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.