every weekend

Every weekend I go out I have the same hope. Anticipating coming across a guy who’s secretly considering the same thing and he’s eager the weekend holds what would be a miracle.

Before or when I’m out I usually down a few shots of tequila, enough to get tipsy. I make an effort to be ready for an occasion that has never happens. Most of the time I enjoy myself when I go to parties although I am always looking for a guy. My nerves are low and I browse for eye contact….I don’t know any other way to do it. I’m relatively a good conversationalist and that makes parties all the better, and I suppose it eases in accomplishing mission: find a guy. When talking to random men, I’m hoping for the smallest indicator. Throughout the party it always becomes apparent there aren’t any other gay men…or I simply didn’t discover them.

Needless to say, it’s Friday night and foolishly, my hopes are high again. I aspire nothing more than to have a successful mission.

agony

ruined

There nothing like teen ass, I thought as I pushed into the young man with daddy issues; they were always so tight, so fresh, so naive, so easy to manipulate, to control. Like little Francisco here, wriggling and grinding and whimpering and groaning on the end of my cock like a speared fish, the raven-haired twink I had met two hours prior while strolling through a local park. So needy, so desperate for attention it had been almost too easy.

So you live around here? Yes. That’s good. What do you do for a living? Me? I’m a writer. What about yourself? I attend the Uni. I am taking economy classes. I want to open my own business one day. Your own business, that’s a tough nut to crack. I never met a writer before. Are you a journalist? No, nothing mundane as a journalist. I write novels. What do you write about? Ha…garbage apparently. Oh, they can’t be that bad. No, not that bad. You want a horchata or something. Yes, it’s hot this afternoon.

I yanked hard on his hair and twisted my grasp around his thin neck, his back arching, his asshole twitching around my jabbing erection, his copper-colored flesh so smooth, so beautiful, his ass tight and wet I had to hold myself back as I began lunging into him. I began to fuck him brutally, overwhelming the bucking teen, feeling him tremble beneath me.

Where are your parents? My mother passed a few years ago of cancer. I’m sorry. Me, too. I miss her. My father is still alive. You talk to him? No. Not anymore. He’s a monster. I hate him. He was a fiend when we were kids. Very bad father. Me, too. My mother is still around. My father, too. But he is drunk most of the time and beats my mother a lot. Yeah, that’s tough. Why is it family’s the worst? Aren’t those the ones who are meant to understand and console you in this mad world? I chose to separate myself from them. The lies, guilt, false accusations. You are very young. I like older men, though. Do you? Yes. How old are you? Nineteen. Well, that’s just dandy.

When, after almost fifteen minutes of pounding into him, his slippery asshole drooling its need all over my cock and down his hairless thighs, I jerked my cock from him and flipped him over, pushing his slender teen legs wide apart so I could drill him as deeply as possible, the expression on his wasted face was priceless, his hair sticking to his sweat-covered forehead, his lips open, his jaw slack, his eyes dull, empty.

I hate my life. Why? Life is good. No, it is not and the thing I really hate is when people attempt to convince me it will get better. It will not get better. Ever. If anything, it gets worse. It’s what you make of it, I suppose. Then I’m fucked. Do you ever think of killing yourself? Constantly. The dire matter is I never can bring myself to do it. However the thought hangs over me like a thick, suffocating fog. That’s not healthy. I am not healthy. Are you crazy? You have no idea.

I look down and he retains the face of a fucked-out doll, gaining momentary animation as I slammed my hips forward, burying my erection deep into his spasming hole, his back arching, a moan escaping his gasping lips as I continued to fuck the teen, thinking how much fun it was going to be to completely and utterly ruin him for every man who came after him.

new town, new therapist

I keep my eyes plastered on the increasing numbers next to the elevator door. It makes me silently sigh and shift my weight from right to left. I can feel my face flush when I remember the man standing behind me. His presence makes my shoulders hunch, slightly. Ever so slightly. Why am I holding my breath? Why is the floor to the new therapist’s office so far away? An new therapist. My old one of thirteen years back in El Paso decided to quite on me. Damn him.

When I hear a ding and the doors open, I give a polite smile as I step off. The man only has a view of my back. Why did I smile? The sound of my heels on the marble floor makes me shudder, slightly. Ever so slightly. The hallway is endless and the lights are so bright. My eyes tear with feeling so exposed. Passing doors to the right and left, their numbers blur together. My destination being the door at the end of the hall. A red door. A numberless door.

I ignore the buzzer on my right side, just for a moment. The palm of my hand, fingers spread open, glides up the length of the door, slightly. Ever so slightly. The side of my face presses against it, breathing paused as I try to pick up anything audible on the other side. Silence. Comforting silence. Exhale. Eyes close, mouth parting, neck twisting as my whole body gently pushes up against the door. Inhaling and holding it, my chest feels tight. As consciousness begins to slip, I stumble backward and into reality again. In embarrassment I quickly press the buzzer with my head hanging, slightly. Ever so slightly. With a click the knob turns. With a minor groan the door gently opens.

The lighting is dim inside, for which I am eternally grateful. The carpet plush on my hobbled feet. A single pane of glass encompasses the entire wall on the far side. It is night. Did I know it was already nightfall? A sea of city lights gaze up below me. The expansive room is empty save for two low-backed armchairs in a dueling position, a standing lamp between them. Why have I come here? Should I turn and run? Should I throw myself from this colossal window to the illuminated maze below?

My body has tripled in weight as I make my way toward the chair on the right. Does it matter which chair I take as mine? As the backs of my legs make an awful sticking sound to the leather chair I can feel my palms begin to sweat, slightly. Ever so slightly. Am I having a heart attack? Will I urinate on myself? Or worse, on this chair? I don’t see a clock, but I can hear the relentless ticking.

The slightly shivering shadow, sitting across from me utters a sound, "Where shall we begin?"

I mumble, slightly. Ever so slightly. "You tell me."

that’s what tomorrow is for

“Here we go”, Cesar stated, “Another round before we all succumb to cancer or swine flu or whatever bullshit causes us to become more relatable as characters” - his delighted morbidity was a trait I, to this point, found quite endearing.

He poured two modest glasses of well-aged tequila, tossed a couple limes in each, and slithered across the hot, cigarette-butt littered bar floor with them - each of his hundred-million eyes were locked onto both of mine. His cheap summer shirt – a too short, wrinkly, white thing smudged with god knows what - clung to the bones of his lanky torso, except the parts where bits of caramel-colored flesh popped out like a broken can of biscuits. I probably loudly swallowed.

"So, what we waitin’ for?” He beckoned. “I don’t got a lot of time left”. I sighed a heavy sigh and felt the cartilage in my neck crack and then separate, releasing what I imagined to be some sort of fossilized, gaseous, tar. Liberated from the innermost workings of all of the accumilated aches of all of the creatures on the planet, ongoing since the dawn of time. Seventeen billion years’ worth of stress had dissipated from the train wreck of a body I’d been lugging around the previous five months. It was a nice moment.

“To heck with it", I croak.

I took the beverage and threw it all down into my insides. Herds of rhino and buzzing insects. In the back of my mind, a voice, That was really a mistake. Sorry, honey, that’s what tomorrow is for. Tomorrow is for dealing with now’s mistakes.

Cesar, now apparently super pleased to see I’d decided to join him on whatever lascivious adventure he’d been cooking up, was already holding the swinging bar door open for me.

Leaving the cantina, we scurried toward a taxi waiting for us in the rain. Its headlamps shone toward the bins. Broken caguama bottles, used condoms, needles.

He smelled a bit like mold, nonetheless his smile was a bug catcher and my entire heart crumpled like a stink bug who lost its limbs to some miserable child with a magnifying glass and a free afternoon. He could scoop me up and trap me in whichever jar he chose and with no hole in the lid, I’d suffocate happily.

The cab pulled up to the curb and I don’t know where I am. He pays the driver with a colorful wad of peso notes and flashes a glance at me like “why didn’t you pay the driver?”. I simply sigh and mumble gracias toward the driver and look around at the dreary industrial surroundings.

It’s raining still and I’m beginning to smell like mold.

We walk for a while, shooting the shit. Catching up. Remembering drips and drabs of how the evening had progressed. Unconsciously as we walked, we were both avoiding stepping on the cracks between the shattered pavement. Not for fear of causing further anguish to our poor old mothers with their leaky spinal fluid (bless ‘em) but because both of us were warned that night that crack can kill.

“Crack kills”, Cesar murmured as he merrily skipped across the stones. He paused and took my hand. “This is me”. It also happened that we were stopped directly adjacent to his ‘living arrangements’. A dilapidated adobe building with peeling, graffiti covered paint, barbed wire, rusted metal balcony. The corpse of a rotting dog lay near the entrance in a pile of soggy garbage.

We enter his apartment – the over-powering reek of mold mixed with dead bugs and dried semen and we watch television all night until dawn climbed its lazy ass over the horizon. As he sat slumped snoring on the ratty couch, I slipped out and made my way home under a gloomy sky.

grinding the gears

It has been over a week since my return to this broken city in which I desired so much to come back to. It has been bitter sweet, to say the least. All my old friends are dead. I feel as if I am a lost phantom returning to a mausoleum. Sad, really. The Tijuana I used to so passionately write about has passed, it no longer exists. So, I will stay a few months more and see what I can muster up. A move out to playas is high on the list.

I am at the moment residing in a room rented in a large house catering to a gaggle of dreary and very homophobic Americans. My patience is at an end with these characters. The rent is too high and the amenities are far too low. The only breath of fresh air is that this marine had recently moved in and we have been hanging around. He is a good conversationalist and not too bad to look at. Indeed he is hopelessly heterosexual, but nobody's perfect, right?

Well, anyway, here: Enjoy some pictures I had taken around town:

Me playing monopoly with my friends.

the night is our prison

¡tijuana!

I wake before the crack of dawn and drag my suitcase across the sleeping Calexico streets to hop a bus west. I sit in that cramped and crowded carriage riding high in anxiety and mounting fear as I neared my final destination: Tijuana. What will it be like? What insufferable hell am I to be exposed to? When I debark the bus in San Diego amid a mass of howling homeless (they have relocated the station from Broadway to smack dab in the center of skid row) I wade through the throng of screaming derelicts and jump a trolley south toward the International Border. I realized I was in Califas on account of the uncounted multitude of signs posted. All forbidding, denying, warning, stating no. Fuck. How can people live under such suffocating restrictions?

Through the website craigslist, I contact a man named Jack who was renting a room in a three story hacienda. Flashy pictures revealing a snazzy set up of outright bohemia. Only when the time to meet arrives it is milled in misfortune and bad connections. I cross the border (which has changed in my 10 year hiatus, the entrance to walk into Mexico is behind the San Ysidro McDonalds and not over the pedestrian bridge spanning the Interstate as before), pass the line of impatient people a million bodies deep, and hail a yellow taxi to the hotel Economico on Madero where I am checked in by an over the hill hooker. She flashes a gold tooth and refers to me as guapo. I sit in my stuffy room and wait, finally receiving the call from the previously mentioned Jack.

He picks me up on the corner under the Millennial Arch on el Revu in his ratty SUV and whisks me off toward his hacienda with a pink-haired snaggle toothed broad and sulky white boy. Jack was a garrulous, potbellied bearded gnome in a Hawaiian shirt, deftly attempting to impress me with his lascivious tales of titties and hetero porn infatuations. Girl, if you only knew.

The house is huge and basically a hive for Ugly Americans untrained in the life south of the border. A multi-raced mix of burnt out misfits. In desperation and out of options, I rent basically a stuffy closet-sized room, bare walls and sagging, single bed with a pole nailed across one end for clothes. The first annoying shock was on the first of three floors, there were a gaggle of screaming children from the age of one to six years of age bouncing on a trampoline which took up the entire front yard. Their screeching caterwauling annoyed the fuck out of me. Oh, how I loathe kids! Secondly, the walls of my room stopped an inch from the ceiling and I was subjected to the rasping sounds of my neighbors fucking – he being a snarling hillbilly in a wife beater named Rocky and she a meth-mouthed hag – I forgot her name. Horrid. On the contrary, since I am one to make lemonade from these fucking lemons, the upswing is I can now locate a decent apartment firsthand instead of relying on misleading internet photographs.
My first evening in this town of ill-repute was spent up on the roof patio with a toothless old geezer named CJ and his once handsome heehaw friend called Hank. We smoked weed and chatted of casual things. So…here I am. Once again in the city I so dearly love, only how much has it changed? Is it still the lurid town of lore? Has it changed as drastically as I have? Time as they say will only tell…

break the silence

For nearly a decade, I witnessed human degradation, experienced the worst in society. American society. Self-imposed, admittedly.
Disenchanted with fate's hand, I stood numb with discontent in the midst of vast, empty south-west locales, morosely listening to the low winds moaning through dead shrubs, suffered the soundless hum of loneliness pounding down across sallow prairies, dusty ergs, crumbling barrio streets. The bitter countenance of passerby on paranoid calles and trash-lined boulevards of broken hopes. Resting my borrowed flesh in moldy warehouses and dilapidated grottos commonly associated with lost phantoms wrapped in soul sucking manias or pain alleviating addictions from nameless substances with the ever constant waft of feces, tepid urine, odorous feet, unwashed linens - all masking the possibility of any hope.
Meeting certain arcane criteria, I was labeled insane by The State and awarded free income in lieu of discontinuing the lifestyle I chose, content to dwell in a government-issued apartment and self-administer mood deadening medications. The state medications altered me. I lost the passion which made me love who I was. Nothing was interesting. The gray screen only became grayer as faceless doctors upped the dosage every time I commented I did not particularly enjoy the after effects. This ultimately caused me to develop into an unfeeling, apathetic corpse wallowing in nostalgic recollections without the energy to leave my dark room and undertake anything I previously enjoyed.

For far too long I have held back. Waiting. Calculating. Thinking. I reserved myself, afraid to make a move. Mired in doubt and paranoia. In a self-imposed exile from a lifestyle in which I held dear and rather quite enjoyed (disclosed by life-hating caseworkers and psychoanalysts that what I did was wrong. Wrong for whom? If I enjoy it and not harming any one, how is it inappropriate?) I found myself becoming a virulent recluse holed up in some shit poor locale fearful to go out and live.

No longer.

I will take control again and partake in the obsessions I desire.

i lived a little

Yesterday I took some shots then we got on your bike. I didn’t have a helmet and I asked you not to go over 30 mph. Never the less, I knew you would and when we hit 100, it felt good. The acceleration, realizing it’s all in your fingertips, the fate. I laughed so hard. I lived off those seconds. Too bad, once I come down, I’m back to dying. But I’m still alive while I’m dying. I can’t figure myself out. I looked in the mirror and I didn’t recognize who I saw. Sometimes it’s strange to think that’s me.