Mexicali Bebop

I weaved through the bar with longing, and they all stared at me, sniffing game. Beautiful men, spanning all ages and various states of seduction. It’s hard to brand and separate me from what they are. The symbiotic undertones were interchangeable. Top, bottom. Prey, predator. Hunter, target. We all blend in the neon, in the black light, in the liquor and the racy music, the freedom of choosing and being chosen. This is what happens when you are new to a place with a steady clientele. Everyone is curious. Everyone wants to know how far you’d take it.

But it was the bartender that caught the aperture sight of my MP5. Spontaneous or cliché, it wasn’t a ceremonial pick. He was the right kind and I wasn’t interested in anyone else. Over six feet tall, lanky, a long neck, thick lips, tattooed, an Aztec’s nose, large eyes that glinted like glass, and a neat haircut. If he was disconcerted by the way I stared at him, he didn’t show it.

I marched to the barstools, settled on the available leather seat without my stare breaking away. He regarded what I wore as I sat. A snug leather jacket, a tight white shirt underneath, metal-studded belt, and washed-out straight-cut jeans. I hoped he saw my footwear. Those boots meant I could afford to buy everyone in the place.

The rings I wore intrigued the bartender. The silver skull pendant of my almost-indiscernible necklace made him gaze longer.

“What can I get you tonight?”

“Are you allowed to fuck customers?” I asked.

He stopped himself mid-laughter when he realized I meant business. “I get out in an hour,” he replied over the music and the noise. We were surrounded by men gyrating against each other.

“Rum,” I said. “Rocks with it.” It meant I would wait. “I’m not leaving this place without you.” I added, matter-of-factly and gave him my squint.

“Make that thirty minutes.” he said as he handed me the drink. Our fingers touched. He whispered something to his companion’s ear. The other bartender nodded and grinned at me.

This was going to be easier than I thought.

fade to black

He lifted my hands above my head, shackled my wrists with one hand, the other kneaded the skin on my stomach, pulling me in so he could drive deeper. He exhaled on my neck, while I breathed the dust off mausoleum brick, rammed up the wall, grunting the way he wanted me to match his own. He thrust himself into me to the hilt, savoring every inch of entry, and exit, undulating with a rhythmic urgency. I freed one hand and reached back to pull his hair, curling my fingers cruelly around the strands, drawing his mouth into mine. This seemed to goad him into something akin to fury. I savored his ferocity. My knees grazed the edges of the brick wall. I felt the blood trickle as the skin started to tear. His fingers twisted between mine, and they coiled into fists. The sweat was sticky between our bodies. The slapping sounds echoed above the tombs. He told me he was close. I told him I wanted him to spend every drop on my face. Fuck, he cursed. He didn’t make it.

fade to black

Of course he left, idiot. But I slept in his arms last night hoping to wake up in them as well. At least I wasn’t robbed, and letting a stranger sleep over didn’t leave me gutted or splayed on the wall.  But I feel gutted all the same, and the graveyard of my dreams is splayed all over my room. Even the ceiling. I step into the kitchen with a frown and for a second I forget his name. What do you call a man who makes you breakfast? I freeze and try to take it all in. Yes, he’s really there. Still I stop myself from smiling. I shouldn’t be building fantasies around this moment, too. Right now, I just need to listen to him talk as though cooking eggs in the morning is normal after a one-night fling. That’s right. I stop myself from melting when he gives me a kiss. No fantasies, I remind myself. Just calm down, find a chair, drown in the sunlight, and eat.