Finally Published!

At long last, my tribute to the homeless homosexuals of this land has finally come to print!

Back cover blurb: The captivating story of a homeless gay man and his desperate struggle to survive on a road trip from El Paso, Texas to San Diego, California as he comes to grips with his own personal convictions and the unending despair and empty hopes of the interesting characters he meets along his journey. The author Luis Blasini spins the story in a hard edge style. A provocative and emotional novel filled with street slang and gripping drama centered on the outcasts of today's society.

Be kind and pick up a copy by either clicking it's link on the side bar or purchasing from amazon.com. It is also available on kindle. Please write a review, I'd like your feed back, Dear Reader.

Dive Bar

I was bored. So bored. The sole television in my house was dominated by the season finale of “The Bachelorette", one of the most insufferable shows to exist in modern times. So, out I went.

A Rolling Stones cover blasts through an old jukebox. Its sound is uninviting and loud, though the divorcees around me seem to enjoy it. Dive bar on a Saturday night. Tiki idols occupy the corners, overseers of the ‘Tropical Paradise.’, ensuring you get ‘laid’. And if not, ‘Mahalo brother there’s always tomorrow.’

My ass sticks to the cheap leather stool, the hide taken from a Fisher-price plastic horse. I sit in the corner of the bar. An anthropologist studying the cultural presence, or more casually known as ‘people watching.’ An aggressive yell interrupts, the slam of a plastic toy gun hitting the arcade machine. Gentleman in the camo hat didn’t beat his friend’s high score, A finger dive into his can of dip, his loss is forgotten by the sweet, smoky presence of tar on his lips.

The descriptor “dive bar" was entirely too generous. Had I not been well-versed in generally shady watering holes, I would've gotten the fuck out of there. But there didn’t seem to be much else in the area and I wanted to get out and get a drink. There were stools near the door and at the bar sat four men who should have been cut off hours ago. The bartender was a Korean woman who bore a vague resemblance to Sandra Oh and when I ordered a double vodka tonic, she poured me two neat shots. It became obvious she didn’t speak English.

The middle-aged man next to me came dangerously close to falling off his stool. He’d been drinking some sort of brown liquor on the rocks since I’d arrived and I assumed he’d been drinking it all night. I wasn’t feeling much pain by this point, either. Vodka will do that to you, especially if you started an hour ago.

I walked outside onto the quiet street and practically ran headfirst into a Mexican man who spoke very little English. He was trying to get to the Indian casino but didn’t know what bus route to take, and finding a cab in Tucson at midnight was like trying to find a unicorn. I made a futile attempt at communicating with my limited Spanish range. And suddenly, he became ten times more attractive to me. I wanted to know more about him.

We found another place. It had karaoke - really awful karaoke - and Thai and Filipino food. As we walked into the mildly crowded bar, a short and portly Filipino man greeted me with a hug. I had never set foot in this bar until this night.

"You’re a regular here?" I tried to explain to my new friend that I’d never been here, but he refused to believe me. Maybe I’m just huggable, I told him. We found seats at the bar, which had a tropical thatched cover over it. I couldn’t tell what Asian nation this bar was meant to represent; it was apparently Thai, but the karaoke was clearly from Japan and the decor was definitively South Pacific. The karaoke was terrible. Not just the singing, but the awkward stock visuals on the screen, behind the lyrics. The entire atmosphere felt like a bad movie.

More drinks came. Our conversation evolved from casual conversation to words with innuendo and flirtatiously charged energy. We faced each other on bar stools, slowly edging our faces toward each other. And, in the middle of this obviously straight joint, we kissed each other; organically, without premonition, in the middle of a sentence. No one cared. Or didn't overly react to it. He was 35 but his face and demeanor was young. But he still dressed in usual Tucsonian garb: t-shirt and jeans.

The kiss worked. So did the flirtation. He had me laughing all night, despite almost getting shanked by a drunken dive bar denizen. After that it didn’t take us long to get back to my apartment, which, fortunately, was less than a mile away. As we walked we stopped every ten feet to make out. It was clear he was staying over.

The term ‘rooster’ finally clicks, his proud strides and pursed lips, carefully phrased statements, sneaking peeks to sexual innuendos. I almost growl back. But then again I’m not a lion. Blame my father for my unusual amount of testosterone. A blessing and a curse. He had me at full sprint and only an oncoming bus could stop me

We quietly stumbled into the house and headed straight for my spartan room, with only a bed without a frame and an open suitcase. We started making out and he made an effort to hang up his work clothes in my closet before jumping into bed with me. I fished a condom out of my nightstand and suddenly, he was fucking me, eyes closed and rapidly, without a hint of foreplay. Once he came - before I even had a chance to - he rolled over and passed out. I looked over at him, hoping for at least a few minutes of cuddle time. It wasn’t going to happen. The date ends innocently, as if two childhood sweethearts or two Amish farmers. Or two lepers.

An hour before dawn, we’re saying goodbye. No physical contact, except a hug and a goodnight. A considerable failure by my standards. But this night, maybe because of the planets’ manipulative alignment, I felt happy. Tonight was good. Two old souls sharing a laugh across the chasm of passing time.

about friends

It’s human nature to patch up your wounds, isn’t it - but to what point is it necessary? You know you’re bleeding on the surface, it hurts - and sometimes its supposed to. But when you wake up in the middle of the night, by the all too familiar sting - the sticking plaster has fallen off, the patched up wound is now breathing again, a sense of relief starts spreading through your body as you throw the sticking plaster in the dustbin. Because you knew you’d eventually have to rip it off anyway, but you didn’t have to. Without the sticking plaster suffocating your wound, you can finally deal with it - the sticking plaster has served its purpose. And if you never rip it off, you’ll just be walking around with a withering patch on your wound until it falls off - and you know it might harm you if you don’t let it go. And you’re thinking, do it quickly, this isn’t something to put off - but you can’t do it.

We’re all walking around with a bunch of sticking plasters, some you rip off and some fall off - because it’s inevitable. Another falls and with your open wound you stand, realizing it’s healing anyway. But you can’t take it, you try to put it on again, you don’t want it to heal - you want to go back. It’s not reapplying, you’re exposed, you’re alone. But it’s okay, because you’re still healing. And both of you knew, sticking plasters always fall off.

But remember, one morning you might wake up, what used to be a wound is nothing but a scar. And the sun is shining as you walk with your cup of morning coffee - suddenly you stop and notice something in front of you. It may have fallen off, but it never left you. And you’re smiling - because this one, you didn’t throw away.

Doo Doo

There are strange things happening. Dark and sinister and unexplainable. It's enough to make one question the very fabric of reality. What is real? What is fantasy? I don't know. Hell, I don't know shit from shinola.

Four years ago, I applied through The Housing Authority for a smug and cozy little cabin/adobe/shack in El Paso. It took so long and the caseworker never returned my calls I had long given up. When I left El Paso this time around, I never got to changing my phone number. It was still my El Paso number. Well, last Thursday, the caseworker from HUD in El Paso called to notify me that my application was approved and that the place will be ready September 1st.

But, I was going to Puerto Rico...

But, I was going to San Francisco...

But, I was going to Los Angeles...

But, I was going to Tijuana and Mexicali...

It's in El Paso...

Well, after a long weekend of pensive thought and heavy drinking and a little hootely-hoo, I made my decision to take the house. So, I will be returning to El Paso at the end of August. Maybe. I don't know...dammit!

I'd realize what decision I'd actually made when I buy the ticket...

fukkn

Stumbled out of the bar into that dank alley which smelled like rotted garbage and festering urine. The night was halfway over. While I was in the tavern, it must had rain. The uneven bricks of the back alley were glistening in a translucent glimmer. I fished a cigarette out of my pocket with intoxicated, numb fingers, lit up. I lean my head back and blow gray smoke up into a cloudy sky with ample partings so the stars can look down and judge me. "Fuck you." I mutter and almost fall. I hold onto a lamp post covered in flyers to support myself. The beers and tequila shots were taking their toll. I was truly screwed. Truly damned.

"Hey. You spare a smoke?" A voice out of the darkness hissed.

Goddammit, I don't want to be bothered. I want to get home. First I gotta piss.

I didn't answer the phantom and wobbled over to the filthy dumpster, whipped out my junk, and relieved myself. Cigarette precariously dangling from numb lips, I zipped up and half-assed a scan for police patrols. On one end of the alley, a group of loud frat boys stumbled by gregarious as they often are.

"Can I bum a smoke off of you?" The voice asked again.

I gazed over to a dark corner filled with shadows and dread. He slithered out of the inky blackness in grungy clothes and frayed sneakers. His blond hair was disheveled and he was sniffling. The boy was on something. It was his eyes. His eyes gleamed in the half-light, burning with sadness and despair and evil as hell addiction. 

"What?" I snapped. I felt like Fagin all hunched over and bitter and shitty.

"Do...you...have...an...extra...cigarette?" He said slow and drawn out as if speaking to a retard. Funny thing, he was.

I mumbled 'Oh yeah' or something like that and handed him one. He took it in slender fingers, dirt under the nails. He was slight of build and I wondered the last time he ate.

"So, what are you looking for?" He asked coyly.

Ah yes, the general question of every male prostitute in every alley of the world.

"Death." I grunted.

"Oh don't say that. Life is good. It is wonderful and full of great times." He smiled broadly.

I blearily gazed at him and saw him in a new light. Here standing in front of me was a beautiful, homeless youth and in lieu of all his hardships he currently endured, he still remained positive. I was like that once. Before beaten down by lovers, and friends, and trust, and mishap decisions, and misguided circumstance. Before my mind went and became toxic and corrosive in bitter, self-loathing.

"Are you hungry?" I asked, pointing to the 24 hour cafe open on the opposite end of the alley. "I need to get some food in me to suck up this alcohol."

"I am hungry." He said, smiling. "Been drinking, huh? You drink a lot?"

"It's all I have left and even that is becoming a bore." I snarled as I began stomping down the alley.

We cut into the shop. Ordered food and strong coffee. Took a booth at the wall. The place was empty except for the lonely hobo with a dog and a deranged homosexual on a laptop. We sat for sometime not talking.

"I'm James." He finally said.

I introduced myself the best I could but was so drunk and depressed instead of coming across cordial it came out loathsome and obscene. I drank my coffee in silence until our sandwiches arrived. The boy ate in gusto.

"Haven't eaten in a while?" I asked as I watched him devour his meal.

"Not good anyway." He managed between chomps of pre-processed flesh.

Outside the rain began and the late night revelers dashed under awnings and into doorways. I looked at James. Rentboy to be sure. But, I think it was forced in way of certain living arrangements. Or perhaps he was simply a sex addict. A lot of them are. They won't admit it. But, they are.

"I was thrown out of this place today." I said glancing around the coffee shop.

"The cafe? Why?"

"There were a couple of heroin addicts I was talking to in research of a new book. Because I was in association and, basically because the barista is an Imperialistic bitch, I was asked to never come back."

"And, yet you're here." He laughed. "Wait. New novel? You're a writer?"

"Yes." I croaked. "A curse."

"Wow!" James gushed. "I never met a real writer! What do you write?"

"Garbage." I grunted.

"Oh...come on. It can't be that bad."

I sighed. Took a sip of coffee, poked at my sandwich. "You have a place to stay? It's raining outside and it's late. I need to get some sleep."

"Actually, I am couch surfing with some friends over on 4th. A bunch of tweekers. The girl who runs the house and I got into an argument. So, right now...the rain is my blanket."

I looked off into the darkness beyond the grime streaked pane window. The intermittent flash of summer lightning. The glow of yellow lamps igniting sheets of cascading rain. I took a cigarette from my pocket, offered it to James. Removed one for myself, lit both.

"You can stay at my house if you wish." I stated. "No funny business. Unless you are up to some funny business."

James leaned over the small table and asked in hushed tones, "Are you gay?"

I continued to look out the window, slouched against the wall in the booth, "Aren't we all?"

We finished our meal and briskly walked over incandescent pools and dribbling rain to my apartment a few blocks away. I opened the door and invited him in. He took in the place, like a good hustler, making sure there were no sinister weapons or weird sex gadgets. I saw in his face he was relieved that the place was somewhat bare - bed, bookshelf, table, a couple of chairs, clothes neatly hung in an open closet. Nothing to hide.

He turned to me, "You mind if I take a shower? It's been a few days."

I said sure and gathered him a clean towel and an unused bar of soap. I lay on the edge of the bed, smoking a damp cigarette, watching the shadows move across the ceiling from passing cars outside. Through my experiences in Mexico, as long as he was in my house, I wasn't going to let him out of my sight. I could use a shower, too. But, I was certain as soon as I walked out of the bathroom, anything of value I had would had been long gone.

James walked out of the bathroom with a green towel wrapped around his scrawny torso.

"Let me see if I can find some pajama bottoms for you." I offered.

"No prob." He quipped. "I like to sleep in the nude."

Convenient. I offered him a beer from the fridge and we chatted a bit as he lay under the thin blanket. He said something of getting enough money for a bus ticket to return to Las Vegas. He had family there. I didn't bother questioning why he didn't hit his family up for the fare. After, I finished my beer, I peeled off my damp clothes and slid under the blanket. He was shivering and so was I. Wordlessly, he snuggled next to me, muttering that my body was warm. His torso was so boney. In the half-light of the room, he turned towards me and slid his arm across my chest, his erection thumping against my hip.

"Fuck me." He breathed into my ear.

We began kissing. The taste of saliva mixed with coffee, beer, and ham swirled in our mouths. James kissed my chest, playing with my erect nipples, making his way down to my cock. Like a champ, he sucked my dick like something I needed in a long time. It felt as if I was in heaven. He definitely was a professional. I got to the point I couldn't take it any more and rolled the blond onto his stomach. I parted his cheeks and rimmed him for a good twenty minutes. He squirmed and gasped as I loosed him up. I flipped James over onto his back, placing his feet up onto my shoulders. Spitting into my palm, I lubed the head of my cock up and slowly pushed it in. He clung to me like a monkey as I rapidly rutted and lunged into him. His ass muscles tightened and grasped my dick as I thrust - literally sucking my cock into him. I couldn't hold back any longer. I yanked out and sprayed him with my semen. A second after, as he masturbated wildly, he unloaded his pent up frustrations onto his self. It was a work of art. I snatched my cell phone and snapped a pic before he could hide his face.

"Hey!" James laughed. "You should ask before doing that!"

I plopped next to him, placing my phone onto the endtable. "How about first thing tomorrow morning, we head over to Greyhound and get you that ticket to Vegas?"

"For reals?!" He beamed, lying next to me, propped up on his elbow. "You'll do that?"

"And more." I said morosely. "Now, let's get some sleep."

The last thing I saw before I dozed off was that the clock read 3:54am. Covered in semen and sweat, we both fell into a deep sleep...

Needed. Much needed.

And So.

And so, in association with certain junky friends here in Tucson, I have been 86'd from Tucson - branded a filthy, junky, pervert by the downtown social class.

I understand the life I chose to live is somewhat on the eccentric side, I am labelled a pariah. Even by my peers. Once I was herald as a freethinker, an adventurer, a sexual outlaw. Now, I am hated, despised, spat upon.

In this New Millennium based on paranoia, judgment, hatred, skepticism, and solidarity, I am more than a dying breed. My kind are now considered extinct. Perhaps the only option is to fade into obscurity.
But I will stay diligent. I will not change. As a fact - fuck you. Fuck all of you. I am sick and fucking tired living by your approval, by your boring ass, social accepting standards. I will step out of this quivering, frightened flesh in which I had placed myself and live by my standards, my rules mired in what you call filth and sexual perversion. I'll revel in it, bath in it, suck the marrow from it.
It's definitely time to lay tracks for other parts of the world...

A Shot In The Dark

It seems through my growing fame and notoriety as a writer - much to my chagrin - that I was blessed with my first book reading at the local hipster cafe here in Tucson called Shot in the Dark. I had been contacted by a Tucsonian fan the second week of my arrival and he had set it up. "What do you want me to do?" I asked with waves of paranoia gurgling in my system. I am not comfortable standing in front of a group of people I do not know. Shyness is nice and shyness can stop you from doing all the things in life you'd like to...blah blah blah. "All you gotta do is read. And bring some copies of your book Tweeker." He assured me.

So, I ordered a few copies, bought a fancy new outfit - I looked like a post-modern William Burroughs. It was cute. Ugh. Anyway, around six that evening, several hipsters and artistic weirdos arrived and sat patiently and listened to me rattle off passages from the book. They laughed when it was funny and sat appalled when it wasn't. I literaly acted out a chapter or two. I should have won an Oscar. The ordeal was painless. I signed a few copies, chatted about Tijuana, meth, and traveling with a few who wanted to know.

I quickly hid in the side patio and chained smoke. Luckily my friend Caleb who also re-located from El Paso to Tucson showed up and I granted him a signed copy. He was pleased and squealed in junky delight. Or dementia. As I had stated, the guy is really attractive but nuttier than squirrel shit. Too bad. Say no to drugs, kids.

Kyle, that hustler fuck, also showed up and was so drunk and annoying, more so than ever, that I left him to his own sorrow. My patience is really wearing thin with that one.

But, the time was pleasant and all the copies I had brought disappeared. I guess I can't complain...

Midnight Rain.

Sitting in the cafe editing furiously on hobosexual to meet with the August 1st deadline. The air is muggy and damp. Here in this desert city it is the so called monsoon season - where as it rains for five minutes leaving the air so ungodly humid it feels like your head had been stuck in a napalmed watermelon.

Anyway, as I was saying, I'm sitting among the hipsters and the chatty school kids when that hustler Kyle comes up out of the gutter. We had a falling out namely because I just couldn't tolerate his shit. I mean, he's not my type of character, his only saving grace is his outrageously well hung wang. So, he stops and plops into my booth and is already lit from a fifth of vodka. He pours the rest into his ice coffee and goes into a three hour rant on the domestic life concerning himself and his estranged father. What am I a fucking therapist all of a sudden? So, I sit and I listen as warm rain sizzles out on the dark midnight streets of Tucson.

He shuts his yap long enough to listen to my decision of hightailing it out of Tucson and maybe settle into the shadowy alleys of Tijuana. I really miss that life. I miss it a lot.

The insipid people of Tucson have really gotten me down. Americans on the whole really. So, I think I will finish tieing up some loose ends here and move on. I mean, why not? What do I have to lose? Though Kyle slurs that I really should go to Puerto Rico...

Time/Space locations.

In this country of apathetic hatred and force fed disillusion, you either give up and settle with what fate flings at you or you brave the madness and search for your time/space location. After two months here, I can safely surmise that Tucson is not my time/space location. Honestly, I do not think anywhere in this country will suit me. I believe it is time for me to depart this desert and head west, to go underground for a while.

I have met nothing but the most ignorant, arrogant people here. All addicted to a plethora of narcotics. Is that a generalization of America? To be the biggest, loudest asshole around and to revel in that fact as a badge of honor? I never experienced this outside the States. If so, if that is what this country has become, you can have it.

I long for the days living in a quiet Mexican barrio where the neighbors minded their own business, where strangers treated you like a friend, where prices for the basic of needs are not gouged in the vain effort to impress your associates simply because "you have the money to buy it so I am better than you". A place where morality does not interfere with one's personal freedom. A place where, indeed corruption ran rampant, yet it was open and had a purpose and a means not in the way of attaining power for power's sake. I miss Mexico and I think I will return. Why? Haha! Because I can....

More importantly, because I choose to.

Beer and Sweat.

Decked out in all black, I walked through the muggy heat of an early Tucson morning. My goal was to make it to the cinema and catch Man of Steel. As I waited at the main bus station, I was asked by a young man for a cigarette. I gave him one. Then he went on to boldly ask if he could have five dollars to buy a beer. I looked at my watch, it was 10:37am. 

"Sure", I said and handed over a five dollar bill. I could never say no to a pretty face. Anyway, who was I to judge? The boy was thirsty. However, I mentioned that not only was it a holiday, but early. Everything was still closed.

"The bar across the street is open." He smiled.

I gazed over and saw that it was indeed open and offered the kid a beer. "Why don't we sit in a cooled bar and drink instead of you squatting in some simmering alley keeping one eye out for cops?"

We entered the Iguana Bar and ordered beer, I had a Corona, he had a draft of Coors. He stated his name was Isaiah and that he was currently residing at the homeless shelter. I mentioned that don't they breathalize you every time you enter and he assured me that it was early enough that the alcohol would wear off by time curfew hit.

And so, we drank. And drank. And drank some more. Laughing and chatting of things. He mentioned, though he was German, he was raised his early years in Nicaragua before his family relocated to Tucson. I spun my tales of travel and addiction and that I was a writer of obscene materials read by like minded individuals. As he ogled the big boobed woman tending the bar, I casually dropped the fag bomb. Why, I have no idea. Okay, I do. I was drunk and he was very attractive and the fact that I wanted to have sex with him.

He remained quiet for a bit but then mentioned that it really wasn't a problem. As a fact, his dialog turned towards sex and the fact that he hadn't cum in over two months. He kept mentioning that he really wanted to tit fuck the bartender, that she was definitely his type. Female, I wagered. All the while, my gay eye noticed that he kept groping his crotch in his baggy jeans, laughing, smiling, eyes squinted and crimson.

"You know, Isaiah," I said blankly. "If you want to come over to my house, we can take care of that dry spell." I was overtly blatant, I know. I blame the alcohol.

"Can I finish my beer?" He asked with a straight face.

After two more beverages, we found ourselves at my dim, air conditioned flat. He sat on the couch with his baggy jeans down and a long, circumcised erection pointing towards the ceiling. Momentarily, I stood there admiring his long, lithe torso. Hairless and pale. He was skinny and toned naturally. No gym bunny, he. As Isaiah watched the porn on my TV, I sucked that cock with gusto, Dear Reader. His erection was firm as a 23yr olds can be. Momentarily, he grabbed the back of my head with one hand, clenching the sofa cushion with the other, as he squirted two months of backed up semen down my gullet. Damn. It was a lot. I even gagged a little. Isaiah reclined his head back, sighed heavily and smiled. "Fuck! I needed that.." He sighed.

Isaiah then took a shower and I invited him for lunch at Subway. We talked more of his dreams of travel in which I explained that he should. There is nothing more thrilling in the world than aimlessly wandering from one exotic locale to the next. You never know what thrilling things will present themselves.

Afterwards, I walked Isaiah to the bus terminal, we shook hands and he left.

I returned home, took a nap, and awoke just in time to witness the 4th of July fireworks with the other tenants. An impressive display. The neighborhood kids congregated on a corner and squealed in delight at each colorful burst. I returned to my apartment, sat at my desk and began scribbling out notes on a new novel...

Insanity.

Insanity. Oh, how nice it is to be completely out of my mind. I mean, how else would I come up with all these crazy ideas? If I wasn’t insane I would have a sensible, nine to five job, draining my soul in exchange for a bi-weekly pay check and health insurance. If I was sane, I would spend my life putting forth the minimum amount of effort in order to survive. Follow the grid plan. Follow all those little rules. But, I’m crazy. Crazy! Bonkers! Out of my mind! I can do whatever I want. Living in my own little world and you’re invited.