The Final Countdown to Perpetual Insanity

It’s a mad world. And for manic-depressives and schizophrenics a sad one, too.

The gears have been set into motion. I have made the final decision on leaving Mexico for good, never to return to this damnable desert. Gone will be the drunken nights of misguided debauchery and rampant alcoholism. For a time, I will walk among the double-standard, Victorian aptitudes of the United States where Home of the Free, Land of the Brave had been butchered oh so long ago that no one cares anymore. I have made the ultimate choice of stepping free of this paranoid existence and will become, once more, a hobosexual.

I strongly think I need this. A long time reader who I had become estranged from on account of no fault but my own selfish insanity, had put the finger on the proverbial nosey: “You are an outside cat, not an indoor cat.” That one shot faggoty retort had rung true all these years when first commented on a long, drunken rant from said reader.

My plan? Plans within plans, Dear Reader. I am debarking for Tucson, where I will enjoy that town for as long as my scatter brained personae will tolerate. Then, it will be off to New Orleans. I want to dig that city of ill-repute as I did decades ago. Afterwards, making a stop in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida to visit with an old High School chum and his wife who has so graciously invited me into their home. Then, ultimately, flying down into San Juan, Puerto Rico where, if the gods smile on me, I will make one final attempt to settle down. Retire, if you will, and spend the rest of my days drinking rum and writing horribly, unpublishable novels.

Am I nervous? Sure as shit, I am. I shouldn’t. I mean, I have pulled this cockamamie stunt countless of times. Yet, I feel all doors are closing, all cards have been dealt. Time’s up, sir. Last call.

Never the less, this summer promises a literal rollercoaster of bring downs and dramatic circumstances. You bought the ticket, Dear Reader, take the ride…

I Could Tell You Stories.

Oh, I could tell you stories.

Broken bones and battles lost and victories. I could tell you stories.

To impress, digress, or suggest – action stories, traction stories – how that time I almost slipped.

I could tell you stories.

How one of the neatest things I learned in college was a new way to tie my shoes. How the night city looks from the plank-platform in the tallest tree hidden in the neighborhood. How it feels to sleep next to a soulmate – then move 2,000 miles away.

I could tell you stories.

The teller wrestles with a curious why-mind. Where to go from here? Too much to siphon through – clogged filters just dirty water. No sense in trying to impress. Who likes to be impressed, anyway? Counter-girl won’t bat a lash for the holes in shoes. Nobody likes a show-off. Shove off, show-off. Yer kind ain’t welcome ’round these parts. I could tell you stories – but what’s a good story? Pin the tale on the Don Quixote. A good story needs reality, not facts. A connection. A laugh. A moral. That’s that. Tell me what made you laugh – and how it got you chortling.

One of my best friends I’ve ever had writes sentences on any sort of pad about anything that’s in his head. Later, he rearranges them into some sort of half-rhyme tale that tricks you into connecting. Tricks your mind into inventing timelines. Caffeinated nonsensical sentences blend together into metaphor and imagery. Emotion breaks through. A laugh, a nod, a cheer.  A new understanding, borne by the audience, alien to the creator. A religion – began and lost again in a moment. Amateur poetry can be the most sincere.

And the next time we’re there – we steal a goddamn pillow because it had the exact same pattern as his only shirt. Red and white flannel. That square pillow was three months of laughter. I can’t recall the words written or spoken, but I’ll always remember that dumb pillow. It wasn’t me, officer. It was we. We regret nothing!

Maybe the real purpose of writing is to weave together like-minded troublemakers. Maybe the words don’t even matter. Matter the words don’t even, maybe. So probable that it’s probably so – I could tell you stories. So what?

So could anyone. So can everyone.

The real trick is making stories. The real trick is living them.

Love Lost in Springtime Doldrums

Spring is in full swing down here in ol' Mexico. The air is warm, the sky is pleasant, and the boys saunter around half nekkid in pin-striped tank tops. They stroll with that macho swagger of machismo that drives pasty skinned gringo wild with passion.

I awoke with a fucking morning boner and attempted to relieve myself but I felt all shades of nasty because the neighborhood kid, he of only seven, was screeching outside my door playing with a young mate out on the sidewalk. Fine. I'll just go for some coffee and maybe cheesecake for breakfast.

Showered, dressed, and made my way past dusty, crumbling adobe buildings to Cafe 656. The street was already teeming with youthful vigor as doe-eyed, dark skinned men dashed to and fro in their various affairs. Hell, even the workers who had taken over a three block radius around the cafe re-constructing the streets seemed hot and secreting sexual pheromones for all to pine over. Sex hummed in the air like a Buddhists chant.

As I was coming to a corner, there was a lone car parked at the curb. I had that funny sense that I was being eyed. Indeed. As soon as I passed the car, the driver rolled down his window and called me by name. Holy shit! It was Rigo! I had not seen him in eight years! Rigo and I had an off again/on again romance during one of my stays in Juarez before. That ended when he attained his passport and high-tailed it to Santé Fe, New Mexico to be with family.

Like any whore, I leapt into the front seat and after a firm handshake followed a long, detailed conversation of what-ever-happened-to-so-and-so. For some giddy reason, Rigo decided to drive around as we caught up. I had to admit, the years had been good to him. He matured from a wild-eyed street urchin to a strapping young man. He stated that he was in Juarez visiting his mother, but he lived in Puerto Vallarta. He had a ranch or something. I said that was nice.

I mentioned that I was on the way to the cafe and invited Rigo for coffee and a light brunch. We sat in front of the large plate windows as the pedestrians busied themselves and the monstrous construction machinery chugged away beyond.

After a hearty convo over cheesecake about our mutual triumphs and foibles during the past eight years, there was nothing else to do but return to my place and sixty-nine for old times’ sake. His suggestion, not mine. Seriously. No lie.

I missed his penis. There are very few men I have met in my life in who I judge my attraction soly based on the beauty of their erect member. But, Rigo's is up there with high marks. I like the fact that, without even touching it, clear pre-cum constantly dribbles from the head, glistening like nectar. After a pleasing session of gulp-n-slurp in the coolness of my ratty trap, Rigo and I joked around and laughed at casual things. Then he got stupid. He asked if I would move to Puerto Vallarta and be his partner. Just like that. I croaked, "To quote Rosa Park...."No." I explained that the following Friday, I had already planned to go on a wacky road trip that will culminate in me settling on the island of Puerto Rico. He stated that it made him sad that I could never settle down or even wished to hold a long term relationship. I answered, "How do you think I feel? I'm the one who has to live with my decisions."

We showered together - much giggling I think my neighbor heard and didn't need to hear that faggoty shit - and afterwards I walked him to his car. Shaking hands and a brief hug later, Rigo was gone. I was feeling bitter sweet, because of all the people I have met, I really did like him. And now I lost him. Again.

Because...

Darktonia

The other wise pleasant day had turned ugly. As usual in the Great Southwest, especially during spring, dust storms can kick up at a moment’s notice. As I hurried to the International Bridge from running errands in El Paso, I noticed the great undulating, tan clouds rushing in from the North West. By time I had reached the bridge which spanned the Rio Grande and scampered halfway across, the winds gusted at such ferocity and the dirt in the air so think; I could not see the mountain range which lay on either sides of the border. Nothing but whipping tans and khaki colored dust and debris which stung the eyes and caked the lips and nose.

I had to stop and darted into Café 656 on Juárez Ave. and 16th de Septiembre to squeegee the gunk off my face and take in a nice cup of coffee. I had been sick with some sort of virus the previous week, yet as the sun turned everything a hazy tan outside the large plate window, I really wanted to go out.

I paid my bill and trudged through that ghastly maelstrom until I reached my flat. Nice. Just swept yesterday and there is a new film of dirt covering the red tiled floor. I swept bitterly and lay down for a spell. I was still feeling blue and sniffling from that cold. Fuck it. Took a shower (brown mud spirals down the drain) got dressed and headed out.

I did not want to go to Bar Olympico on account that the big, buff waiter had become a fucking booze hound and expects me to buy his ass beers all night while he works. Nope. No more. Bar Buen Tiempo? No, it has devolved into a boring den of shady queens - a gaggle of butt-ugly jotos who simply sit around and rag on each other. As I stumbled over the dusty, broken sidewalks jumping out of the way of dashing citizens, my mind began to wonder. Why am I here? Originally it was to re-kindle old friendships with several people I had left a few years prior. They are sight unseen. I had gone out of my way to look for them, but they have either moved to other parts of Mexico or perished in the raping of Juárez by the cartel.

Earlier that day, I had confided to a long suffering friend my intentions on jetting out of the desert for good. I had written about it, thought about it, but that was my first time ever saying it out loud. And my heart soared. As I heard my voice actually confessing out loud my intensions, it all seemed so right. I can make no excuses to stay. There is absolutely nothing here for me. I plan on going to Tucson awhile just to see what's what. I actually liked Tucson. But, we will see.

Anywayz...I found myself in front of Bar Calletias. A notorious dive on the outskirts of the main market and skid row. I know, I know, all of Juarez is a skid row, this area just more so.

I was let in a metal door by a grinning lesbian. She beamed in Spanish, "Come in! Come in! You are welcome!" The bar was full. On first entrance, it is like that cantina in Star Wars, a long bar on one side and small booths along the other wall. But, instead of an assortment of aliens and starpilots you get fat lesbians, junkie cholos, horrifying transvestites, and squirming rentboys. Meh, I thought, the beer is cheap.

I made my way down the counter and stood between a gay cowboy and a drag queen who resembled Fred Flintstone in drag. Ordering a chilled caguama Sol, I scanned the long dank room for a familiar face. Nothing. Where did they all go?

As sudden wave of alienation splashed over me. A complete feeling of being severed from the human condition. I made no eye contact with anyone as I sipped my beer. Heaven forbid I get wrapped up with the How Do You Like Mexico crowd. That doesn't bother me, but at that moment in time, I did want to drink, I simply didn't want to be bothered.

On the second bottle, I was approached by a scraggy little lad in baseball cap and worn jeans. Shaggy, black hair fell out from beneath the cap and cascaded down over much of his dark, Indian features. Short but skinny, he obviously was very poor and probably lived in a cardboard house in the barrio of Anapra. He was real cute, but already intoxicated. Others scowled at him in derision. I couldn't figure if it was his social standing or him just being drunk in public. He wasn't bothering anyone from what I could tell. I saw him as just another guy who wanted a night out and tried coping with his hardships like anyone else, through alcohol. I sighed. People can be such hypocritical shits.

As I stated, he approached me and slurred timidly if I was German. I smirked and said no, I was American. The following thirty minutes were the standard dialog of How Do You Like Mexico questions. He was adorable, even wavering drunk, so I had to comply. He confessed that he indeed lives in Anapra, that section of Juarez were the very poor and cast out dwell, with his family. Mother, sister, wife, and child. When he mentioned that he had a wife and child, I asked why was he in a gay bar?

"I just walked in off the street." He slurred. "I had no idea. But, men, women, it does not matter. I love everybody!"

He never asked, which was a plus, but I chose to drink with this guy, who said his name was Alfredo. He was twenty-two and worked parking cars in a parking lot. For almost nothing, he sustained off of the meager tips from washing the vehicles and guarding them against police who have a habit of stealing license plates and selling them. He stated that he wasn't queer and actually had never had sex with a man. Leering at me he smiled that tonight he might want to change that. I laughed and said calm down tiger or some stupid shit in a vain attempt to be coy. As the beer flowed, his slender, tough hands began to read my body like braille. In the mensroom, Alfredo somehow found himself next to me and we sized each other up. (He won, dammit!)

Back at the bar, Alfredo asked what I did for a living. I mumbled, "A writer."

"A writer?!" He snatches a napkin off the bar and pulls a pen from his pocket. "I don't believe you. Write something."

I smirked, grabbed the pen and scrawled out in English, "His eyes were stone. Sadness. Yet a spark rose from the ashes with a sudden burst of lust that was likely to drive a man mad. He eyed me as he ran his fingers gently back and forth across the stubble on his chin. His mouth was slightly open, his lips plump and soft, with a glint as though he had just ran his tongue across them. He wanted something. Actually, he wanted it all. And one day he would have it."

He glared at the scribbles and howled in Spanish, “I can’t read that!!” We both burst into laughter and more beer was ordered.

The crowning moment was when he began to kiss me at the bar. Onlookers looked on and drag queens cooed. It was a minor spectacle because I was the only fair-haired gringo in the joint and here I was slobbering with a person of a lower caste. I swear, from my personal experiences, Mexicans are so obnoxiously prejudice against their own kind. More than Americans.

Things were going good and pleasant until Alfredo threw up. Right there at the bar. A cascading flow of pinks and yellows splattered onto the cigarette butt littered tile. The vicious lesbian behind the bar ordered the young man out. Two thuggish cholos grabbed the lanky lad and tossed him out on the street. I followed them to the curb and picked Alfredo up out of the gutter, handing him his hat.

“I want to go home.” He said, wobbling.

“I’ll walk you to your bus stop.” I stated.

“This late? Not running. I need a cab.”

Thoughts of dragging this lad to my house and doing all sorts of nasty things flashed through my head. Literally using his anatomy as my own personal amusement park. But, I digress. I am not a monster. I agreed to find a taxi to take him back to Anapra. One surly fucker stated 100 pesos and before I had time to protest, Alfredo climbed into the back of the cab. I handed the smirking jerk of a driver a red peso note, waved goodbye to Alfredo and headed back home.

3:26am. I exhale a breath and look around at the still buildings where I see darkness and light. I bet most people are in bed right now sleeping or reading a book or novela while some people are on the phone, watching the television or maybe there’s a few in love couples laying beside each other carrying on a conversation while sleep beckons for them and the smile and voice of the other encourages them to continue to ignore the sleep.

I walk the long, lonely way. Nothing out on these dark streets. Not a soul. I feel the beat tide of depression consume me. I seriously do not know what to do...

Glory Hole Confessional

This picture single handily sums up the entire history of this blog.

Karma-a-go-go

The highlight of my weekend was I got shit on. Not just little bird droppings, but a cascading sludge of diarrhea which seems the pigeon had been accumulating for over a period of days.

Wait. Let me back up to last Friday. 

I had been feeling sick. The weather had changed from 80 degrees to 53 overnight. I awoke with a scratchy throat and sore lungs which wheezed and rasped with every intake. I felt like crap. During the day, I wrote some more in my book, walked over to Cafe 656 on Juarez Ave. for lunch, hung around the park near my house and people watched. I wanted to go out. I had a meet with Julio from the other night. I had met him waiting for the bus and he mentioned he and Luis were going to be at Bar Olympico that evening.

As the sun set over this dreary town and while I sat in the park scowling at the multitude of rentboys prowling between the trees, my illness really began to kick in. I had zero energy and returned home to rest.

I boiled me a cup of tea and simply settled in the evening to watch television. Around ten that night, I couldn't keep my eyes open and fell asleep.

The following morning, I awoke feeling horrible. I needed spicy food. I showered, dressed and tromped over to Cafe Central for some coffee and menudo. The place was crowded and since my nerves were on end, I wasn't in the mood to tolerate the orchestra of crying babies from the large family who took up five tables near me. Enough of this shit, babies need to shut the fuck up and get a job!

I paid for my breakfast, walked out and across the street to Plaza las Armas to sit in the shade, smoke a cigarette and stare at the cathedral.

It was good to be alone and collect my thoughts. As the sun heated up, I began to feel better. Until Julio walked up with some friend who introduced himself as Joaquin. After a brief chat of pleasantries, they both confessed that they were going to try to cross the border illegally that night. They obviously had family in Wisconsin and was hell bent to get there. I wished them luck and gave them a few pointers. Like I know anything about crossing borders illegally.

I said goodbye and returned home to rest. I was feeling so crappy. I slept until six in the afternoon. Bored beyond reason, I showered, dressed and headed over to Bar Olympico. Lo and behold, Julio, Luis, and Joaquin were there. We stood at the bar and talked of things, mostly on how the three - three! - where going to attempt to jump across the Rio Grande into the American Dream. Poor lost bastards.

As midnight hit, I was feeling both drunk and sick, so the three bid there farewell as I said I was going to stay and finish the bucket of beer I had bought. Priorities, people!

I drank what was left, said goodnight to a few friends and headed home. In the quiet dark of my street, as I was approaching my door, I heard someone softly call my name. I turned to see Joaquin appear out of the shadows. He stated that he had chickened out. It was too late to take the bus back home, so he asked could he either have 100 pesos for a taxi or simply stay the night and catch a bus tomorrow. Of course, I invited him to stay the night.

However, after we undressed and lay under the covers, I began to sweat and get chills. Joaquin said I was running a slight fever. I lay on my bed curled in a fetal position, shivering and sweating under the blanket as Joaquin lay spooning behind. His thin arm drapped around my chest as he casually stroked my sweat drenched head.

The following morning, I felt a little better. I invited Joaquin to breakfast at a restaurant called El Meson across the street from my apartment. As we sat drinking coffee and nibbling eggs and chiliquilas, Joaquin went all gooey and stated that he wanted a relationship. I said no can do. At the first of May, I am jumping to Tucson to save money for my move to Puerto Rico. He dramatically stated that I should stay in Juarez and be with him blah blah blah...

I walked him to his bus top and shook hands goodbye. Why is it every time I am about to move on account of I am completely bored, lonely, or pissed of at my current residency, some over-heated, romantic waif wants to start a relationship? Oh well. I simply shrugged the matter off and returned sniffling and coughing back home. I know, I should had taken Joaquin up on his offer, give Juarez more time, but I believe in fate and karma. I continuously watch for signs and signals from the Powers That Be and act on them accordingly.

Oh, did I mention that a bird shit on me as I walked home?

fear is the mind killer

Dead Trees

Paul slowly toked on an unfinished cigarette. The rain came down in sheets. The morning was dark and wet and sordid. The young man stood under the awning to the adult novelty store – glanced up and down the street with that hazy, cloudy look of intoxication.
   Unfinished cigarette. Paul stood near the corner under another canopy, silently watching the cars splash by, waiting for the cascading rain to disperse. The rain bounced up and hit his pants leg under the awning. Paul glared at the young man with the look of a predatory lizard.

   “I don't think they’re open yet.” Paul stated.

   The man shrugged. Looks at Paul, then away. He was tall and dark skinned with the color of mocha. Paul thought he was black, but his facial features were somewhat Asian. His combed back hair was slightly wavy and cut short on each side and on the back. He stood in blue jeans and a blue, work jacket was draped over a lanky body. His hands were firmly in his front pockets with hip jutted to one side in the universal stance of rentboys the world over.

   “Wanna go get some Starbucks?” Paul’s voice boomed in the silence of the early morning. Maybe a little too loud. The row of closed shops frowned. Paul felt awkward.

   The man faltered, then smiles, “Yeah. That’s sounds good. You buying?”

   Wind sounds like whispers through dead trees as they slipped into the café and are served hot coffee by an imperialist fag. Julio read the barista’s name tag. Stupid American queers.

- hobosexual, a work in progress

I've hit a conundrum. This novel was actually written over a year ago. Well, kind of. It was a 57 page short story which I had penned over a year ago for an online publication of gay short stories. I actually submitted another, shorter story in lieu of this one. It sat in my harddrive waiting for attention. The problem was, though it related a tragic tale of a homosexual transit and his trip from El Paso to San Diego, I really wanted to elaborate on how vicious and cruel the homeless system was to the general client population - i.e. shelters, Human Resource Departments, and the life in general. Shelters are generally ran by horrible, greedy people who steal the meager possessions of the clients, embezzle the donated funds, favoritism, and rampant sexual harassment. I wanted to elaborate those issues from my first hand accounts through hobosexual. One thing that I had decided was, I wanted to cut down on the sex. That was hard. Homosexuality runs rampant in the homeless circles. I had added a "sex scene" to the novel. Previously it did not include one, but the pick up of the hustler actually fit. Now I have a second piece concerning the protagonists romp in a nearby adult theater. My choice is difficult - add it or delete it. 

Drunktard Nights at The Bottom of A Bottle

They said their names were Julio and Luis. I could care less, they were buying the beer. Before they decided to sit on either side of me at the counter, I had been throwing back cervezas Sol for a good two hours and was already feeling it. They were quite chatty. Well, Julio was. Luis simply smiled and nodded at much of what was said, but generally they both were good drinking company.

They kept insisting that they were both heterosexual. Same old macho bullshit. Julio attempted to verify the fact by whipping out photos of his two kids, a boy and a girl. Fine. You're off limits. I get it. So, the evening was wiled away mostly by conversations and off-kilter gay jokes. Like I said, I didn't mind. They flipped the bill which, as we all know, Dear Reader, is an impossible act of God down here.

Around midnight, the bar began to thin out. Mostly towards the disco which was thumping next door. The beer was really hitting Julio and I and of coarse his hands began to wander. As we talked and laughed, he began with the massaging and light squeezes of the my leg to accent a point as he garrulously talked. I realized then and there that I may have a chance with at least Julio. Luis was busy yakking with some female with bad breathe who sat next to him.

That was until he walked in. I say he, but it was a vampiric drag queen who didn't even attempt to pass as a woman. If you grabbed Phyllis Diller by the throat and held her under water for five minutes, what emerged gasping for air was this ghastly thing in gold lame and frills.

He swishes up to me and my two acquaintances and introduces himself as Lupita. I kept saying Lucy and that became a running joke. He spoke fluent English, Julio and Luis did not, so Lupita and I actually had quite the humorous conversations about Mexico, my writing and of Julio and Luis, who would best benefit from receiving a rim job.

Lupita/Lucy somehow got me to stand on the little stage by the jukebox and sing karaoke. In fits of ignorance, I belted out Boogieman by KC and the Sunshine Band. I tell ya, I cleared the room!

Before I knew it, they switched the fucking lights on and hollered last call! Yup, clock on the wall read 2:14.

As Julio, Lupita, Luis, and I stumbled out the door onto the shattered sidewalk, we hugged each other goodbye, shook hands, and for some drunktard reason, I allegedly squeezed Julio's crotch as he man-hugged me. Expecting a macho flared reprisal, he simply smirked and said, "It's big, huh?' I smiled and said, "Not too shabby." Yet, Luis El Cockblocker barked "Vamanos" and grabbed Julio by the arm, dragging him into the darkness. I said goodnight to Lupita or Lucy or whatever and stumbled the few blocks back to my sordid flat...

Viva Olympico!

After a long day of doing nothing, I had to unwind.

When I returned home to pay rent, I was stunned from the fact that my landlady had gotten a puppy. What's wrong with that, you shrill? You try being a writer with a screwy dog yip-yip-yipping all fucking day and night. Don't get me wrong, I love dogs. Just as long as they're quiet.

I huffed and grumbled as I handed over the bills to my beaming landlady as the little beast continued to bark out in the back patio which separated our two apartments. (I must confess: Way back in the early days when I lived in Tijuana, my landlady got a puppy for her grandson. The thing was a whine factory barking constantly at its own shadow. Early one morning, I snuck down, opened the front gate and tossed the mongrel out into the street. Later explaining to the sobbing kid that his dog must have ran away. Yeah, I'm going to Hell. I know...I KNOW, OKAY!!) So, as not to form any insidious plots against this new puppy, I took a walk.

I sat in Park Bonito Juarez and watched the rentboys and the pedo-daddies who love them perform their stylized ballet through the springtime arboreal setting. Nope, this wasn't working.

Understand that my apartment is located a few short blocks from Boy's Town - Mexican style. Several gay bars and disco line a three block radius near my humble digs. Easy to get drunk and stumble home. The nearest is a bar called Olympico. As a fact, way back in the day, Olympico was the first bar I had visited being adjacent to the hotel which I was renting a room in on my first arrival to J-town.

Bar Olympico is anything you would expect from a Mexican gay bar. It's unassuming on the outside - a squat adobe structure squeezed in between a ratty hotel and a vacant five story office building. The inside of the cantina is dank and small. A long warped bar with a row of  wobbly stools and a line of small booths against the opposite wall. The bartenders, when I entered, were stooped ancient men in wrinkled white shirts and black bow-ties with cigarettes dangling from mustachioed lips. As a fact - and this is why I adore this country so much - there is a huge poster plastered on the wall stating in Spanish NO SMOKING, yet as soon as I sat down, the bartender places my drink and an ashtray in front of me. Take that, you over opinionated fucks stateside who had allowed all of our personal freedom to be stripped away by your unrelenting PC whining!! The pussyfication of a nation.

Anyways...

I must had arrived during the changing of the guard because all the old bartenders left and where swapped out by muscle-bound hunks. My bartender's name was Julio and I tell you, pure eye candy. Massive arms and chest shrink wrapped in a futbol jersey. So, enthralled by his winning personality, I sat and drank and chatted with him until the bar actual began to fill up. The cantina seethed in wrist-flipping, screeching queens who fluttered to and fro cackling at one another's jokes and gay double entandre. I sat and chatted with a few and because of the beer, they was tolerable. However, the original amount of money I had, which was supposed to be used to wash at the laundry mat, had been depleted. I excused myself to Julio and stated that I needed to return home for more cash. I lived nearby, not five minutes away. Zip! I was out the door.

By this time, the alcohol was taking effect and I stumble/dashed down the street to my apartment.

I have never walked this way that late at night and came to the appalling conclusion that there certainly were a lot of male prostitutes about. Every corner displayed some young buck standing with hip cocked, hands in pockets, and that yearning far away look common to your average man whore. Well, no time for homosexual hanky-panky, gotta get home for some more dough.

"Hey! Guero, edonde vas?" (Hey! Where are you going?)

I halted and turned to see two guys standing next to a dented stop sign. Both tall and thin. One had short cropped hair, the other a shaggy mane which cascaded down to his shoulders. Both were dressed in t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. At first, I thought it was some bum or thief waiting to pounce, but the two stood there with huge smiles on handsome faces.

I croaked that I was going home to get money or something similar, I don't recall I was pretty fucked up. One strode across the street and blatantly asked, "You mind if I come with you?"

"Why would you want to do that?" Yes. I actually asked that. Drunktard.

"I need the money, mostly." He said in the most tantalizing way. That smile! That intoxicating smile! "And you seem like you could use the company."

"What about your friend?" I asked pointing across the street.

"He needs money, too." He smiled that smile. Good looking out there, buddy.

For some cockamamie reason I stated, "Well, why don't you both come along. I'll help you both out. I can't leave your friend here, that would be rude."

They introduced themselves as Edgar and Miguel. Edgar was the more chatty of the two and was twenty-four years old and his friend Miguel was twenty-two. Edgar struck me as a young-looking Benjamin Bratt whereas Miguel was more Mexican Indian in his looks and resembled the actor Diego Luna.

We chatted and laughed as they followed me the two blocks to my house. Inside, I invited them to sit on my ratty couch as I pulled two sodas from the fridge. A brief discussion of rates were agreed on and after a bought of giggling play of getting undressed, we three fell onto the carpet. I sucked off Edgar (He had the biggest cock) as Miguel blew me. We three eventually came, dressed, I handed them each a 200 peso note and, after they shook my hand, the two left.

After that interlude, I reached into my bureau and retrieved more money to drink with. I locked up the shop and jetted back to Bar Olympico. The place was packed! As I sat and drank, I was approached by several callers, they being amazed that I actually lived in Juarez. Phone numbers and facebook addresses were freely interchanged. Met a few festive folks, sung at the bar with an old geezer during a karaoke number (How Deep Is Your Love by the Bee Gees if you're keeping score), sized up penises in the restroom. Overall, I had quite the good time. Doesn't change the fact that I am leaving the end of this month. Will I miss this life of unbounded thrills south of the border? Of course. I can only hope Puerto Rico is at least somewhat the same and not polluted by the US's PC bullshit and self-imposed restrictions.

Around one a.m., I stumbled burracho to my house and crashed akimbo on my couch.

Oh...just in case your wondering, next morning, I went out onto the patio to see the new puppy. ADORABLE!! We are now the best of friends. So as much that I went to a nearby S-mart and bought a doggie bowl and doggie bed for him. See, I do have a heart...

Plastic Showerhead

Paul walked into the bathroom area and was nearly knocked on his ass from the pungent stench of piss, farts, and mildew. It was a long, white tiled room lined on one side with sinks and mirrors, the other with toilet stalls and urinals. Three other men meandered about - shaving, brushing teeth, pissing. All quiet and somber.

   There was an open door which led to the showers. Paul entered.

   In the large, white-tiled space, he placed his linens on a long, metal bench that ran along a wall. Paul undressed, he looked down at his blackened feet. Boils and bruised. Paul turned to the row of showers.

   Standing alone, there was a tall, young, black man lathering up his torso. He was handsome and had an athletic physique. He  softly whistled while he bathed. He also stood with a massive erection which pointed straight out, soap and water dripping off the long, dark shaft.

   Walking under a shower head, Paul turned on the water. It was tepid and sprayed out in all directions except onto him. As Paul vigorously scrubbed the two week accumulation of grime off his skin, he timidly glanced over to the sole person in the room. The man’s lithe, ebon body glistened in the water, cock jutting out.

   Paul was constantly amazed on how many closet homosexuals ran rampant in the homeless community. Is it the cause of mental health? Simply being an outcast running its course? He could not imagine - yet, the shelters of this fair land were infested with them.

   The showers in themselves were a virtual cruise fest. Always, there was either a grey-haired monster scoping out your cock or some exhibitionist washing himself with a huge boner and went about as if nothing was wrong.

   More times than he cared to count, at other shelters when Paul showered alone with only one other person – and, if he was slightly interested - it would turn into a jack off competition.

   The man dipped his head under the water and smiled without looking at Paul, “Ya like that? It’s big, huh?”

   Paul blushed and began to get excited.

   The man casually stroked his ebon shaft once, flinging soap off onto the tiled floor. Paul could feel the blood rushing into his own penis.

   At that moment, a squat, old white man shuffled in smelling of sweaty socks. The old man undressed - noticing both of their aroused state. The black man nonchalantly shut off the water. He toweled dry, dressed and left - leaving Paul with the paunchy, hunched-over monster two stalls down.

   As he attempted to wash himself under the sporadic glances of the ancient troll, Paul finally sneered, “Watchu lookin’ at?”

   The old coot showered in silence - his gaze never returning Paul’s way. Paul toweled off in sullen frustration, dressed, and left the man alone.

- HOBOSEXUAL, a work in progress

The novel is coming along nicely, thank you. Tweeking the final product, fleshing out prose and diction. I actually like the result on where it is going. I am attempting to pound out a first draft by the end of April. By May 3rd, I plan to be on my way to Florida. Then on to Puerto Rico. As usual and in the way it entertains me, I am completely winging this. Hope it works out. If not - San Francisco will always be there.