Friday, October 09, 2015

i like to live in hell

Fall has arrived. The temperatures are finally beginning to cool. I dress smartly and head out into a night full of shadows and a clear, navy sky abundant with stars. Luckily my apartment is walking distance from The Plaza, so I jet straight toward it over shattered sidewalks to get a drink and check out the scene.
Along Coahuila, the Amazonian sized transvestite hookers are out in force. I mumble a buenas noche as I briskly pass these titans and they squawk something back I do not catch. Past the neon arabesques of the whore district, I shoot by immobile con men sizing up the scene, stumbling sexpats, and barking doormen. Turn a corner south on Constitution, an old hag in rags squats taking a shit amid a mountain of festering garbage as the sewer vents emit a hundred years’ worth of backed up decay. I visibly gag at the assault on my nostrils. A leaning taxi driver chuckles at my dismay. Fuck you.
The Plaza is lit up and pregnant with early evening revilers: weary families drag their screaming toddlers past silent Indians vending tourist trinkets only a sucker would purchase, brassy bands from Sinaloa wail in front of open cafés to drunken friends applauding their off-key efforts, rentboys lurk in shadowy overhangs and arches patiently waiting for the wayward gringo to shuffle over from the Border and buy them that last drink, others stand with hips hooked smoking cheap cigarettes and fiending for the next fix. Glassy eyes brimming with hate and lust scrutinize me as I make my way toward the Boys Café to sit with a cup of coffee and dissect this carnival.
I position myself next to a table occupied with aging old queens. Mostly bloated Americans with a sprinkling of petulant pretty boys. They hoot and coo, smashing one another with gay double entedre as the boys who patiently wait to rob these festering vampires for every peso they have. It is apparently one of the old dinosaurs birthday and they dish out crumbling slices of dried cake to all sitting in the café. Your Reporter’s slice goes in the garbage untouched a bit later…so.
I sit through three more cups of coffee as, comparable to aroused tom cats, the hustlers prowl flashing smiles and rubbing engorged crotch. One stands next to a flier plastered light pole and glares with intense eyes. Tall and lean like a shriveled tree, his clothes are well worn and a bit grimy. He attains dark, hawk-like features on a masculine face. He curtly nods while at the same time unconsciously pulling up the sleeve of his sweater to scratch an arm riddled with track marks. I light a smoke and look away.
Far from being entertained, I pay my bill and amble over to the Patio Bar, bypassing hordes of people out window shopping, looking for restaurants and clubs, arm in arm, dressed up, sauntering along. I wanted to push and shove them out of their hand holding dreams. I bump into several people, using my shoulder to butt them as I walk in a straight line herding people out of my way. I envy and despise the unquestioning little cacoon of their lives. They’ve chosen to be drugged into needing and acquiring status and money and beauty, and at the same time pretend to fight against the demands imposed by status and money and beauty. I prefer to live in hell.
Luckily it is not too crowded in the bar and I sit at the long wooden counter under a row of red Christmas lights and order a Sol. Rapidly, I down three icy beers and regarded the knots of men in their finery and watched their mouths move, listening to the blare of cha-cha music and the surging despair in my head.
I bought two joints from a shabby young man who slinked out of the decayed mensroom. He disclosed they were indeed hash. I assumed he was lying. He wanted one hundred pesos. I hesitated, he said sixty, I agreed. He seemed like he needed the money. I felt like I needed the joints.
I notice a short, thin man, about twenty-one, jet black hair and small symmetrical features, wearing a black button-down shirt and blue jeans, standing alone. He was cute. He stood out because he was alone and because of his face and compact body, I saw several queens looking him up and down. He didn’t look at anyone, but stared out over the mingling groups of people. One of those. I smiled and decided to go over and interfere with his fake composure and see what would come of it. I stood right in front of him so he had to step back and look up at me, his back against a brick column.
I gave him a big, friendly smile, “Hi. How are you tonight?”
He returned a small smile and I carried on with the usual questions and comments, watching him relax a little and answer more thoroughly each time.
I knew age difference always came up in the minds of nearly all homosexual men. Most of them desire men their age or younger and were not open to someone older. Old was not attractive and even though I looked five years younger than my actual age and although I attain a body which was what the market demanded, I was old. I refuse to be intimidated by sexist typecasting and knew, with persistence, I could usually get any man I wanted. Sometimes it was more difficult to get men my age to come around because they preferred youth more than many young men did.
I could see the little person with black hair change from thinking he was being cornered by a troll, to noticing I was attractive.
“I’ve seen you before.” He stated.
“Have you?”
“I am a waiter at the restaurant across from the Arch. I’ve seen you pass by. You visit TJ a lot?”
“No. Actually, I live here.”
He smiled. Dimples forming on his dark, smooth cheeks. I liked him. He seemed low maintenance. No gel in his mop of shiny black hair, no manicured eyebrows. There was dirt under the nails. He had a certain charm about him, a youthful naiveté. I believe that’s what turned me on.
He introduced himself as Rudy and was one of those types who preferred speaking in broken English rather than Spanish so as several times I needed to ask him to repeat what he said. Mostly, I simply nodded and agreed even if I did not care.
I invited him to sit at the bar and during a round of drinks, we fell into the ‘How do you like Mexico’ routine and on me being a writer. Amid one of my spiels, he received a text and promptly began tapping onto his scratched, dinged-up blackberry. I inquired who it was and he stated with a smile it was his girlfriend.
“Girlfriend?” I asked.
Rudy smiled timidly, “Yes. She’s over there.” He casually points toward the border.
“San Diego? Then why are you here?” I jokingly asked.
He shrugged and gave me a ‘you know why’ glance.
The night continued, the beer flowed and Rudy and I became well intoxicated. Eventually the lights in the bar clicked on and the festive mob was ushered out. Nothing more gloomy than closing time.
Rudy and I stood out front of the cantina, wobbling and passing a cigarette back and forth to one another amid inebriated drunks, squawking drag queens, and garrulous fags.
“Want me to walk you to your taxi?” I slurred.
He paused, slowly leaning to his right. Rudy actually seemed as if he was going to fall down. He flashed blurred and crimson eyes toward me and mumbled, “You live near?”
“I want to go home with you”
Emitting a long sigh, I said okay.
In the long shadows of my dark room, I ran my hands over his soft back and copper-colored ass. I felt my cock bunch up beneath his. He roamed completely over me and in about two minutes he came in my mouth and then watched me pump myself to orgasm. Afterwards, Rudy lay on me, half beside me, and confided how he’d had a crush on me as I held his bony body close, rocking us gently in the dark, under the covers.
The following morning, after a good cup of French pressed coffee and sweet cakes, Rudy and I showered, sliding our soapy bodies over one another. All rinsed and shiny, I carried him soaking wet to the bed and we sucked and fucked until we were raw and exhausted. We giggled our kisses and he came on my chest and lay on me and fell asleep. I kept my arms around his slender, relaxed manboy body and stared at the ceiling, slowly smoking a joint.
Sexual matters are filled with fantasy and contradiction. I wanted his desire for me to remain as constant and delirious as it was right then. I wanted to be right there surrounded by the covers of safety and see us laughing and cuming and sleeping with no awareness of tomorrow.
Eventually, he left. To his job. To his girlfriend. To his life and I returned to the cold, impassionate keys of my laptop.

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