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.