International Bridge for his rendezvous with the mysterious, fifty-dollar friend.

I sat on the Cathedral steps smoking a Lucky and watching the eye candy pass and that’s when Oscar approached me.

“Is everything okay between you and God?” I joked.

“I don’t have a problem with God. I think God has a problem with me.” Oscar smiled. “Let’s go to your house…did you get any new porn movies?”

I laughed, “Damn, boy! You just came outta church and you wanna watch porn?” Pause. “Let’s go.”

“Vamanos.” Oscar agreed.

At my pad, as the porn played, I gave Oscar some head on a cock that was so hard a cat couldn’t scratch it.

After that, I was hit up for one hundred pesos. Sigh, again, couldn’t we have sex just because it’s fun and not cheapen it into a financial negotiation? I mean, Oscar had a good job with a roof repair company (or so he claimed), why did he need money? Paid the little fucker anyway and separated at the front door. Him mentioning going to his house.

I prepared a light lunch in the kitchen and sat watching Mexican novellas. That became boring real quick.

Back in front of the Cathedral, the sun was sinking over the dusty mountains and I sat waiting for my friends to go have cocktails.

Lo and behold, there was Oscar sitting on a concrete bench eating an ice cream - obviously peddling that ass. He didn’t expect to see me so soon and seemed a bit agitated on speaking with me.

I explained sincerely, “Look, Oscar - no need to tell me some cockamamie story just to get out of my house. You are an adult and free to do what you like.”

He silently nodded.

I continued, “Hey, you hungry? I am. Let’s go get some tacos.” I grinned. “C’mon, ya little shit.”

In which after I flipped the bill, he hit me up for twenty pesos more. Egads. I just went home, watched some television.

I sat and thought. I did not know why I cared so much for that little creep - but, I did. It brought me down thinking that all I must be to him is free money.

A couple of hours later, I found myself at a dive I liked very much, Caletilla - a small cantina in a rough neighborhood. The joint consisted of a bar that ran the length of the oblong room. With a jukebox in the back by the foul restrooms, the purple-painted cantina could hold only about forty people. However, on crowded nights, it became so packed, the fags spilt out onto the crumbling sidewalk.

Not thirty seconds in the door, I was hit up for a beer by the local ‘Can you buy me anything’ mooch.

The first was a young man with a very athletic build – the types fairies coo over. Tall and handsome, he introduced himself as Alejandro. He wore a white tank-top with California Easy embroidered across the chest. He had on khaki summer shorts and wore flip-flops. One of those damn hustlers that preyed on Americans.

He slid next to me at the bar holding an empty glass, “Hey! Guero, how you doing?”

“Not bad. Yourself?” I poured the yellow liquid into my glass, squeezed in a lemon, sprinkled salt.

Alejandro tipped his empty glass at my bottle, "Hey! You mind if I can have some beer?”

However, four caguamas later, and getting a pretty good buzz on, Alejandro’s cheery demeanor changed sour when I decided to cut his free beer off.

“That’s it, man.” I tottered. “I’m tapped out. You want to buy the next round?”

“What do mean, you’re tapped out? Buy another beer for me.” He said.

I lit a cigarette, watching the bloated lesbian as she tended the bar and then turned to Alejandro, “I mean, c’mon, man…don’t be a fucking mooch. Buy, one - I’ve been flippin’ the bill all afternoon.”

“You know what, gringo - fuck you.” He left in a huff.

I watched him storm out and ordered another beer.

The sun gone, I stood outside the bar smoking a cigarette under the sheltering moon and waited for a few of my friends to hopefully stagger by.

The motley pedestrians stumbled past - shifty thieves, clomping transvestites, hookers sagging in spandex, smelly tramps, mange covered dogs.

Music of all types blasted out of the rows of neon flashing cantinas and dance halls. The smell of seared meat and rotting garbage mingled with belching bus fumes.

As I finished my cigarette, Erik and tall Isidro staggered up out of the haze.

Smiling, I said, “It’s about time! I was about to go home.”

“Callete, puta!” Isidro barked. “Get your ass back inside and let’s drink!”

Entering the bar again, and after Isidro bought a round, a cute shorty came up and started on the mooch.

“I wonder if you can do me a favor?” He meekly asked.

I wisecracked, “Uh-oh. Those are dangerous words, handsome.”

“I’m thirsty and I’d like a beer.”

“Well, gee” I began, as I pointed at the bar with bottle in hand, “There’s a whole bar in front of you…why don’t you just order one.”

“That’s the thing.” He smiled. “I haven’t any money.”

“Why would you come to a bar without any money? You are assuming a lot there, kiddo.”

“I understand.” He said, acting a little wounded. “Could you buy me a beer?”

With that, I got onto a bitch roll: “Look, I have been buying people beer for two days straight now. As a matter of fact, I have been living in your country for almost ten years and once, just once, I’d like the tables turned and someone to buy me a drink…just once.” I accented this, holding a finger up to his blank, docile face. “But, that doesn’t look like it’s gonna happen, does it? Nope - because as we all well know, Americans are so fucking rich - we got money blowing outta our asses and can buy any and everything, right? I mean, the way you mooches approach me fifty times a day, you’d think I got millions of dollars in the bank. Yeah, I’m so fucking rich…that’s why I live in a Mexican slum and not in a swanky penthouse Stateside.”

“So, can I have a beer?”

“Fuck off! Go bum someone else…or is it only Americans you bother with your financial woes?”

It must have hit home, because when I turned from my friends, the little fucker was drinking with an old, tired American queen.

My buzz gone, I bid my friends goodnight and left.

Squeezing my way past groping hookers and stumbling drunks, I stopped for a hamburger at a corner stand.

Under garish neon, I sat on a stool in front of the stand, chomping on my burger, when a scrawny, lizard-like cholo slithered up behind me and put his hand on my back, smiling, “Hey, guero, could you buy me one hamburger?”

Sigh.

“No!” I stomped home.

A nation of mooches. All that it is.

Tralala

Work crawled as work will and work did. When the whistle blew, I yabba-dabba-dooed to the border, stopping at Panguini’s in El Paso for a quick spaghetti and meatball dinner.

After crossing the border into Mexico, I had some time; thought I’d take a catnap before I hit the Bar Buen Tiempo.

Buen Tiempo was a small dive that was located around the corner from the cathedral - calm joint sometimes. The bar was a great wooden affair that circled the center of the room - on some nights; it was so full of fags that standing was the only option.

From an ancient jukebox, the Banda music would warble amid the chatter and clinking and the smoke of a hundred fairies. Old men, rentboys, fags, and the curious stood around in a comfortable atmosphere. A far throw from the crazy dives in Tijuana and a million miles from gay bars stateside.

I had the idea of spending the evening with two new friends that I had met recently - Erik and Isidro.

Erik was an acquaintance of mine from the bars - a stocky, cowboy type from Zacatecas.

On weekends, we had a system of meeting each other in Plaza las Armas, chatting, waiting for other friends to arrive, and then hitting the cantinas. A nice guy, always worried about his weight. I did not think he was fat. Fags had always suffered from that strange, paranoid mania.

Isidro I had met through Erik. A tall, lanky queen that worked in a beauty salon. Always wore tight, black clothing and hair teased into a gravity defying coif. Catty and vindictive, yet, was funny when he was funny.

They had invited me to meet them at Bar Buen Tiempo at eight.

Silly me woke up around ten-thirty. I jumped in the shower, shaved, donned my best and ran out the door.

I bolted across Plaza las Armas in the cold, blustering wind to Bar Buen Tempo and nada, the two were nowhere to be found. Crap.

I resigned to the fact that I was going solo tonight and chose to haunt a disco called Freegay on Avenida Mariscal - the scummy strip where all the hoochie houses and drug barons lay. Notorious and somewhat dangerous for the unwise.

Freegay was the only gay disco on that broken boulevard. Paid the ten pesos and fifty centavos at the door and climbed the soiled, red carpet up, up to the entrance, up the flight of a grand, warped wooden staircase where you were herded into a que to purchase a caguama by sulking lesbians.

In the vast, dim interior, the shifty wait staff catered to hard convict cholos, gangsters, thieves, drugged out transvestites, and killer bull dykes. It carried the distinctive mix of both seedy and furtive. My kind of place.

The joint was a little crowded, always dark and smoky, and not an empty table. Young hipsters in their hip-hop gear, cholos in their khaki baggies, trannies in their dazzle-glitter, and dykes in their mullets glided about in a nonstop ballet.

I stomped over towards the restroom entrance (always a good spot to stand) and sat my bottle on a table that appeared empty. Well, there was a box of beer on it. I suspected it was being used by the wait staff for storage.

Soon found out that it was occupied; because a towering, lanky and handsome cholo stood up and politely asked me to move my bottle off of his box so as he could get himself a beer.

Every time he said something to me, he would press those full lips and pencil mustache against my ear and that made my heart race every time. And, I think he purposely knew it. Pretty damn suave.

My new friend introduced me to his companions: firstly, his younger brother, Alfredo - drop dead grrjss ran in their freaking family (though in that teenage cholo gangster attire, he’d looked as if he would kill you on the spot. Tattoos and all) - some tall, skinny dude in a cowboy outfit; kept referring to him as Texarkana. He never caught on; guess the pun was lost in translation. And lastly, a wretchedly horrid transvestite with pimples and scrawny physique that contently sat in the dark as prim and as regal as possible.

The guy who did the intros called himself Salvador and was actually very reserved. We all talked and they asked questions about where I was from, where I lived, how I liked Mexico. The normal routine I get when I meet folks here.

Alfredo, my seducer’s younger brother, began flirting with a girl he had acquired and while making out with her, asked Salvador for some pesos to buy her a rose.

Salvador purchased a couple of white roses, one for her and one for me. Aw. He received a kiss on that square jaw for that one.

The music switched to a crazy mambo and it was exciting to watch Alfredo and Salvador dance to it together at the table. And, could they mambo. I gotta learn the mambo! I could be such a clueless gringo sometimes.

Anyways, things went smooth, Salvador was putting the moves on me, complementing my baby blues, towering over me with his tall self, and eventually asking me to dance when some reggeaton started blaring. I obliged. We hit the floor and danced so nasty.

During my flailing, our foreheads touched, then our noses, our lips, then our tongues - I was actually feeling it and so was he - until a random, fucking fat transvestite pulled us apart and began yelling at Salvador and bitch slapped him right there on the dance floor.

Then - are you ready, Dear Reader - she turned to me and smacked me! My fist automatically flew up and popped her in the teeth. I mean, I ain’t no passive fairy, folks.

The bitch went flying and skidded akimbo across the dance floor. She sprung up like a sequined jack-in-the-box and I readied myself for a full on fag smack-down rumble.

But, she only held her bleeding mouth, “Oye! Oye! Porque me pegaste? Soy un mujer!” (Ow! Ow! Why did you hit me? I’m a woman!)

I pointed at her and roared in psychopathic hatred, “You fucking hippopotamus! You are a fucking man in a clown suit! A man! And, you’ll be treated like one!”

I would like to make a side note right now that I am not a drama queen. Okay?

Back to the story in progress: So, Salvador walked over to this simpering thing - obviously his novia - and cradled the tranny in his arms, dabbing her lip with his handkerchief. He glared at me as if I just strangled his newborn child and I realized it was time to cut.

I lit a Lucky Strike and walked to the bar and ordered another caguama. My cheek still tingling, I nuzzled into a dark corner and fumed, when I was lucky enough to be approached by Tralala clomping out of the murk.

Allow me to take a moment to describe this creature in gold lame.

If you were standing with Liza Minnelli next to a fountain and suddenly grabbed her by the throat, holding her head under water for thirty minutes, what came up gasping for air would be this mess of a transvestite, Tralala. Poor heroin addicted Tralala. Fun for a few kicks, I suppose.

As we stood talking of what just happened, the overhead lights snapped on and the club closed. Amid disappointed moans and cat call whistles from the drunken and excited club goers - several overly-dramatic trannies covered their melting, glistening faces from the blinding, white light - we all were herded out of the disco and down the stairs by the thuggish security.

Outside amid the dispersing crowd, I kept my eye out for Salvador and his group. They did pass, but completely ignored me. As I was about to say goodnight, Tralala introduced me to her friend Carlos, who at that moment walked out of the club. Wow. Shorty, but cute.

I thumbed to a chicken restaurant across the street that was open 24 hours, offered, “Hey, you guys want to go for a cup of coffee or something to eat? I’m, buying.”

“Sure.” Carlos smiled and Tralala said something that sounded like a belch.

Carlos and I walked across to the restaurant laughing and talking as Tralala followed us, pulling her stained panties out of her ass.

After some small talk of jokes and gay innuendo, Carlos made his intentions quite clear, as did I, looking into those big, brown eyes.

“Luck has it; I live only four blocks away.” I smiled, coyly.

Carlos and I left Tralala tottering on that corner in front of the restaurant as the sidewalk rushed beneath our feet.

Keys jingled, opening the door. Clothes were flung off. Fingers slid over smooth skin, both pale white and Mexican brown. Tongues licked and sucked, teeth bit. Carlos pushed me up against my credenza. And, spitting into his palm, lubed up his short, thick penis - Ahhhh! - with quick, hard thrusts he lunged into me, talking real dirty in Spanish, and that drove me even more over the edge.

Carlos flung me down onto the couch, threw my feet up over his shoulders and stabbed it in. Pile driving into me, until he yanked it out and with hot spurts, shot his semen across my stomach and chest. We kissed and then showered.

“So, what are you going to do now?” I asked as he toweled me off.

“It’s late. I’m going home. I have to work early tomorrow.”

I debated offering him money, then thought against it.

Carlos got dressed, at the door said thank you, and hailed a taxi home.

I put on Go with the Flow by Queens of the Stone Age and smoked a joint before I fell asleep.

“I am what I am, Oscar.”

Decided to spend the evening wallowing in my own depressed jealousy after the predicament over Oscar - and doing it the best way I knew how. Swimming in bottle after bottle of bitter tasting booze.

I sat in Bar Buen Tiempo and shortly after my arrival, I struck up a conversation with a tall Mexican Indian who sat a stool away from me.

“Hello.” He said, extending his hand. “I am Javier.”

“Hello, Javier.” I croaked.

The beer flowed, as did the mutual flirting, and we became quite lit - both meeting eventually, by chance, in the restroom and with him pushing me against the mildew stained tiled wall, Javier kissed me passionately, while pulling out our erections and casually masturbating each other, our intentions became obvious. That was until the cantina’s security guard came in and ordered us to knock it off.

Javier and I drunkenly joked and laughed the night away - flirting with a few handsome men that sat around the warped, mahogany bar.

Across from me, on the other side of the bar, was a dark skinned, curly haired lad who kept winking every time he caught my eye. When he walked over to the jukebox to select a few songs, I worked my faggoty wiles.

I slid off my stool and stood next to him at the jukebox.

As he flipped the button selector, I slurred, “So, where you from?”

He smiled, “I just arrived from Acapulco.” He plunked a few pesos into the machine and continued, “I really like Americans.”

“You’re in luck, I happen to be American. What’s your name?” I grinned.

He extended his hand, “I am Jose Luis.”

As the night progressed, the drunken debauchery continued with both Javier and Jose Luis. That was - until he walked in.

Straight, jet-black hair parted down the middle, full lips with goatee, beautiful amber eyes and slim physique - he stared at me as he passed on his way into the mensroom.

I excused myself from my two new friends and followed him into the restroom.

He stood alone at the urinal trough as I sided up next to him.

“Hola.” He said.

“Hola.” I said, as I blatantly gazed down at his dry goods.

With overly bubbly enthusiasm, he spat, “Hey. You wanna buy some cologne? I got all kinds!”

“Sure.” I agreed, as he quickly reached into his tattered backpack. “Let’s see what ya got.”

I walked out with a bottle of Kenneth Cole signature cologne for fifty pesos. I even invited him to share a beer with Javier, Jose Luis and I.

That crafty cologne peddler - Ezra he stated his name was - and so gosh darn adorable in a hippie, air-headed kind of way - he just charmed the pants off of me.

For some odd reason, we three - Javier, Ezra, and I - walked the few blocks over to Bar Nebraska, wherein Ezra became a wild eyed, hard-on of passion.

He groped and kissed me with such ardor; one of the waiters ordered us to cool it - we just ignored the chilango midget and continued.

Eventually saying adios to Javier, Ezra and I hightailed it to my pad, where we flung each other around the bed thrashing and moaning in the still of the night - best one night stand in many a moon.

Lying there afterward, bathed in sweat and spunk, Ezra stated, “I got to go, guero. I have to be at work early in the morning.”

It already being 2:45am - we showered, got dressed and I walked him to the corner and shook hands - just as Oscar came slinking around the corner, literally out of nowhere.

 After shifting silence and awkward glances, Oscar and I sat on the ledge of a crumbling brick wall and talked.

We sat there silent for a bit. Not looking at each other. A gang of mariachi stood in the dusty park by the curb in an attempt to solicit business.

“How you been?” I said, as I lit a cigarette.

I handed one to him, he took a puff, “Cool. Cool – just trying to make ends meet, you know?”

As I stared wantonly, my emotions for him washed over me. He sat hunched over with elbows on his knees, loose tank top draped over his sinewy frame. His eyes darted nervously at the intermittent traffic that crawled down the street.

“I missed you.” He whispered.

“I missed you, too.” I repeated.

 Another long beat of silence.

“Look, Oscar – I understand I can be a little overbearing at times and ask from you perhaps too much. But, the point of the matter is – I really care about you. I really like you.”

There was another long pause.

“I am what I am, Oscar.”

He said, almost at a whisper, “Please understand, guero, the gay life is difficult to transition into and you have to come to terms that it will take time for me to become comfortable with it.”

Oscar stated slowly, “I do have an affection for you, guero, but, we need to work things out - slowly.”

I said, “I could deal with that.”

Eventually, we repaired to my apartment where we both lay on my bed; casually embraced and discussed further his romantic interests concerning me.

“I’ve never met anyone remotely like you.” He said. “When I am with you, you make me feel good and smart - I can’t talk to anyone like I talk with you. All my other friends are either air-headed girls or guys that go on about beer and futbol. I really do like you.”

And so, this soft spoken and sincere banter went on until 5:30am - cigarette after cigarette, as Angelo Badalamente wailed his dark jazz over my stereo.

After a tight embrace, Oscar left - we both saying goodbye on the corner - and I returned to my flat. Lying in darkness, I pondered the prospects of a relationship with that boy and the outcome if it does come - sounded positive.

Zelma.

I hadn’t seen Oscar in over two weeks. Though I continued to go out and socialize with my friends at the bars, I had always kept an eye out for him. On several occasions, I had visited the Plaza on the sole attempt to find him – sitting alone and frustrated on the concrete bench in the vain chance that he may walk by.

One afternoon at home, I sat at my laptop writing, when I heard my name being called from the street below. I went out to see Oscar leaning against a parked car. My thrill at seeing him faded instantly at the sight of who he had his arm around.

He had the nerve - the downright audacity - to come by my place with his new, weasel-faced bitch in tow. That bobby-socked, catholic-school girl, scowling cunt named Zelma.

Zelma!

I shook both their hands and hissed a chilled hello.

“Just stopping by to say hi and see if you are all right.” He said. “Do you remember Zelma?”

“Yeah” I croaked, shaking her limp hand. “How are you?”

She stood there beaming – her frail, scrawny arm wrapped around his hips. Hips that I so many times held onto as he lay on top of me.

I stood there, casually nodding as I listened to Oscar go on about how she had visited him every day, their strolls through the market, the romantic dates of dinner and movies. All the while, me thinking of ways of going Ed Gein on his female. Ugh! Death where is thy sting, you lazy ass?!

I’m not bitter, though. Nope. On the contrary, I wished him the best. Okay, okay - I secretly wished him to catch some lingering, painful disease from that filthy cunt!

However, I was damned if I was going to divulge my discontent to them. Nope, I kept my cool.

As Oscar continued gleefully on how Zelda and him spent their time together, I inwardly seethed, Why? Why do I open up to these characters only to have a barbed knife thrust at first chance into my scarred and withered heart?

Oscar must have had sensed my loathing as he quickly excused himself and Zelda - I stood there and seethed on the crumbling curb, watching as they swaggered away arm in arm.

What Can I Say, I’m a Natural.

The sky was illuminated by blue bursts of electrical fire. Rain fell hard, drenching me and the scrawny hooker that tittered on the corner in her see through, plastic pumps. She resembled a melting wax figure, as if fermenting some hideous cancer.

“Psst…psst! Hey, honey, wanna suckey-suckey?” She squawked at me through the rainy haze, the sound of her voice revealed that she was a he.

I pressed on home - streets now had become rivers and sewage outlets spewed forth a dry winters worth of back up.

I cut the corner to my trap, soaked to the bones, turned the key and slopped my wet shoes into my house.

Lights were switched on and I peeled my clothes off like a used condom. Stove burned a blue flame, water boiled and steamed, and a cup of hot coffee was made. I hunkered down and watched David Lynch’s Eraserhead just to make sure my life wasn’t that bad. After the final credits rolled, I slipped into my bed. Rain always made me drowsy.

I had a headache, me, and took a handful of aspirin before knocking off for the night.

Poom! Poom! Poom! Somebody was knocking at my door. The clock read 2:36am. Poom! Poom! Poom!

I flung the blanket off and reached for my pajama bottoms. (I had always slept naked. Couldn’t have it any other way. Wouldn’t you?)

I yanked the front door open to find Jose, a teenage kid from the neighborhood, standing on my landing with kind of a glow. His eyes were all pupil and he sniffed constantly.

“Oye, guero…look…I was wondering if you can spare one dollar. My grandmother is sick. She is very ill. I need some money for medicina. Could you…”

For a beat, I glared at his gangly frame as the junk in his system caused his body to droop and sway.

I roared, “Basta! Can’t you tell how late it is!? I was sleeping! Some of us hafta work for a living instead of staying up all night taking dope! Don’t bother me again!”

Slam!

Had a hard time sleeping after that. Put on some Juliee Cruise – she had always made me drift away.

The alarm went off, reggeaton blared forth from the little radio; it was 5:20am. I staggered to the shower and bathed in lukewarm water, dressed and hit the dark streets - still damp and glistening after the previous night’s storm.

I bought two burritos pulpa from the plump smiling woman on the side of the main drag as traffic whizzed by to the United States - there was black dust in the cracks of her face.

I gobbled down one burrito before I passed through the turnstile to the International Bridge. The pedestrian line to cross was insidious - a half a mile long of petulant faced locals and ending with the obligatory, arrogant custom inspector.

Once on American soil, a phone call was made and a coworker happily picked me up. Work dragged like a wounded snail and I was nearly comatose by the time I got off. I hitched another ride back to the border and jet across that long divide.

Crossed the bridge - shriveled, shit-covered junkies in rags and ponchos with gnarled hands outstretched, looking like beat Christ’s - begged for change down under the bridge. You could hear their pleaful cries - “Oye! Pesos, por favor! Money! Money!” - they go unnoticed, as all I saw were the fat asses of the local women that bounced ahead of me. An impenetrable wall of flesh.

Stopped by Burrito Row - I ordered a burrito mole with manzana fresca and shot the shit with Beto, a young and very attractive Mexican that worked at one of the stalls. I chomped my mess all the while wondered what it would take to nail that fine ass.

But, I digress - I was still extremely groggy and decided to make my way home. Saying adios, I walked through the muggy air - the occasional tsk tsk from the prowling hooker - dodging the kamikaze bus, the suicide taxi.

I reached my humble flat and snatched the $120 I stashed under a ratty copy of Edgar Rice Burroughs’s A Princess of Mars.

Down stairs, I paid the rent to my slightly crazed landlady as her oily son watched over me, making damn sure I paid and paid right.

He lurked in the corner. A tall, wiry, lizard looking Mexican with a pencil thin mustache and face that glistened in a fine layer of grease - the old haggish bitch counted the money and drunkenly miscounted twice before agreeing that it was the correct rent.

Heh - crazy ass bitch, I smirked, inward.

Back at my place, I sat with a Sol cerveza and surfed channels on the television I had just purchased with my tax return. Nothing but crap.

There was a series of taps at my front door and I was surprised to find Oscar standing in the street.

“Hi, Oscar!” I smiled. “How are you?”

“Muy bueno.” He grinned back. “Are you alone?”

“Yes. Please, come in.” I said, as I swung the door open for him.

Once inside, Oscar began bleating the same old, same old and needed cash and, well, one thing led to another and I found myself sucking that cock - not ten slurps up and down his stiff organ – he clenched the bed covers with one hand and grabbed the back of my head with the other, Oscar squirmed and grunted as he nutted a mouthful.

What can I say, I’m a natural.

We both showered together. I offered him one hundred pesos and he split.

I sat in the dim coolness of my apartment and pondered my emotions for this character. Our friendship began so well. He would come over simply to visit. To say hi and see how I was doing. Just talking, laughing, watching television.

Lately, however - it seemed he only visited to see how much money he could squeeze out of me. Staying no more than a few minutes at a time and then as soon as the bills hit his hand, he was out the door. It made me both angry and depressed.

I dressed and wandered out - the late afternoon streets teemed with life. Fat fag in pinstriped jeans checked me out as I passed the shoe store; smells wafting from mouthwatering, rotisserie chicken that were displayed in neon blasted, dusty windows with a bum that stood and pissed onto the outside wall. Small, Indian children, snot caked black on their faces, grabbed my pant leg as I walked by - moanay! moanay! - a clown, a guy costumed as a fucking circus clown, operated a turntable in front of a record shop.

My way was clogged by a group of young boys in bright, multicolored soccer outfits - they stood laughing, talking - I gawked at them with fractured limitless lust. Shoeshine boys called out to shine my leathers as I strolled past blue, yellow, pink adobe houses and buildings erected a hundred years ago. The store vendors hawked their wares - vying for my attention. The banda music from various shops blasted at deafening volume - I cut into a cafe, ordered a black coffee, and scribbled these words out...

lascivious creep

The climate became so insidiously hot - I awoke in a pool of sweat. Fan didn’t work - spins, but don’t work. I prepared a cup of joe and watched the morning news. Clicked on the laptop and pounded out more prose on another damned manuscript that no one will ever read.

The day passed and as the sun boiled below the horizon, Oscar asked, “You want to go to Pronaf? I was invited to meet some friends there at a club.”

“Pronaf?” I asked.

“It’s the high-end of Juárez, very nice.” He smiled.

“Juárez has a high-end?” I uttered.

First, we took a cab to Pockets - a swanky, billiards pub that reminded me of any straight poolhall Stateside. Hi-fives and back slapping amongst the boys and bored, twinkling smiles of their girls. Bad service from the sullen, arrogant waiters, so onward to a massive, barn-like dance club called Ole! Ole!

Ten peso caguamas and good music. Oscar and I sat in the VIP section and attempted to work off a bottle of whiskey that I had purchased.

However, it was too big for the both of us. Luckily, a few of Oscar’s friends began to filter in and the time spent was a drunken spree of laughs and dancing.

There were two, young Mexican men in t-shirts and plaid, summer shorts. They introduced themselves as Miguel and Peter. Obviously, their parents had money and I had no idea how they knew Oscar. Perhaps, they had bought dope from him or hired him for sexual favors – it remained a mystery.

With them were three girls – pretty in jeans and shirts that accented their curves. They introduced themselves, but I didn’t care to remember their names.

I tell you, with these Mexican nationals, the alcohol really brought out the fag in them. The two Abercrombie and Fitch clones, Miguel and Peter, began their moves on the only American in the joint as Oscar cruised the local ladies. More hotties began talking with me in the usual coy, macho way and I just thought how much I loved this country.

I broke away from this reverie to stumble into a corner to find Oscar surrounded by a small group of friends.

He held a forty ounce bottle of beer up to his mouth with three queens chanting, “Chug it! Chug it!”

When he finished the bottle off, they all laughed and patted him on the back.

“Damn!” I chuckled, “Let’s get that boy another!”

The group – headed by a squinty-eyed, nelly queer - regarded me like I was carrying the plague, turned to Oscar and continued their party.

A small, pretty girl sided up to Oscar and put her arm around his waist. I stood there in uncomfortable silence as they kissed like overheated monkeys.

“Want another, Oscar?” I blurted as I held up the empty bottle.

He ignored me and shuffled drunkenly off into the murk, accompanied by another girl and the pinch-faced fag. The others turned and disbanded. I returned to our table and sloshed more tequila into my glass.

As all good things, the joint closed and shit faced as all get out, Oscar and I hitched a ride with a chunky broad that he had met – we sped rapidly to his apartment in the dark barrios of the poor and underprivileged.

The car pulled up to a row house in a dark, shabby neighborhood. Oscar and I got out of the car. As I tittered on the side walk, my friend leaned into the window of the car.

“So, you wanna come in and party?” He slurred.

The girl just smiled big, said something like no and drove off into the darkness.

Oscar stood there, scowling, then uttered, “Pinche puta.”

Unlocking the door, we entered his small, dingy apartment. A large, sagging bed took up most of the room, dirty clothes flung about, cigarettes squashed on the dusty tile. There was no kitchen and the bathroom was outside - shared with the other tenants. I gazed up and the rotted, wooden rafters were exposed; covered in a botanical garden of black mold. The smell of mildew and dusty clothes wafted in the pink painted room.

Grabbing my hand, Oscar flung me to the bed and kissed with such passion that it hurt. Clothes were ripped off and tossed about, erections exposed and then Oscar passed out.

I lay next to that naked Adonis, as he snored ever so lightly, and myself wrapped in frustrated passion.

Ah, what the hell, I thought. I ain’t no lascivious creep.

I put my arm around him and dozed myself.

Around 5am, I was awoken by Oscar’s half-assed and sloppy attempt to make out. He quickly fell back in with Morpheus.

I was fully awaken by that fumble and couldn’t fall back asleep. I lay there in the darkness - pent up, angered in frustration - I dressed, and quietly left the building.

Stumbling home in the gray dawn of painful post-intoxication, I crawled into my own bed inhabited by lonesome ghosts and passed out.

That afternoon, I spent some time alone at The Yankee Bar - a convenient, straight dive around the corner from my place on the strip.

I sat and thought of Oscar and my blossoming affection for him. I truly did love him. A love that seemed unbearably one sided. It angered me more - I appeared to be wasting my time and money on a fruitless romance. Again.

I sat pensive at the bar, staring at the bottle of Indio beer, slowly peeling the label from the moist glass. Sourly ignoring the Mexican love ballad that crooned from the jukebox, the happy laughter from a group of locals that congregated in a corner booth.

I gazed out the dusty window, dead flies on the sill. What do you do in life when you have no goal - no direction? I am not speaking in a destructive kind of way - just in a free kind of way without malice.

I walked out of the bar and headed to the Cathedral.

Strolling around the congested masses, my name was called and I looked to see Oscar sitting on the steps. I walked over.

“Hi, Oscar.” I said flatly.

He smiled, “Hola, amigo. This is my friend, Zelma.”

Oscar motioned to a young girl who squatted in a catholic school uniform next to him on the gray, stone steps.

I shook her hand, “Hello.”

“Hola.” She beamed. “Mucho gusto.”

As I sat next to Oscar, he mumbled hesitantly, “You are not angry with me? I woke up and you were gone. I thought you were mad on account of the girls.”

He referred to his complete dismissal of me at the dance club as he chased skirt.

I smiled, “Nah, I’m not one of those bitter fags to hold a grudge - life is too short and fun for that shit.”

We three sat on the steps of the Cathedral, ate ice cream and joked and laughed. All the while, I received suspicious glances from Zelma when I would make an odd, gay remark. I simply ignored her and reveled in her discomfort.

“Hey.” Oscar started, “You want to take a walk through the market?”

Zelma stared blankly at me - I could see the unwanted look for my company in her eyes.

I sighed and looked off into the hustling masses, “No, Oscar - I gotta take a rain check. Anyways, I have some things to work on at home.”

I wanted to return home and write my depression away. Saying goodbye to Oscar and Zelma, I walked into the scorching afternoon sun to do what I had to do...and I did.

Outta Whack

I sat in a coffee shop on Avenida 16th de Septiembre and watched my cold coffee swirl with the thin skin of curdled cream that floated on top. My cigarette was burned down to a nub, but I waited. And, I hate waiting.

The clock up on the wall crawled like the clock in the Machinery of Metropolis and just as painful.

An old fart - wrinkled and the color of a brown paper bag - sat staring and staring and I glared back at him, but he wouldn’t stop. What? He thinks I’m queer or something?

I gulped the coffee and asked the obese and overworked, underpaid mesera for another cup and she looked at me like I just fucked her virgin daughter and sloshed half a cup full. (Made mental note to slam down two pesetas and dramatically storm out. Cunt.)

Stared out the big window and the world was cold and the wind was blowing dust and the Mexican folk - they walked briskly by, huddled in their trappings to avoid the cold.

But, it’s cold in here, too as I sipped my coffee and that shit was hot. I made a little yelp and the old coot giggled.

Wyoncha go watch the toilet flush, Gramps?

So, I wait and I had one Lucky Strike left and I had only twenty-two pesos and he was late. They were always late. Goddamn, like there are two time zones, American and Mexican and Mexican is always outta whack.

Two Mexi-fags entered and coyly scoped out my white ass before they primly plopped into a booth, but I just watched the cockroach skitter across the diner counter.

I flicked the critter with my finger when it came too close and catapulted it onto an éclair that some fat bitch, rich and nasty, ate later.

Where the fuck was he? I could hear the ticking of the clock over the fucking chachacha music. Will he even show up?

I straightened the wrinkle in my black chinos and gazed over and watched a hoggish couple slurp and kiss each other in a corner booth. Revolting. Wonder what would happen if me and Oscar began frenching right there in the middle of the cafe?

One of the Mexi-fags caught my eye contact and smiled. Flames and knives shot out of mine in return.

Ding! The door - no, just a shoe shine boy that asked the gringo in a shop full of customers; but asked the gringo only, if he wanted his shoes shined.

“Nope.” I said.

Kinda cute. I gave the kid ten pesos and told him to go buy some marijuana - he laughed – then, I followed with ‘come back inna few years to make some real money.’ And, watched the cutey leave the cafe.

Finally, with a blast of cold air, the glass door swung open and in all his hotness Oscar strolled in and he looked fine in black-leather coat, black sweater, black slacks and boots.

“I hope you weren’t waiting long?” He asked and smiled that smile that melted hearts.

“No, not long.” I returned. “I was just finishing a cigarette. Ready to go to the movies?”

“Let’s go.”

We both hit the cold pavement. I walked next to him, laughing and thinking what a beautiful night.