go with the flow

I resigned to the fact I was going solo that night and chose to haunt a disco called Freegay on Avenida Mariscal, an infamously scummy strip of concrete where all the hoochie houses and drug barons lay. Notorious and somewhat dangerous for the unwise.

Freegay was the sole disco on that broken boulevard which catered openly to the homosexual. So, I paid the ten pesos and fifty centavos at the door and ascended the soiled, red carpet up, up toward the entrance, up the flight of a grand, warped wooden staircase where chatty clientele were herded into a que to purchase a beer by sulking lesbians.

In the vast, dim interior, the shifty wait staff catered to stoic cholos, hard gangsters, thieves, drugged out transvestites, and killer bull dykes. It carried the distinctive mix of both seedy and furtive. My kind of place.

Though the hall was immense, it held a tiny disco dance floor in the middle. The room was so vast and choked by cigarette smoke, the flashing disco lights were diffused by time it reached the seating areas. The clientele who lurked in the outer darkness preferred this set up as drugs and the casual hand job were passed from table to murky table.

The joint was somewhat crowded by time I arrived and not a table empty. Young hipsters in their hip-hop gear, cholos in their khaki baggies, trannies in their dazzle-glitter, and dykes in their mullets glided about in a nonstop ballet.

I stomped over toward the restroom entrance (always a good spot to stand) and sat my bottle on a table which appeared empty, there only lay a soiled case of beer on it. I suspected it was being used by the wait staff for storage. I soon found out the area was occupied. Sitting at the adjoining table, a towering, lanky, and strikingly handsome cholo stood up and politely asked me to move my bottle off of his box so as he could get himself a beer.

“Oh, I’m sorry, man. Thought the table was storage or something.” I stated with an embarrassed smirk.

“No problem, guerito, you can place your beer there. Would you care to join my friends?” He smiled a great row of teeth from thick lips. Every time he said something to me, he would press his full lips and pencil mustache against my ear which made my heart race. I think he knew it. Pretty damn suave.

My new friend introduced me to his companions: firstly, his younger brother, Alfredo - drop dead handsome ran in their family (though in teenage cholo gangster attire, Alfredo appeared as if he would kill you on the spot. Tattoos and all). He was an exact copy of his older brother yet attained a smoother, hairless complexion of youth on a copper skinned face. There also was a tall, skinny dude in a cowboy outfit. We exchanged greetings. I jokingly kept referring to him as Texarkana. He never caught on, guess the pun was lost in translation. And lastly, I was introduced to a wretchedly, horrid transvestite with pimples and scrawny physique who sat in the dark as prim and as regal as possible. The guy who did the intros called himself Salvador and was actually quite reserved. In lieu of the thumping music, he spoke in controlled tones. We all socialized as they inquired where I was from, where I lived, how I liked Mexico. The normal routine I received when I met folks here.

“So, you live in Mexico, guerito. Maybe I can come by and visit sometime?” Salvador said.

I gazed up into his stoic expression and noticed the savage lust blazing deep in his dark eyes. “I live just two blocks away. For you, my door is always open.”

“No doubt.” He laughed, taking a swig of beer. “No doubt.”

Alfredo, my seducer’s younger brother, began flirting with a young girl who he had acquired and while making out with her, asked Salvador for some pesos to buy her a rose. Salvador waved down one of the myriad flower vendors who weaved through the throng and purchased a couple of white roses, one for her and one for me. I threw prudence out the door and Salvador received a kiss on his square jaw for that one.

“You deserve nice things.” Salvador husked into my ear.

The music switched to a crazy mambo and it was exciting to watch Alfredo and Salvador dance together at the table. And, could they mambo.

I have to learn the mambo! I thought as I watched with a lascivious gaze.

The night went smooth. Salvador continued putting the moves on me, complementing my baby blues, towering over me with his tall self, and eventually invited me to dance when reggeaton began blaring. I obliged. We hit the floor and danced so nasty. The feelings in which I held for Cesar was inherently drowned out by alcohol and the suave seduction of this macho gangster.

Fuck it, I thought, I’m going to enjoy myself. I do deserve nice things.

During my flailing with Salvador, our foreheads touched, then our noses, our lips, our tongues - I was definitely feeling it and so was he - until a fat transvestite pulled us apart and began yelling at Salvador. After an over dramatic tirade in which halted all action in our general vicinity, the chunky transvestite bitch slapped him right there on the dance floor. At that moment, she whirled toward me and smacked me across the face. My fist automatically flew up and popped her in the teeth. The bitch went flying and skidded akimbo across the small dance floor. She sprung up like a sequined jack-in-the-box and I readied myself for a full on fag smack-down rumble.

She simply held her bleeding mouth, “Oye! Oye! Porque me pegaste? Soy un mujer!” (Ow! Ow! Why did you hit me? I’m a woman!)

I pointed an accusational finger toward her and roared in psychopathic hatred, “You fucked up hippopotamus! You are a goddamn man in a fucking clown suit! A man! And, you’ll be treated like one!”

(I would like to make a side note right here and now for all those who are concerned that I am in no way, shape, or form a drama queen)

Back to the story in progress: So, Salvador lumbers over to this simpering thing - obviously his novia - and cradled the tranny in his arms, dabbing her lip with his handkerchief. He glared at me as if I just strangled his newborn child and I realized it was time to cut.

I lit a Lucky Strike and walked over to the bar, ordering another beer. With my cheek still tingling, I nuzzled into a dark corner and fumed, avoiding the side glances and stares from the parading witnesses to that debacle. I was lucky enough to be approached by Tralala clomping out of the murk.

Allow me to take a moment to describe this creature in gold lame: If you were with Marylyn Monroe next to a fountain and grabbed her by the throat and held her head under water for thirty minutes, what came up gasping for air would be that mess of a transvestite, Tralala. Poor heroin addicted Tralala. She had been a notorious and infamous staple on the party circuit for countless years.

As we began commenting on the events of which happened on the dance floor, the overhead lights snapped on and the club closed. Amid disappointed moans and cat-call whistles from drunken and excited club goers - several overly-dramatic trannies covered their melting, glistening faces from the blinding, white light - all were herded out of the disco and down the stairs by the thuggish security.

Outside on the sidewalk amid the dispersing crowd, I kept my eye out for Salvador and his group. I admit I was leery of a more mass encounter from him and his troupe. They did pass and completely ignored me. As Salvador passed entwined with his sulking he-beast, he gave me a side-glance and smirked.

Enough of this circus. Time to call it a night. As I was about to say farewell to Tralala, Cesar materialized out of the dispersing throng of stumbling drunks. He approached timidly with hands shoved into his khaki pockets, “I came looking for you. You’re out with friends?”

“Something like that.” I stated morosely, darting a glance over to the wreck next to me.

“You mind if I tag along with you and Tralala?” He smiled.

“You know her?” I asked.

“Who doesn’t?” Cesar laughed.

I was relieved to see him. The petty calamity in the club melted away as the fondness I had for Cesar seethed up into me. I glanced a moment at his pleading face. I thumbed towards a chicken restaurant across the street that was open 24 hours and offered, “Hey, you guys want to go for a cup of coffee or something to eat? I’m buying.”

“If you insist.” Cesar smiled and Tralala stated something which sounded like a belch.

Cesar and I walked across to the restaurant laughing and talking as Tralala followed us, pulling stained panties out of her ass.

The chicken restaurant was now packed with the after-hours crowd. We were lucky to get a wobbly table served by a bewildered, over-worked waitress. We ordered the house specialty: Cheap, greasy fried chicken with a side of limp fries.

“So, how was your night?” Cesar asked as he ripped into his food.

Tralala didn’t touch her plate. She sat catatonic or squawking out occasional rude comments concerning the ranchero music blasting from a jukebox against the wall.

“Uneventful. Erik and Isidro were a no show.” I answered as I glanced around at the drunk and garrulous diners.

“Well, maybe I can make up for that?” He smiled that smile.

“What did you have in mind?”

Cesar looked down at his crotch under the table, then smugly back up at me. “Let’s go to your place and I’ll show you.”

Cesar and I finished our meals and left Tralala tottering on the broken corner in front of the restaurant as the sidewalk rushed beneath our feet.

Keys jingled, my apartment door was kicked open. Clothes were flung off. Fingers slid over smooth skin, both pale white and Mexican brown. Tongues licked and sucked, teeth bit. Cesar pushed me up against my bureau and, spitting into his palm, lubed up his penis. With quick, hard thrusts he lunged into me, uttering dirty comments in Spanish that drove me over the edge.

Cesar flung me down onto the couch, threw my feet up over his shoulders and pile-drived himself into me, until, with hot spurts, he shot his semen across my stomach and chest. We kissed and then showered.

“So, what are you going to do now?” I asked as he toweled me off.

“It’s late. I’m going home. I have to work early tomorrow.”

I debated offering him money, then thought against it. “You know, Cesar, you can always come over. Anytime. I miss seeing you as often as before.”

“I will. I promise.”

Cesar got dressed, at the door smiled thank you, and hailed a taxi home. I played Go with the Flow by Queens of the Stone Age on the stereo and smoked a joint before I fell into a contented asleep.