Blowing Smoke Rings

Taxi screeched to a halt in front of the Hotel Escobar. Old man sat on wood chair by the door focusing on me with cataract eyes and junky stoop as I paid the driver and entered the crumbling whitewashed building. The smell of sewage and feces filled the lobby. An obese transvestite sat on an overstuffed green-velvet couch sucking a silver tooth so nasty as I paid the front desk cien pesos and made my way up to the third floor - old well-worn wooden stairs creaking.

My room was painted olive green, paint flaking. Bed sagged to one side with graffiti scratched above wooden headboard, the toilet ran, and I had roaches for roommates.

The distant moan of a whore earning her rent mixed with the Banda music wafting through the pungent, dark halls.

I showered in tepid water, got dressed, and left my key with the front desk. Walking sideways through a group of six Amazonian transvestite hookers who guarded the lobby door; avoiding catcalls and grabbing at my crotch.

I strode through the choking night air, the klaxon of car horns and high decimal Banda, the cries of cigarette vendors, the smell of scorched meat and sewage, vicious cops patrol and gave me a sour eye. Mexican queers passed staring and giggling and pointed at every bulging groin. Dogs sifted through trash next to their masters.

A few blocks from my hotel was Park Bonito Juarez (formally Park Independencia) - by day an idyllic spot for lounging families - the sounds of playing children among swaying palms and colorful flowers. You look around and see happy smiling faces, the rapt, cancerous faces of police officers, you hear cantina music from across the park of balloons and popsicles and shoeshine stands. In the middle a gazebo for concerts - generations of mariachi playing Mexican anthems to honor El Gobernador.

By night, the park takes on its sluttish reputation - a notorious hotbed of male prostitution and drug pedaling with sex being acted in the midst of darkened bushes and shadowy corners. When the day boils away and the shoe stands close-up, the boys come out. Every bench is occupied - the trees lining the sidewalk always host someone leaning with hip hooked and hands in pockets. Silent shadows beckon and the smell of sex vibrates through the park mixed with the whispering lusty grunts and sighs under a baneful moon.

As the sun set and the stars emerged, I found the park and most importantly, I found Enrique working. He sat on the cold iron bench like a lounging cougar, awaiting prey. Dark curly hair cropped short, copper skin, and a pencil thin moustache lined full pouting lips. His lanky body jumped up and ran to me all smiles. Short chitchat and with the heat rising we faded out of the park and materialized in my hotel room.

Tongues probed, fingers poked, and erections were exposed. Enrique always was proud of his very long penis and had no qualms of using it. Clothes thrown about the room. The bed banged and squeaked as Enrique fucked me hard and long and afterwards we shared an American Spirit. (they don't make Lucky Strikes anymore. Fucking bitches!) And then, the horny Mexican fucked me again. Showered and went downstairs for dinner at a corner eatery - Café Mimi’s.

Music blared as the scrumptious food was served by a plump laughing woman - who cooked it, too. The plastic chairs were packed with happy, talking, animated locals - the café was teeming with life. A life which had been squelched in the States and one that will never resurface again.

After tacos and agua limón, Enrique and I decided to cruise around El Centro; I needed to go shopping for some hygiene articles.

As we walked through the congested streets, I was approached by two Mexican hipsters and asked if I wanted to make $800 dollars, suspicious I asked why.

“All you hafta do is drive cross the border.” The short one smiled coyly.

“Nah.” I stated - a coyote I ain’t.

Enrique said he needed some mota - and why not, I feel like getting a little high myself. We strut down into the Old Mercado past the come-hither hookers and cop a bag of weed from some Aztecan tattooed kid and repair back to my room. Enrique is one hella roller - fat he makes 'em. We sit on the bed listening to reggeaton and toking some blunt - it was tasty. Half a bottle of Cuervo - reefer by candle light.

I rode Enrique's mighty cock for nearly an hour. Hair is pulled; sweat is licked off writhing thrusting bodies. Our racket echoes in the halls as we both moan out in orgasms.

“Oh shit! Aie caray!” We grunt out almost simultaneously.

Beaten, bruised and covered in sweat and semen, sheets on the floor and soiled, Saul and I lay there entwined like two snakes.

My digital clock said 4:36am. As he lay beside me sleeping, I stroked his black curly hair, sighed and looked out the window at the shimmering yellow moon. paranoid thoughts drift through my mind, I need to leave. I need to get out of Mexico and find new kicks. But where...?