“Why do we always do this shit at night?” He grinned as he reached for the charred light bulb with one hand and the flecked remnants of methamphetamine with the other.
I shrugged. What could I say? He was philosophically right. Why do we always do this shit at night? It’s not as if we sleep during the day.
Sleep - those little slices of death. How I loathed them.
I glanced out the window, the moon swung round at supersonic speed - in the distance, up in the hills, a fat man called out “Tamales! Tamales!”
Jose Perez placed the lighter under the lightbulb, opened copper end to his mouth - flick! Gray smoke warped around inside like a Texas tornado, swirling contortions of Blank Death.
I saw the dope hit and his eyes lit up like florescent lamps. I took the bulb and repeated his actions. The metallic taste flowed down to my lungs, activating junk-sick cells. The shock of what seemed like 200 watts tingled up my spine, back of skull, hair stands and pow! to the forehead. I began to jerk in mechanical movements - vibrating like a tuning fork. Tongue clicked, teeth ground.
Jose was lying back on the tattered futon - blue basketball tank-top with matching shorts. My lascivious eye wandered to his limp, but long cock resting on those sagging balls. The flimsy material of the shorts accented his bulging crotch in detail. I wanted to reach over and grope that fucker - but, alas, he being helplessly, hopelessly heterosexual. No, I couldn’t. I won’t. I realized the fucker was here only for my dope, on the plus side; Jose not only was eye candy, but also a good conversationalist.
“You hear about Ivan?” Jose spat small balls of white spittle, slowly flinging through the air. Clik-clik went his movements. A spastic robot. “Cops raided his place. Took everything.”
I didn’t give a fuck - my thoughts wandered into last night. After an evening at a straight club with Jose, he picked up a chunky, American girl and we three drunkenly returned to my sordid flat. She wasn’t ugly - big boobs, big hips - the kind of voluptuous body straight guys jack off about. On the other hand, maybe it was just easy pussy.
Feigning sleep, I repaired to my room only to peer through the cracked door to see in the blue light of the flickering television set, Jose screwing that hooch.
Didn’t give a rat’s ass about the girl, my bloodshot eye held its gaze on Jose’s long cock sliding rapidly in and out of her wet hole. His balls slapping against her vaginal lips, the sighing grunt Jose uttered after five minutes of this, he pulling out as a stream of white semen dribbled out of the girl’s cunt and onto the futon’s mattress. Then, I took care of myself - falling asleep in my mess.
Next morning, both were gone. Jose returned in the afternoon and we went to score.
We both stood in an alleyway of garbage and shit under a blinding yellow sun and dazzling blue Mexican sky – paranoia mounted as a white sedan with darkened windows rolled up.
“Cartel.” Jose muttered, hands in pocket looking down.
The watchful eye of the bitter taco vendor on the corner scrutinized our every move.
After copping from the pusher known as Thing, broken sidewalk rushed under our feet back to my joint for a blast. Nothing on the television, only orange juice in the fridge, filthy bathroom over run with ants. My carpet was covered in marijuana stems, food containers, meth papers - it’s amazing what you noticed when you were tweeking.
Jose wanted to watch porn.
Fine, I thought, torture me.
As the video progressed, he got half a hard on. Nothing sexier than watching a cock grow in shorts unaided by hand. Inching upward, pulsing once, inching outward…
In the most wicked, sleazy, perverted way, I leered at him and asked, “Hey, Jose, you wanna blow job?”
“Dude, you know I’m not no joto.” He retorted, all the while, groping his semi-stiff organ. “You’re cool and all, man, but don’t fucking ask me again.”
I sank deep in the futon - I wanted to be anywhere but in that room with Jose.
I casually grabbed the light bulb from off of the end table - flick!whoosh!whee! I glanced over to him - long and lean his body was, coffee-colored eyes encircled by thick, dark lashes, copper skin, short shaggy hair. I lay there broken and in pain - vibrating in insidious lust amplified by the methamphetamine.
“That girl I met last night?” He finally said, white tongue licking thick lips. “I got a date with her again tonight - we supposed to meet outside Las Pulgas.” Las Pulgas was a straight dance club on Avenida Revo - been there once. Groped drunken boys as they passed in the crowd. “So, I gotta jet. Gonna go home and get ready.”
After liberally taking two more hits, we shook hands and said later to each other. I watched his skinny frame walk out the door. Why am I such a fool for these types of boys? Why am I addicted to this chaos and not only that, lustfully revel in it?
I hated myself for it, worried about the outcome if it out come. Mortified by my addiction and sordid homosexuality. So jaded I had become - and antisocial. I loathe most faggots to this day - I see through all their amateurish attempts at deceit and seduction. I should know, I have tried them all. Trying to attain all that I have accomplished in the past and finally realizing, as it had done to me, leaving them bitter and empty. And like me, they always do this shit at night.
Two days later, Jose was found shot to death behind Hotel Coliseo off of Avenida Coahuila. I didn’t care. I just bought more dope and went on living.