Thursday, January 25, 2018

green onions

I stated before and I’ll say it again country simple: The Reader will frequently find the same thing transcribed in the same words. This is not carelessness nor is it for The Obsession With The Sound Of One’s Own Words Dept... It relates to space-time juxtaposition...a folding in and back (the universe is curved, whispers a long dead genius)... inevitably the point of intersection - PAY ATTENTION PLEASE! – the point of intersection between levels of proficiency where parallel borders converge...
Tijuana: Easy to get in and hard to get out. Ominous addictions on all levels stand at the controls, the yammering rentboy intercepts a fleeing queen’s rush towards the Big Brother frontier...Depression hits full force, haven’t gotten out of bed all day. What is important when nothing is important? Grey pictures on a grey screen, fading slower and slower (Was this before or is it now?) ...Centro: rich yellows and blues in the streets like deep canyons, blue doors, yellow lights...little cantinas where sad old Mexican drunks sniff pensively...a string of red Christmas lights and futbol scores tacked on the wall...The town is an intricate decomposing concrete/wood construct. In some places six stories high overhanging the street, propped with beams and pillars and bent telephone poles to form porticoes where inhabitants can keep out of the swarm of baying fat tourists who invade the disintegrated concrete...
“Hey meester, you wanna see what’s in my shop?”
Farmacia?”
“You want some pussy?”
With silent stealth, snarling Mexican pimps flow bathed in blistering electrical neon sipping frescas under the obsidian, diseased eyes of potbellied placas, lean against outcroppings of rusted steel and dilapidated masonry, speak in silent, rigid gestures of elusive decadence, flat, two dimensional, more over telepathic...Plaintive boy-cries drift through the night... “Saul. Pepe. Juan Carlos. Donde vas?” Stale chatter of commerce: “Si tengo Maburro!” (I got Marlboro!) “You want juicy pussy, Meester?” “Mexican straw hats?” “Leather bullwhip?” A hideous mouth blows smoke rings into the night...“Fuck me, Meester, soy muy caliente...”
Orale.
The chilled night blankets the city among great hustler infested parks where rats infected with putrescent disease romp through ruined kiosks...stone generals resembling frozen lunatics who advocate false liberty under the ever-glaring eye of a withered Zonky, two old American pedophiles, hue of ivory chessman, convene on an anthropomorphic granite seat, sipping limonada... scrutinizing rent boys slinking past hawking their asses…
Stopped in a cantina and downed two quick beers - nasty hooker cooch eyes me and I give her the leave me the fuck alone glance back.
A stout man in a dark trench coat and grimy felt fedora stood in a poorly lit alcove. Relentlessly, he scratches his dry wrist in a smoky haze. Skin flaked down to his dress shoes like drifting snow. He stepped back into the shadows; only the cherry-red tip of his cigarette can be seen…“cough”…Old Mexican drunk with thick black Pancho Villa mustache and deranged look in his bleary eyes snaps, “Leave! You don’t belong here!”
“Man, you don’t even know me. What did I do to you?”
“I just don’t like you.” The old drunk snarled and explodes into a mosaic of glitter and confetti. “Ugly American!” He bellows in focused hatred before being sucked into the darkness of a toilet stall glory hole.
I sat at the bar and ordered a beer. The pleasant old hag tending the counter stated they did not serve Sol, “Only Corona. On tap.”
For two dollars in a sixteen ounce glass, why not? The shit still tasted like a homeless man’s piss. I glanced around the bar – lost derelicts, antiquated hookers, furtive junkies. As I stared at my reflection in the mirror across from me, the hustler at the front door slid onto a stool next to me. In the reflection, his image was sliced in half by the parting of the mirror plates. One pane was slightly higher than the other. The reflection was somewhat off putting. One good, the other bad. Casually lit a cigarette and walked into the darkness teeming with perverse and sexual predators, the thump thump of the queer bars rattling in my skull. Handsome Aztec Indian smiled with palm out for the soft touch. I dropped a fist full of coin pesos into his calloused hand. Always been a sucker for a pretty face.
We finished our meal of tacos and found ourselves briskly walking over incandescent pools and dribbling, cold rain to my rented room a few blocks away. I open the door and invited him in. He took in the place like a good hustler, making certain there were no sinister weapons or weird sex gadgets. I noticed in his face he was relieved the place was somewhat bare - bed, bookshelf, table, a couple of chairs, clothes neatly hung in an open closet. Nothing to hide.
He turned to me, “You mind if I take a shower? It’s been a few days.”
I said sure and gathered him a clean towel and an unused bar of soap. I lay on the edge of the bed, smoking a damp cigarette, watching shadows slowly glide across the ceiling from passing cars outside and listening to Miles Davis on the CD player. Through my broad experiences in Mexico, as long as he was in my house, I wasn’t going to let him out of my sight. I could use a shower, too. However, I believed as soon as I exited the bathroom, anything of value would been long gone along with him.
He ambled out of the bathroom with a green towel wrapped around his scrawny torso. Black hair glistening damp, bangs hanging down past his eyes.
“Let me see if I can find some pajama bottoms for you.” I offered.
“Don’t bother. I like to sleep in the nude.”
Convenient. I offered him a beer from the mini fridge and we chatted a bit as he lay under the thin blanket. He mentioned something of not acquiring sufficient money for a bus ticket to return to Sonora. He had family there. I didn’t bother questioning why he didn’t simply hit his family up for the fare. Finishing my beer, I peeled off my damp clothes and slid under the blanket.
He was shivering and so was I. Wordlessly, he snuggled next to me, briefly muttering my body was warm. His torso was so boney. In the half-light of the room, he turned toward me and slid his arm across my chest, his erection thumping against my hip.
“I want to feel you inside of me.” He breathed into my ear.
We began kissing. The taste of saliva mixed with coffee, beer, and taco salsa swirled in our mouths. He kissed my chest, making his way down to my own erection, and sucked my dick like something I needed in a long time. It felt as if I was in heaven. He definitely was a professional. I got to the point I couldn’t take it anymore and rolled him onto his stomach. I parted his cheeks and rimmed him for a good ten minutes. He squirmed and gasped as I loosened him up. I flipped him over onto his back, placing his feet up onto my shoulders. Spitting into my palm, I lubed the head of my penis and slowly pushed it in. He clung to me like a baby monkey as I rapidly rutted and lunged. His ass muscles tightened and grasped as I thrust - literally sucking my cock into him. Unable to hold back any longer. I yanked out and sprayed him with semen. He masturbated wildly, unloading his pent up frustrations onto his self. It was a work of art. I snatched my cell phone and snapped a pic before he could hide his face.
“Hey! You should ask before doing that!”
“It’s for the archives. Dr. Windom needs it for my reports.”
“Dr. Windom?”
“Ford Windom. PhD. Never actually passed the bar exam. Faked various psychoanalyst credentials with the help of Photoshop. He once committed a friend to an asylum because he laughed at his eyebrows. Another nearly overdosed on a prescription from the good doctor when he swapped the patients lithium with Viagra, he then notified the guy’s parents and told them the patient was a sexual deviant with a bad case of crabs. Actually, it is my opinion the crazy fuck needs to be arrested.”
“He sounds a little weird.”
“You have no idea.” I plopped next to him, placing my phone onto the end table. “How about first thing tomorrow morning, we head over to the bus terminal and get you that ticket to Sonora?”
“For reals?!” He beamed, lying next to me, propped up on his elbow. “You’ll do that?”
“And more.” I said esoterically. “Now, let’s get some sleep.”

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