Mysterious Skin

A teenage hustler and a young man obsessed with alien abductions cross paths, together discovering a horrible, liberating truth.

Directed by Gregg Araki. Starring Brady Corbet, Joseph Gordon-Levitt.

Nothing.

Lately I’ve been feeling like lemon rinds left over from squeezing out lemonade. I don’t have enough in me left to make things, to give. I can only take. There is nothing left to open up about, because there’s nothing left. I’ve been completely hollowed out, and now blank pages taunt me with their emptiness. Why can’t I remember how to do this anymore?

Junky Talk.

"In the City Market is the Meet Café. Followers of obsolete, unthinkable trades doodling in Etruscan, addicts of drugs not yet synthesized, pushers of souped-up harmine, junk reduced to pure habit offering precarious vegetable serenity, liquids to induce Latah, Tithonian longevity serums, black marketeers of World War III, excusers of telepathic sensitivity, osteopaths of the spirit, investigators of infractions denounced by bland paranoid chess players, servers of fragmentary warrants taken down in hebephrenic shorthand charging unspeakable mutilations of the spirit, bureaucrats of spectral departments, officials of unconstituted police states, a Lesbian dwarf who has perfected operation Bang-utot, the lung erection that strangles a sleeping enemy, sellers of orgone tanks and relaxing machines, brokers of exquisite dreams and memories tested on the sensitized cells of junk sickness and bartered for raw materials of the will, doctors skilled in the treatment of diseases dormant in the black dust of ruined cities, gathering virulence in the white blood of eyeless worms feeling slowly to the surface and the human host, maladies of the ocean floor and the stratosphere, maladies of the laboratory and atomic war… A place where the unknown past and the emergent future meet in a vibrating soundless hum… Larval entities waiting for a Live One…"

- Naked Lunch

The Cage.

Before Captain Archer...before Captain Janeway or Sisko...before Captain Picard...and even before Captain Kirk, there was Captain Christopher R. Pike.

The original Star Trek series aired in 1966, however a pilot was made in 1964 and was passed over by the studio suits. "Too cerebral" They said. "Too erotic" They said. "Get rid of the broad in command and the guy with the ears."

Another pilot was filmed with the now famous cast and the rest was history.

This will always be my favorite episode of Star Trek. I present to you The Cage in it's entirety. Enjoy.

Why can’t you love me like I love you?

After work and crossing the border, I took a rattling old Mexican bus to my trap (Thanking God, I didn’t have hemorrhoids) and rested for an hour. Showered, dressed, gulped down a shot of Jack, smoked a stick of ganja whilst I listened to Blue Spanish Sky by Chris Isaak.

When 6:45pm rolled around, I jetted out into the cold night to the Plaza and my meet with Oscar at seven.

Oscar was punctual and as handsome as ever. And glad he wasn’t late; there was an impromptu Christian band that wailed on the gazebo and, mien Gott, they sounded like crossing the sounds of mating moose and chorus of strangling clowns. Horrid noise.

We both plowed through the teeming masses of Saturday night revelry, past packs of drunken kids in hip-hop gear, junkie’s furtive and aware, hipsters on the hustle, dodged zipping cars and kamikaze buses to a secluded taco shop of Oscar’s choice. Except for a sullen paraplegic in a wheelchair, we were the only clientele.

Ordering two plates of mouth-watering tacos carne asada, Oscar and I laughed and talked of past experiences, his failed attempts to jump the border, his work, my work, Hollywood, and Heavy Metal.

After dinner, Oscar asked, “You want to drink? You pick the bar.”

“Sure.” I agreed. “I know the perfect spot.”

I paid the bill and we hit La Cruda, a hole I’d frequented.

I ordered two caguamas of Carta Blanca’s and we took a table. La Cruda was the bar el primo I stumbled into when I first hit Juárez and had enjoyed it ever since. A non-attitude place of non-interference.

On one end of the small bar, several fags shrieked and posed, in the middle, working class machos gesticulated and roared in animated discussions about futbol scores and pussy and at the other end, two fat whores, bloated and sordid in purple and pink spandex cooing and swaying around a drunken, old American. Alone on the other side against the wall, under a dusty portrait of Marilyn Monroe, was a handsome and sad, lonely man singing into his glass to the tunes vibrating off of the green, cracked and flaking plaster walls. All this under the garish, yellow and red neon of the blasting jukebox that played American Rock and Mexican Pop.

Raul, one of the waiters whom I’d known since day one, sat at our table and drank and joked with Oscar and me.

After a couple of caguamas and a few good jokes, Oscar said, “Let’s go” and we hit the concrete.

A little buzzed, Oscar stated, “Since you picked the last bar, I’m choosing the next.”

“Lead the way.” I said, as I lit a cigarette.

Stumbling down Juárez Avenue, we cut into a cavernous hall.

“You like cholos,” Oscar said, “You’ll like this bar.”

We sat at a table in the gloomy darkness and in this hangar-sized cantina were about seven people at the blue lit bar and all were lined up in this order: Two young queers, one overtly fem in black slacks and black turtleneck, the other macho and would yell the grito de los vaqueros every time a ranchero song would play on el Rockola (Jukebox), a fat, glassy-eyed drunk in a gray suit, one size too small, kept eyeing everyone with contempt and suspicion over his fizzing beer, a handsome cowboy in tight, white jeans with the best ass I’d ever seen - ever!

He would nod and smile, tipping his white cowboy hat at the macho fag who would let loose with the yell and his partner would squirm and coo.

Next to the cowboy were two sleazy looking women, one appeared as if she was pregnant with her belly plopped out between her skirt and her halter top. But, no, it was only her flab. Ew. Next to the women, was a well-dressed, elderly couple who danced a slow waltz to anything that played. It was like a Fellini movie.

“So,” I grinned to Oscar. “Where are these elusive cholos?”

He took a swig of beer, “They’ll be around.”

Excusing myself to the men’s room was a mistake. The smell nearly knocked me on my ass. When I approached the urinal, the stench of decaying feces was too much and of course, I had to look over the porcelain wall to find that both toilets were filled to the brim with rotting shit. An inch of urine covered the floor. Lovely.

The chemistry between Oscar and I began to flow and crackle and the next thing, we were striding over the broken sidewalks and garbage - past Indians with outward palms up, past blue and yellow colored adobe houses, past smells of seared meat and dried vomit, back to my trap.

We sat on my couch, sipping coca-colas and Oscar looked through my photo album, coyly grinning as he kept returning to the two photographs I had taken of him from around the first time we had met.

He would smile as I pointed out the pictures, “Remember that night? Seemed so long ago, Oscar. Look, how handsome.”

Oscar politely laughed.

The night progressed as we casually chatted and gazed into each other’s eyes.

Oscar asked, “Can I stay the night? The buses have stopped running and I live kinda far.”

How could I refuse?

Indeed.

The lights went out and we were in my bed, lying next to each other. Oscar had thrown his thin, muscular arm across my chest and his leg across my leg and then...we talked.

He confided, “I really want to cross the border. I want to make good money, you know? The life here in Mexico is so hard.”

“Where do you want to go?” I asked.

“I have family in Denver, Colorado. I want to go there.”

In the darkness, I said, “Well, I can try to help you anyway I can, Oscar.”

He thanked me by kissing me on the cheek.

A few moments of silence. Our foreheads met, then our noses, automatically tongues flicked at each other. Oscar slid on top of me, kissing and biting my neck, while grinding and thrusting his hips into mine. He was as hard and excited as I was.

I stroked the back of his neck, whispered into his ear, “I want you...I want you inside of me.”

Getting onto his knees, Oscar put my feet up onto his shoulders. Cupping his hand over his mouth, he spit into his palm and lubed his thick uncut penis. With grinding hips, he slid into me - my breath hissed through clenched teeth - our bodies contracted and writhed, as Oscar thrust and lunged into me, softly grunting and whispering words in Spanish. I grabbed his slender, smooth ass as he thrust into me, I closed my eyes and all seemed so good. He bent down and began biting up my neck - I felt his cock stiffen even more and as he pounded harder and with a final, loud sigh, Oscar shot his hot semen into me. Collapsing on top of me, I was shaking as he kissed my neck, and rubbed his fingers through my hair.

“That was so fucking good!” I breathed in English.

“Bueno...muy bueno.” Oscar whispered, licking his dry lips.

I looked up at him as the old emotions washed over me. My heart pounded at the intense feeling of love and admiration consumed me once again. My mind began to flashback to all the various let downs that had occurred with him in the prior months. I began to spiral down in depression.

Why can’t you love me like I love you?

Our heavy breathing subsided and wrapped in each other’s arms, we fell into a deep sleep.

I woke Oscar up with a kiss on the forehead. He looked up at me and blinked, like a sluggish turtle.

He grinned, “Buenas dias.”

We showered, dressed and went to a corner cafe for a delicious breakfast of huevos con chorizo, frijoles y colorado rojo. With a cup of strong coffee.

During our conversations, I asked, “Oscar, are you satisfied with your life. I mean, are you happy?”

He said, “Sometimes. Sometimes, it is very hard.”

I don’t know why, but at that moment, I asked Oscar to move in with me.

I explained, “You can keep your job and save up to pay for your passport and Visa. I’ll take care of rent.”

He looked at me, glanced outside, then said, “Okay. But, not until next weekend.”

After breakfast, Oscar and I walked back to the Plaza in front of the cathedral, so as he could catch his bus home.

I made the appointment to meet with him the following Friday evening. When his bus pulled away with the sound of screeching gears, I stood in the Plaza and watched Indian kids perform a religious dance in garish pink and white silk outfits.

I thought, This time, I will be m.ore patient with him. Let things run its course and not force a lifestyle on him that would cause grief and sadness. No, this time I will truly love him.

Under the great blast of blue Mexican sky, I stood there with the natives and tourists, smoking a Lucky Strike.

I never saw Oscar again...

A Million, Romantic Memories of Nostalgia

I was in one of my pensive moods - you have had them, those dark, little moments, those moody little spells. Times when you want to be alone, take a stroll and think and think hard.

Your Reporter found himself sitting on one of the stone benches in Plaza las Armas in front of the cathedral in Zona Central and enjoying the crisp night air. I sat under twinkling stars, some finger snapping, old Mexican cha-cha music squawked from hidden speakers, and I chain smoking my Luckies, when out of the dark walked a nostalgic phantom gliding up the alameda like a specter. It was Oscar.

I know this person, I thought as a surge of excitement swelled up in me.

“Hola!” He smiled as he walked towards me, palm opened.

We shook hands and updated each other on our lives the past few months.

Oscar stated, “I have a new job in a maquiladora. I work for Clorox. With the money, I have rented a small apartment near the factory. I make enough to buy clothes and food. I don’t run in the plaza anymore. I guess, I have been living a responsible life – like you had wanted for so long for me.”

He chuckled. Oscar did look healthier and the clothing that he wore was new. I felt truly relieved for him.

I explained, “It is so good to hear a success story for once.”

Oscar smiled and said, “I am so happy to see you, again.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, those stilted moments when you meet an old lover and realize that there was still something there and perhaps a chance of rekindling a spark from ashen gray heartache.

I blurted, “Can I invite you to dinner tomorrow night?”

“I’d like that.” He grinned, nervously.

After a few moments of pat, tense chatter, Oscar stated he needed to return home. We both briskly, nervously, hugged, and he was gone - lost in the night’s heat.

I returned home with the thoughts of a million, romantic memories of nostalgia spun in my head. I realized then, how much I truly did miss him.

What is it that you want?

Things have their way of sorting themselves out - am I right? Karma can be so insidiously delicious in its dealing of poetic justice.

Saturday - woke up in a puddle of my own sweat, it being so freakishly hot and that worthless fan being worthless and all - showered, dressed and walked down to Café Central for my Saturday morning regulation breakfast of menudo and a taza de café.

Trumped around in front of the Cathedral for a while and scored for a nice fella named Ruben. He of nineteen and willing. Smiling eyes and thin build.

“Hey, guero - you looking’? I got some coke.” He said.

“Nah.” I leered. “Dope is not what I want.”

He laughed, “For reals? What is it that you want?”

“I’m looking to spend this twenty dollars on something else.”

So, it was back it my trap for a couple of hours of crimes against nature. And, that wiry kid was very pneumatic in the hips - if’n ya take my meaning.

Afterwards, we munched out at a corner grease pit on hamburgers and burritos served by hideous, transsexual half men that giggled and cooed at our every word - flashing silver-capped teeth and their post-ops, if you asked.

Ruben and I shook hands at the corner and I went back to my lair and snoozed a couple of hours to meet the Juárez Irregulars at nine o’clock that evening.

We all had made a date to be in front of the Cathedral to attend and whoop it up at the Chihuahua State Fair. Never had been - should be interesting.

Awakened to Kumbia King’s Pachuco, I readied and hit the burnt and cracked streets to wait at the Plaza las Armas adjacent to said Cathedral. The first to arrive was my good friend Erik. He sat next to me on the concrete bench.

“Been waiting long?” Erik smiled.

“No, not long. Just waiting for everyone to show up so we can hit the Fair.” I said, lighting my umpteenth cigarette.

We sat and watched a group of gay guys walk through the Plaza on their way to a bar. Erik stood up and shook my hand.

“Excuse me, guero - I have to go take a leak.” He said and never came back.

So, I waited. And waited. And waited. Like a fucking idiot for two goddamn hours I waited – however, some interesting people came and went on the way:

First was beautiful Ricardo. Handsome beyond words. He invited me to drinks, I declined - had to wait for the gang - loyalties and all. However, hottie said he would visit me at my place manana, and I swooned as he walked away into the humid night.

Then, a walking wall of sweaty muscle that was just released from prison with a face like a bulldog - introduced himself as Hugo.

After hitting me up for five pesos; asked, “Hey, man - can I say something and hope it won’t offend you?”

“Sure, go for it.” I croaked.

“You seem like you’re somewhat gay.”

I laughed, “Somewhat!”

When I confessed I was, his cold eyes went all dreamy and he began slurring, “If you need any help, man - anything man, just let me know. I know this city...I’ll help you, anything you need…”

I smiled and said, “Okay, Hugo...sure.”

With that, Hugo walked away. As he crossed the street, a platoon of cops swarmed around the brute and beat the living crap out of him, threw him in the back of a paddy wagon, and drove off.

The best by far was a short, blond Honduran. He walked by slowly, with hands in pockets, as he stared at me.

“You mind if I cross?” He asked, meekly.

“Cross what?” I said.

“El Frontera. You look like a federale - I want to know if I have your permission to go to your country.”

I laughed, “You can go anywhere you want. It’s a free country. Or, at least, it used to be. And, no - I’m not INS. I live here.”

“Can I sit with you a minute?” He sat without me answering.

He went on and on and on about crossing el frontera. If he wasn’t so gosh darn cute, I would’ve told his ass to cut. But, he was a lamb.

We sat and watched a lecherous, ancient faggot as he trolled the plaza. The withered, old thing would saddle up - uninvited - and asked blatantly any guy that met his polluted gaze if they wanted to have sex for money.

While I was talking with my new Honduran friend, old troll sat next to him and popped his insidious question point blank. He leaned in and we could smell the foul stench of a million unwashed cocks waft from his dry hole.

“Hey, baby boy, wanna earn some quick cash?” The troll hissed. “I gotta room nearby and I would love for you to lay back and let me suck the come out of you.”

The Honduran and I looked at each other and had about enough.

I spat at the grotesque vampire, “Look, if you don’t leave this Plaza, I’ll break your fucking arm!”

He slinked away into the dark, scowling.

The rest of the evening was blah. Only Isidro and his new boyfriend, Arturo eventually showed up. No State Fair for me, I finally accepted.

For something different, we decided to go to a twink disco called Madelon - tweens gyrated to Brittney Spears and Daddy Yankee - Ugh. After two beers, I said good night, went home and slept.

Sat in darkness and thought of my state of mind and the weekly chat sessions with a caseworker at a mental aid clinic in El Paso. The depressive tales that I confessed to the crazed psychoanalyst and the loathing of the galaxy of psychotropic mood stabilizers that I was prescribed were beginning to wear thin with me.

The meds that the psychiatric hospital had me on had some curious side effects. I didn’t care about anything anymore. I mean, not in a snotty vicious way - in a bland simple, uncaring way. I kind of missed the chaos back in Tijuana - then again I didn’t.

However, one thing I distinctly noticed was that the medication had taken away my artistic spark - and it was noticeable - I had no drive towards any direction for anything. I was totally happy being by myself - rather than the screaming center of attention I was - isn’t that odd?

As a fact, I loathed the contact with other people, I didn’t enjoy bars as much, conversation dried up, and I just wanted to sit and be alone - and think.

I hoped this was a phase.

Welcome to Mexico, gringos!

The stars were out and the moon was full and I decided to take a stroll through the plaza in front of the Guadalupe Cathedral.

There was a crowd that watched a group of youths dressed as Aztec Indians that danced to a tribal beat.

While I was playing spectator, two American tourists approached me. Young, early twenties and obviously lost.

“Hey man.” Said the tall, blond one. “Do you speak English?”

I took a drag on my cigarette and croaked, “Fluently.”

“Do you know of any hotels?” Asked the other blond one with a scraggily, yellow goatee.

I smiled, “Well, I know of several. There is one nearby for fifty pesos.”

“How much is that in dollars?” Asked the taller one.

“Oh, about five dollars. But, you pay extra if you want a door or not.”

“What?!” The shorter retorted. “Is it safe?”

“Well, you didn’t say anything about that.” I said heartily. “That’s going to jump the price up to twenty dollars.” I asked them to follow me to Hotel Bombin - a shabby, whore hotel near the frontier. “You’ll like it. It’s clean and it has three channels on the TV – English, Spanish, and porn.”

As we walked through the dark and bustling streets of the red-light district, the two tourists blabbed on nervously that they were travelling from California on their way to Florida and stopped over to enjoy Mexico for the first time. I also caught on that they were meth junkies. Could tell that the first time laying my eyes on them.

Got to Hotel Bombin and crawled up the grimy, white porcelain stairs to the reception where a queer bodybuilder with a ponytail checked them in.

They stashed their bags in the dingy, double-bed room and after asking me several times if their shit was safe, we hit the streets.

Walking down the dark lit Calle Mariscal, it was bound to happen - like barracudas on bikes - three cops rolled up on us.

“Please senor against car please senor hands against car step up to car.”

We all knew the position and spread out on the hood of a nearby parked vehicle. Our pockets were emptied and I was lucky enough to get the intelligent cop.

As my two new friends were being picked over, my interrogator and I had a hearty discussion on my literary interests and love of Mexico. The officer was quite pleased and interested. I didn’t have centavo one in my wallet - “I live in Mexico, Senor, I’m poor!”

The cop laughed at that.

Unfortunately, my two comrades were rolled for sixty dollars.

The two other officers continually pulled items out of the Americans pockets - pens, papers, keys, wallets, condoms, and then a small plastic bag of methamphetamines.

El Capitan looked at me with pursed lips. “Oh, this is very bad, senor.”

I feigned shock and stated in Spanish, “Look, officer - I don’t even know these ding-dongs. I just met them and they asked if I could show them around since I lived in Juárez. I had no idea they were junkies.”

The officer smiled, placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “Do not worry, amigo - why don’t you go home. We will take care of these two.”

I glanced over at the two sullen boys. The look of desperate finality on their faces. Welcome to Mexico, gringos!

While the police officers continued to harass the two tourists, I shook my cops hand, offered him a Lucky Strike, smiled and said in Spanish, “Well, enough of this circus. If that is all, officer, I’m going home.”

“Good night, gabacho.” He smiled.

I wished those two guys good luck, waved goodbye to the cops and walked the few blocks back home.

He Faded into the Darkness.

Felt quite drowsy after work, so I dragged myself to bed and took a snooze before I decided to go out. Out. The word itself held notorious implications. I was in a party mood. The week was weird and I had to let off steam. I showered, had a small toke of ganja, gulped a shot of tequila and bolted out the door.

I first hit Burrito Row to yak a bit with Beto - the eye candy that worked at one of the stalls.

As I munched burritos mole and smoked a Lucky, we chatted and chortled about cars and cocaine, in which Beto swindled me out of fifty pesos to purchase said narcotic.

Both of us stood in a filthy back room, amid the pungent reek of old cooking grease and rotting vegetables - snortwheee! Took off like a rocket, daddy-oh!

Feelin’ it, I walked down the strip, checking out the chilangos in their goof suits and dashed into Bar Buen Tiempo for a caguama.

However, the place was devoid of any acquaintance of mine. Three chilled caguamas later and one mean buzz, I decided to call it quits, after talking to an interesting character in the toilet.

The handsome little shit stood next to me in the urinal. Obviously, he drunk as I was.

He looked over at me with glazed eyes, “Hey, chief - welcome to my country.”

He extended his hand in friendship - the same hand that was holding his pecker while he pissed.

I looked down at it, smiled, “Dude, some folks just do not need to shake hands when they are taking a leak.”

Don’t care how your cock looks, you know?, I thought.

I must of insulted his virtue about cleanliness, he snarled, “Man, take my hand and shake it!”

I finished up and silently left him mumbling obscenities.

I walked out and into the cobblestone maze of the Old Mercado and over to bar Caletilla.

Let in the steel door by a grinning dyke; the place was packed and after being served by a tattooed and well scared cholo named, well...Cholo - I was finally reunited with my good pal Erik. Next to him, perched on stools like two vultures, squat the Isidios.

Much gay faggotry commenced and a good time was had. Hit on by some hot hotties, but I was coming down with a flu or some kind of cold virus. I wasn’t in the mood for no homosexual hanky-panky, so I simply played it cool with these characters.

Never saw so many horrendous transvestites outside of New Orleans before - it was a goddamn freak show. Amazonian half men in multicolored spandex that many resembled Neanderthals in drag, paraded around in flowers, furs, and fluff. The screeching and squawking! Ech!

Erik, the Ignacio’s, and I stumbled next door, over cracked and garbage covered pavement, to a shabby, barn-sized disco.

The joint was called Elvira’s - reminded me much of Freegay. Many a gay cholo and bi curious men strolled through the dank, smoke-choked darkness. Mexican Ranchero music mixed with Reggeaton kept the small dance floor packed in which Erik and I would frequent often. Still gotta learn that mambo!

This one skin-headed shorty asked me to dance, I obliged and we boogied. Next thing I knew, we were tongue wrestling up against the wall and he kissed so hot, I could feel his stiff organ through his khakis.

Nevertheless, his friends had to go and he left with them...oh, well.

Another skinny cholo with a scraggy, black goatee sided up to me, smiled, “Hey, guero, buy one beer for me?”

I blearily looked at him and smirked, “Sure, if you kiss me with your tongue.”

Shaking his head curtly, he mumbled something to the effect that he wasn’t queer.

I drunkenly stated, “Well, that’s my price.”

He faded into the darkness.

Eventually, Erik and I decided to split...I felt tired from a head cold that I had been nursing a few days. We said good night to the Ignacio’s and took off.

I walked Erik to his bus stop. However, since we both were hungry, Erik and I stopped to get a bite to eat at an all-night chicken joint, Pollo Feliz.

Erik asked, “Hey, you want to go to Baños Roma with me tomorrow?”

“Sure, why not?”

Baños Roma was the city’s notorious bath house. I had never been there, only hearing of it from embarrassed friends and old American perverts.

After the late dinner, I said goodbye to Erik and went home and crashed.

Waking up with a slight hangover, I downed a shot of tequila and showered, dressed and clomped up to a small cafe to eat breakfast of huevos rancheros.

At ten in the morning, I met Erik in front of the Cathedral to start our day of wicked debauchery at Baños Roma.

We briskly walked the short blocks to the corners of Mejia and Constitution and entered the old, dilapidated building.

In the lobby, an old man took our personals and placed them in a lock box. We paid him 76 pesos each and then entered the baths proper.

The interior was overtly dingy. There was black mold in the cracks of the pink and white tiles and the paint peeled off of the moist, green walls. We found a little cubicle that was covered in obscene graffiti, had rusted hooks on the walls, and a small cot. The attendant issued us each a ragged, brown towel.

Erik and I both undressed and split up. I eyed several good-looking men walking around naked. I felt kind of self-conscious, everyone was dark brown and my skin was so pasty and white...but that was soon to become an advantage.

I found the steam room and was quite the popular one in there. I was fucked fore and aft. Over and over and over and over - Dear Reader, I lost count. There was so much good cock.

Around the middle of the afternoon, I confessed to Erik that I had to leave. I was worn out. There were hickeys all on my back, between my legs, on my ass...I had no sperm left, cock didn’t work no more...ass sore...

Erik and I dressed, tipped the towel guy, and left. I wobbled with my good friend to his bus stop and said my goodbyes. Returning home and to a deep sleep. I realized, I now had a new place to while away my Sunday afternoons.

I had wised up a bit

I had wised up a bit and happily and regretfully, and with much restraint, cut Oscar from my life, once again.

People want to piss me off - play with my emotions. That is one act I would not tolerate from anyone. Fine, you want to swindle me for beer or food - but don’t fuck with what is left of my heart.

For the last few months, this Oscar character had played me like a harp from Hell and usually when I listened to my gut and followed my instincts - however fucked up they may be - I never deterred from my decision. He seemed like a nice guy - but the stench of deception clung to him like dried semen on the jacket of a pedophile.

I had no idea where he stood. The guy was always wishy-washy over what was going on in our friendship.

“I’m straight!”, he would thunder, all the while beating his chest.

Yet, he continued to visit me, sit and talk about work and money.  And, as a matter of fact, he would instigate the sexual liaisons, not I. Well, mostly.

However, and this is where it gets wacky - I truly began to harbor an attraction -  a strong, direct, emotional feeling for him and in a tender and romantic soliloquy one evening, I had to explain myself, yet again.

Under a baneful moon, I breathed, “Oscar, you are special, you know that? I think I am beginning to open up to you, to actually fall in love. You make me laugh, you’re fun to be around, and you ain’t to shabby in the sack. Be with me, Oscar, be with me and I will make your life - our life - so much better.”

In which, he blankly responded with nothing. Sat there in silence.

He claimed to be straight - and I mean, straight straight. And yet, he screwed my emotions by screwing my ass at his convenience.

I am far too set in my ways to change, now. I am not the cooing, sniveling pansy of yore - oh no, Dear Reader. I have been burned by far too many so called straights in the past. I want what all fags want and the bottom line to that is love. Simple love.

However, that privilege seemed unattainable. Especially down here in ol' Mexico. The motives of such characters are always - always - ulterior.

Either it being money or clothes or drugs, the time you shell out for these fucks are never for your enjoyment, but solely theirs. And what and how much they can get out of it.

Sigh.

The last couple of nights had been visiting straight bars and me flipping the beer bill whilst Oscar and his cronies cruised for broads and drank up my wallet.

Certainly, the evening usually ended with Oscar banging the bajeebus out of me – but, it was all so empty. Worse than a one night stand, because I was the one harboring romantic feelings for the boy. And he realized this, all the while beating his chest claiming his heterosexuality.

The previous night, Oscar and I sat in a cantina that was splashed in gaudy cowboy motif. Worn, wooden wagon wheels and barrels for tables, bent, dark floorboards, walls covered in oil paintings of the Old West - Mexican style. The place was empty, save for us and a silent, bloated drunk.

Oscar and I sat silent, uttering a few jokes to each other, yet I was certain he wished he was somewhere else. The bartender was a big-boobed mamacita with thick, black eye shadow. The more intoxicated Oscar became, the more she flirted. And, when Oscar began flirting with the fair sex, I became invisible.

“Let’s go.” I snarled, wanting to get Oscar away from that offending skank.

They smiled goodbye to each other and we walked out into the neighborhood’s night.

We staggered down the middle of the street to spare ourselves an attack by roving dogs or the occasional gangster. Oscar began to slow his walk.

“Where you want to go next?” He asked.

“Let’s go to my place - we can drink and watch movies.” I suggested.

I really just wanted to take my aggression out on him, sexually.

He stopped in the middle of the street, glanced drunkenly back at the neon of the bar two blocks away and said, “You want to invite that girl? She is hot and I wouldn’t mind fucking her.”

I went livid, “No, I don’t want to invite her! You asshole! I have shown you nothing but kindness and respect since we met and all you do is use, use, use! I’m tired of it! You have to make a choice - right now - it’s living like you do, a common street hustler or with me? I can’t tolerate both any longer!”

He stood in the fluorescent shadow of the humming street lamp, looking down and said nothing. I lit a cigarette.

“I’m going to go talk with her, I think I gotta chance with her.” He said, calmly.

“Fuck!” I screamed in frustrated rage, causing dogs to bark, and I think in the distance a baby began to cry. “You know, we have nothing in common. All you see with me is a dollar bill with feet! Why don’t you grow a pair and be a man for once by supporting yourself?!”

“Luis…please…I explained to you…” He began, hands out, palms up.

“Goodbye, you asshole! Don’t fucking bother me anymore!” I sneered.

With that, I stormed down the street and left Oscar standing in pools of shadows.

I felt nothing except slight sadness - not for losing him as a friend, but that it had to be the way it was.

Son cosas de la vida...

going bar to bar

Showered - dressed, and liked the way I looked. Walked over to the corner; got a pack of smokes and bought a bite to eat at a hamburger stand employed by a handsome Indian named Ignacio, wondering what I could get from that? Cuter than shite, he was.

Strolled to the Plaza las Armas in front of the main cathedral to relax and think. However, there was a rip-roarin’, bible thumpin’ show going on, so God wouldn’t have it.

Sat there anyway and did the best I could. It was a nice, warm evening and the stars twinkled in a dark-navy, clear sky. The moon was big and orange, like a grapefruit hanging in that sky.

First goofball I ran into was my good bud Erik, he was making the rounds – going bar to bar – looking for his friends, but was out of luck.

“Hola, guero, been here long?” Erik asked jovially.

“Not really.” I said. “Trying to tolerate the Wrath of God over there.”

Erik glanced at the raucous church group and smirked. The devoted that they had acquired, clapped and sung along amid the tinny screeching of the bull-horn.

“Yes, they are here every weekend. You have a problem with God?” He asked.

“Not yet.” I stated as I lit another cigarette.

A group of young guys passed joking and laughing. Three skinny queens gesticulating and giggling.

“I’m looking for this one guy that I had met a couple of nights ago at Nebraska bar, but he seems not to be out drinking, yet.” Erik said, watching with lust as the boys passed.

“I’m sure he’ll show up.” I assured him.

Erik sighed and then looked at me smiling, “Hey, I’ll catch up with you later. I’m going to see if I can catch this guy.”

“Okay.” I said as I shook his hand. “I’ll be here.”

With that, Erik shot off across the bustling plaza.

Eventually, and thank God - the Holy Rollers with the bull horns left and the Plaza quieted down as I sat there sipping my manzana fresca when Saneen - a bespectacled, nervous and twitchy queen - walked up and said his howdy’s and gushed at how much he wanted to talk to me.

“Oh, I’m so glad I ran into you!” He chirped.

“Yeah?” I croaked, puffing on that smoke. “About what?”

“I understand that you are a writer?” He asked.

“Some people think so.” I joked.

“Well, I have written this essay about my trip to Paris and I…” His cellphone beeped.

I sat and watched a homeless man dig through the trash that cascaded over a bin as Saneen blabbered rapidly in Spanish. He eventually snapped the phone shut.

“Oh, guero, I have to zip over quick to ProNaf and meet a friend.” Saneen bleated with a high-pitched lisp. “Can we have coffee tomorrow at Café Central, say at nine?”

“Okay…sure.” I agreed as my cigarette dangled from my lips.

Shaking my hand, the fag swished off into the busy pedestrian night.

I sat there scoping the scene – a little, shabby dwarf of a woman dragged ratty luggage past (wheels long gone) begging for coins – old and ancient cowboy crooned (ivory colored, ten-gallon hat and a dusty scowl under white, bushy mustache) to a patient, yet appalled cholo (handsome and queer) a few benches down – police prowled, making random checks of identifications…

I decided to stroll over to Bar Nebraska to look for Erik and before I entered the door, someone called at me from the shadows.

“Guero! Hey, Luis!”

I squinted to see who it was. I had to look hard before I recognized him as Javier - a neighbor who would visit occasionally for beer and conversation. I hadn’t seen him in weeks.

He was painfully thin, face sunken in, eyes all pupils, clothes filthy – he had deteriorated into a full-fledged junky. My heart sank – this was the same Javier that not three months ago, I had to explain what crystal meth was.

I stood and stared at his ravaged visage, snarled, “Are you taking drugs? Look at your face!”

“No!” He said. “No, I’m not, man - I promise!”

Come on, who did he think he was kidding?

I didn’t say a word and entered Bar Nebraska to look for Erik. The small joint was crawling with Old Navy and Abercrombie and Fitch clones - Mexican style. My eyes scanned through the gloom, passing across forty faces of such plastic fakeness, all made the worst by the strobbing, red neon.

Someone tugged at my shirt sleeve – half expecting to see the grinning visage of Erik, I was instead met with the raw gaze of Javier, who obviously had followed me in.

“What has happened to your face?” I asked, glaring at him in the dim light.

“Nothing.” Javier pleaded. “Buy me a beer.”

“No.” Was my answer and I left him standing ragged in the middle of all that dazzling, faggy poshness. Goodbye, Javier.

Hit the streets depressed even more after that. Returned to the Plaza and sat and chain smoked Lucky Strike after Lucky Strike – non-filtered, you dig?

Erik appeared out of nowhere, took one look at me and grimaced.

“What’s the matter, man? You look sad.” He stated.

I paused – I was sad. Not because of the event before with Javier. My thoughts flowed with the memories about Oscar. Erik sat next to me on the concrete bench.

“It’s that obvious, huh?” I stated. “Oh, Erik – I got it bad. I have been seeing this boy named Oscar. I am so in love with him. I try and try to persuade this guy to feel the same about me. But, all he seems to see me as is a dollar bill with feet. I love him; however, I can’t stand him at the same time.”

“Where did you guys meet?” Erik asked.

I sighed. “In the street. I met him in the street.”

“He’s a hustler?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. He likes women, though.” I said.

“Oh, honey!” Erik wailed dramatically. “There you have it. You can’t change that type of macho. He will always go with the women before he goes with a guy. You understand the word machismo?”

I nodded yes.

“He has his friends and family to think about.” Erik continued. “He has to save face – no way will he truly have a relationship with you. What you need to do is drop him and find you a nice gay boy.”

“But, it’s his masculinity that appeals to me. I can’t have a relationship with a fucking fairy!” I spat the word ‘fairy’ out like poison.

“That’s what you might need.” Erik said.

“What I need is a drink.” I stated as I stood up. “C’mon, let’s go.”

We walked around the corner to Bar Buen Tiempo: for me a cerveza Sol and him an agua mineral – Erik doesn’t drink, dig?

Depression was lifted somewhat when I was scoped out by two handsome guys and that’s what was needed to lift my spirits.

Erik and I drank in silence – I sat morosely pining over the thoughts on Oscar. I wanted him to be with me at that moment.

Erik sighed the word aborrito – boring for you stupid assholes that don’t speak Spanish – and we were out the door and off through the Old Market to Caletilla, that bar of bars.

As ever, the hole in the wall cantina was packed with bloated drag queens, bulldykes, junkies, pimps, homo-thieves, prostitutes, and whatever. I loved the place. Always kept it funky fresh.

Erik and I made our way toward the back where we met our friends and the beer began to flow.

Sitting by the mensroom entrance like a flamboyant, Aztec goddess, was my hairdresser friend, Isidro. With him was another short, squat fag also named Isidro. Since they had the same first name, they often were referred to as the twins - even though they looked nothing alike. Silly fags.

Isidro - the tall one - brought with him a scrawny, little twink that looked as if he was twelve years old – he claimed to be eighteen – named Manuel.

“Manuela!” Mexislang for masturbation, Erik whispered jokingly into my ear.

The kid clung to me like a wart. I, of course, assured my group of friends that I had no intention to do anything unsavory with the kid, he was too young. Gotta keep face with these bitches – know what I mean? Even though I would had thrown little Manuel on the floor and banged him doggy-style on the spot – he was that cute.

After the bar closed, my group of bitches and I walked over to Freegay to boogie down – I was relieved to hear that Manuel could not enter because he did not have an I.D. Made me all jittery having him around, you know – felt all kind of nasty the way he looked at me – I ain’t no child molester.

Fucking Lolita. I thought.

Isidro was nice enough to pay for all four of us to enter and we climbed the stairs of stained, red carpet and entered the disco. Finding a dark corner in this cavernous hall, we became pretty ripped. Danced – drank – hit on by flirtatious guys – ran into old friends.

They had hired a new waiter – his name being Manuel (There was a pattern brewing that night, I just knew it!) and as the waiter served us our drinks, he would make flirtatious remarks at me.

After the fifth or sixth round of alcohol, Manuel handed me my drink and caressed my fingers as he passed the bottle to me.

I was in stupid, drunk gringo mode at that time. I smiled and looked over his muscular frame that his waiter uniform was accenting. He had short, cropped hair, black and slicked back, a thick moustache and square jaw.

I slurred something to the effect, “Ya know, after ya get off work, you should come to my apartment for a night’s romp.”

He puffed up and flexed, all the while stating, “Sure. But, my going rate is sixty dollars. You gonna pay me, Americano?”

I laughed, “Get lost!”

He did.

Dancing was followed by a transvestite show, then a strip show. Out of literarily nowhere, that little waif Manuel that I’d met back at the previous bar popped up out of the gloom. As I gave him the cold shoulder, he was being cruised by every old, fat pedophile in the building – figures! Evil, old vampires.

Erik and I joined the never ending parade that continually looped the dance floor - a chance to check out the checkers.

“What’s your name? Muy nice!” One guy with a shaved head smiled, grabbing my sleeve as he passed. Wished I took him up on it.

Around two thirty, the disco closed, and we five drunkenly exited and stumbled to the corner hamburger stand and gobbled down a few.

I was approached by a rather good looking cowboy in a white hat, all legs and white jeans so tight you could see his circumcision.

“Hola.” I slurred, wobbling.

“Hola.” He smiled.

The cowboy moved closer to talk. That’s when I leaned over and threw up off the curb. Real classy, me. It didn’t impress the vaquero that much, either.

Saying adios to Manuel and the Isidios, Erik walked me to my house. I flipped a Lucky Strike to the cowboy and said I would see him later or some sloppish remark. He smiled and turned away.

On a side street near my apartment, took a piss next to a van to the gigglings of an old hag.

I glared at her, then smiled, saying in English, “What’s so fucking funny?”

As Erik and I walked up to my door, a car pulled over with two, young Mexican guys inside.

The passenger asked me, “Do you speak English?”

I blurredly focused on them as I leaned over the passenger window. I had to admit, they both weren’t bad looking.

“Fluently.” I slurred.

“We are kinda lost...which way back to El Paso?”

I leaned down to the passenger window, “Well, you drive that way two blocks and take a right on calle Ignacio Mejia, then a left at Avenida Juárez…”

“Quieres mamar? (Want a blowjob?)” The passenger blurted.

“No.” I said, not missing a beat. “You take Juárez Avenue to the bridge then to El Paso.”

“You don’t wanna fuck me?” He asked meekly.

“Look, yer drunk, I’m drunk...and I gotta go to work in three hours. Go home and get some sleep.”

The car pulled off. I said good night to Erik and crashed on my couch.

Why Was it Like This?

Damn in such a funk of late. So numb inside - avoided contact with everyone. I was simply waiting to leave - even then, I felt no surge of excitement over that.

I lay sweating in my bed all day - only to pull myself out to walk to the corner bakery to buy some bread. I was completely broke - surviving on bread and water.

Went back to my room and lay there thinking about nothing in particular for hours on end. Around one a.m. or there abouts - walked back to the 24hr bakery and bought some sweet bread and a small milk with my last 12 pesos.

Why was it like this? How had all enjoyment of the fundamentals of life been crushed out of me? I wanted nothing. Nothing, but to be left alone with my own thoughts. And they were even mired in bleak resentment of past events. I saw my future - those filthy, haggard old men pushing a shopping cart down the street with all sanity and lust for life gone out of them - I believed that would be one day my fate.