Sunday, March 01, 2015

El Puta

Hunched over the bar, El Puta sat naked on a frayed, red leather stool. He gave off a faint, greenish steam of decay. An emaciated hand grasped a high-ball glass of black, oily liquid. A proboscis-like mouth slurped the fluid in a lurid, unspeakable manner with a pink-black tongue.
Insipid, withered buttocks were openly exposed to passive intercourse. His pungent rectum resembled a gaping wound of brown, glistening gristle from decades of taking it up the ass from drunken and desperate machos. Every so often, black clunks of putrefied feces would drop onto the floor which in turn, was quickly swept up by a terrified assistant.
Parched, mocha-colored skin stretched over protruded bones and swollen ligaments…purple blue in places… interspersed with sickly liver spots and boils of unnamed diseases. His skin flaked off in drifts like sclerosis. Greasy, lanky black hair was combed over a burnished, misshapen head. Sitting immobile as a lizard, two large, disk-like eyes scrutinized the cantina via the enormous mirror situated behind the counter. Four lurid youths stood at his call, hips cocked to one side. One emaciated waif placed dirty fingers of a delicate hand to El Puta’s shriveled penis, languidly fondling his putrid foreskin.
“His face is science fiction, nothing like mama used to make…”
Rumor had it El Puta dwelled in an abandoned water closet at the end of a dead-end, shit strewn alley tended by a blind, armless boy.
The youth, despite his handicap, was extraordinarily beautiful – the classic beauty eighteenth century fags would compose epic sonnets about. Always dressed in a pristine white loin cloth and silver high-top sneakers that sported little wings at the ankles, the petite and armless lad would warmly smile with tiny white teeth towards anyone he sensed was near. In contrast, El Puta would fly into a screaming rage in the chance encounter any other queer in Tijuana even glanced in his boy’s direction.
Bitter and resentful, El Puta made it his business to discern every detail of the private lives of each expat who entered the Plaza. If you fell in disfavor (which was inevitable and usually for no reason at all) the evil old fuck, exercising telepathic waves like a bat’s sonar, would smear the most outlandish and disreputable rumors of ones person throughout the Plaza causing the bewildered citizen who fell into his disfavor to be marked as untouchable by the legion of hustlers. If a rentboy disregarded his telepathic commands of sexual cordon (downright cockblocking), he would corner them in the bar toilet stall and forcibly rape them – sucking semen, blood, and entrails from their screaming torso leaving behind an emaciated carcass. It was whispered El Puta slept on the piled desiccated corpses of past offenders.
An unattractive old queen, who sat at the table next to me, noticed my dismayed look. He continued to leer at my person with liver sick eyes - eyes dead and preditory. I fidgeted uncomfortably amid his vain advances, did my best to arrogantly ignore the old fruit. He smiled through long, yellow teeth, “Be kind, guero, or I just might have to inform El Puta how you are behaving towards me. You don’t want to be labeled as an ugly American, do you?”
The words ‘ugly American’ drifted through the cantina. Several expats and hustlers lifted their heads like animals sensing danger. El Puta’s semen engorged pot-belly gurgled in apprehension.
“No.” I said. “No, that would be insidious. I’m actually a nice person.”
The old fag began bouncing up and down in his seat, baying like a famished sheep, “Then fuck me! Fuck me now!”
Several rentboys heard his call to arms and slithered up, surrounding the old fag.
Hola, papi. You horny for beeg dick?”
“Buy me beer, papi, I need your company.”
“One cigarette for me?”
“One beer for me?”
Presteme dias pesos?”
The old fag continued his halitosis infused chant fuck me, fuck me now! as the boys swarmed in and ripped him to shreds - leaving a bitter, penniless old American in their wake. His ashy-pink face draped with a cascading lank of silver hair, he sat slumped in his seat. Shoes stolen. Pockets emptied and turned inside out. A trickle of piss ran down his khaki pant leg, past soiled socks and onto the dirty, tiled floor...

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