lost in a million stories of this ominous city

I entered my apartment after a long morning shopping to find Manny reclining on my bed wearing only his boxers. He was watching a Mexican novella. I paused and smiled at him before placing my bundles onto the white tiled floor.

“What did you do today?”

“I’m doing it.” He stated, not turning his glare from the television.

“Are you hungry?”

“A little.”

I plopped onto the bed, lying next to him perpendicular with my legs hanging off the side. I semi-consciously planned it because my face was at the level of his crotch.

“Well, what do you feel like eating?” I breathed as my hand slinked along his dark legs, bristling the black, shiny hairs. My eyes focused on the thick lump at his crotch.

“I don’t know.” Manny said. “Chicken?”

“Chicken?” I repeated as my hand slid over his boxers. “You want chicken? Well, I know what I want…” I continued as my wayward hand found its mark. The thick and flaccid organ lay dormant on a bed of course, black hairs. I also noticed that the area was quite moist. My hand paused. Did he recently masturbate?

“No.” Manny mumbled, taking my hand gently away.

“Why not? I promise I’ll make you feel good…” I cooed as my hand returned to that fleshy pulp and began lasciviously massaging it.

“No!” He barked.

I continued playfully.

“I said no!” He snapped pushing my hand away.

I lay there a moment propped up on one elbow letting the sting of his refusal ebb away. Finally, “So, you want to get dressed and go eat? We can hang around downtown until your bus leaves.”

Manny petulantly dressed and we headed out into the late-afternoon sun. We walked toward Zona Norte and into the whore district because for some reason prostitutes really like chicken. Or so I am guessing, because there are a shit load of fried chicken joints to choose from.

Coahuila was bustling with pedestrians, foreign sexpats, and an assortment of scantily clad hookers tottering on high heels situated on every grimy, trash littered corner. Quacking at us “Ven…ven” as we passed. Various musical styles blasted from a hundred whorehouses bathed in a kaleidoscope of flickering neon as the congested streets were clogged with orange and white taxis delivering horny clients ready for a Friday night’s fucking.

Manny and I located a small restaurant near the corner of Constitution and Coahuila. We sat at the grease filmed wooden tables and ordered. I casually flicked a scurrying cockroach off the table’s edge and hurdled it out the door into the blackened gutter. Bull’s eye.

I sat and watched the passing throng of pedestrians. Mostly conning locals, a few street dogs, very little bewildered tourists. An old hag dressed in urine soaked rags dug through a mound of garbage for scraps to eat. I turned my stare towards Manny.

“Excited about going home?” There was not the least hint of concern in my voice.

“Yeah. Thank you for the ticket, man.”

“Well, you are welcome. It’s not every day that I do this for people. Most of the times I am cold and dispassionate toward anyone’s problems.”

“Then why did you help me?”

Good question. I decided to keep the conversation light. I smiled, “I can never refuse a pretty face.”

Manny laughed, “I’m not pretty!”

“No…you are definitely handsome. And you know how to use that dick.”

He nervously chuckled, scanning around the eatery to see if anyone was listening to my faggoty shit. The weary mesera served us our order and we tore into that fried chicken like famished jackals.

Afterwards we ambled over to the bus station on the east side of Revolucion, close to the Arch. The place was crowded. Single men with backpacks, families with suitcases and bundles tied with rope, and Manny with nothing but the clothes he was wearing. Mexican or Stateside, bus stations always brought me down. The waiting place of the world pregnant with folk who are not happy in their time/space location pining to get anywhere else but where they are at that moment. Just like me, I suppose.

I purchased the ticket and handed it to Manny. He mumbled thanks or something equivalent. We stood mostly silent watching the carnival around us. Great buses belching black smoke arrived and departed, vendors weaved through the throng crying out their wares: blankets, pillows, pizza, tamales…

It was finally time for Manny to return to Sinaloa. We bumped fists and gave one another a man hug, mumbled adios. I stood there like a fool watching his raggedy bus pull out of the station and with a great fart of black smoke, rumbled away eastward...

I walked out of the station and lit a cigarette. With a deep sigh filled with anxiety and loneliness, I lost myself in a million stories of this ominous city…