obscure moments

I understand coming up here to Flagstaff was a bust. Hell, that revealed itself on the third day after my arrival. On the cusp of leaving this Friday to all points south, I was exiting the shower last night and slipped. I landed pretty hard on my back, banging my head on the hard tile step which lead up into the shower proper. When I attempted to stand back up, I slipped again and twisted and knocked my left knee. I had trouble sleeping, obviously, and spent the afternoon hobbling about downtown in an attempt to walk it off. (The shelter closes its doors at 7am and you are allowed to return at 4pm) My leg, though this morning was severe, the pain seemed to subside when I walk. It’s only when I am stationary and get up to move again that the dull and piercing ache returns. As for my head? Well, aside the tender bump on the back, I do admit I feel slightly dizzy.

It’s obvious, under the circumstances, I am in no state to travel, so I will remain another month…perhaps. I don’t know. My thoughts are not linear and I honestly have no idea where to go or what to do. Every time I think of it, I become emotional and tears swell in my eyes. I am truly lost. I simply want a stable home. A place to retire in and live out my years in unbothered contentment. All this wandering has taken its toll on me as the years continue to slide rapidly by.

Honestly, everything from writing to travelling to even this blog has lost its significance to me. I no longer possess any drive to continue these things. Things that at one time gave me purpose, now fill me with boredom and dread. Perhaps it’s time to disappear from the public eye and fade away into obscurity…

angel headed hipsters

There was blood. Goddamn, there was so much blood. I had to admit, the fucker deserved it. The two fighting caused a crowd to form of both bewildered tourists and cheering, fist pumping bums. Elston roared in crazed fury as he swung one lightning fast blow after another while the one who took the blunt of his blows equally screamed, more of gurgled mercy than alcohol induced rage.

It began earlier as Elston and I stumbled toward the Sunshine Rescue Mission to eat lunch. We previously finished a bottle of Wild Turkey along with two joints at his camp under the shadow of the Lowell Observatory. Elston lay on top of his gray semen stained sleeping bag and blew solid plumes of smoke down toward his unbuttoned crotch and when his dork would pop up out from the heady fumes, he would rasp, “Abracadabra!” The silliness of it caused me to laugh my face crimson.

Anyway, we plodded down the mountain through downtown Flagstaff with myself disdainfully leering at every goddamn tourist who met my bloodshot gaze. The super positive square as hell white people here are as annoying as fuck. One more chipper asshole in khaki shorts and pastel polo shirt who wished me a "happy memorial day" I'm breaking their far too white teeth! Well, I digress, we make it to the mission and already there was a long line which pissed us both off. The unfortunate thing about being a hobosexual in this small ass berg is you constantly come in contact with the same sad sacks day in and day out no matter where you wind up. Depresses the fuck out of you.

Standing in line, Elston and I silently waited in the chilly wind (does it ever get warm here?) for the chow line door to open when this old drunk as fuck Indian swished up to us and began a vindictive tirade toward Elston on why hasn’t he been to his trailer at the rez lately, why hasn’t he called, why hasn’t he returned all the money he had borrowed. The scrawny Indian queen stood shivering and baying like a wounded sheep as Elston remained stoic, his head drooped, glaring at the filthy pavement. The queen paused in his berating tirade and a squinting eye gave me the once over.

“Who the hell is this?” He hissed, hand on shapeless hip in low-riding faded jeans, the other clasping a filthy shopping bag bulging with containers of donated hygiene products. He possessed the classical Indian features of high cheek bones, slitted eyes, but held that pouty mouth common to all bitchy faggots the world over. His graying hair was long and pulled in a ponytail which extended to his lower back.

“He’s a friend. Leave him alone.” Elston warned, his voice an almost inaudible whisper.

“Oh, another silver tongued devil? When will you get it through your thick skull that nothing good comes from associating with the white man? They destroy everything they touch.”

I admit, I had to agree with him on that one.

The older Native American had his ah-ha moment and realized what was going on between us. His remarks – solely focused on Elston – became cattier and more vicious. This continued during lunch. When we sat at a table to devour, strictly from the munchies, our reheated pepperoni pizza and chicken wings, the old Indian plopped at our table and continued his diatribe. We couldn’t eat our meal fast enough. As a fact, the asinine and petty verbal assault continued outside on the front patio. I stood in the cold sun as Elston nonchalantly sat on a metal bench smoking a cigarette and chatting with a fellow hobo (in an attempt to curb his anger, I suspect) but the old guy kept it up out on the sidewalk through the iron bars of the gate.

As quick as lightning, Elston bolted up, ran through the entrance and cracked a fist into the man’s square jaw. The older Indian reeled, stumbled backwards all the while hollering, “Stop it! Stop it! I was only kidding!”

My young friend did in fact not stop, but continued a rapid fire of fists. Blood flung left and right from the old man’s busted lip and nose spraying the wall and pavement. He struggled to defend himself in vain. Within moments, four squad cars careened up to the corner and Flagstaff’s finest poured out of their squad cars. Elston was violently thrown onto the ground, uniformed knee firmly on his neck, and handcuffed. After several esoteric questions by the police (the old man bleeding a cascading stream of crimson blood onto the curb all the while bleating, “I din do nuthin”) Without even a word, Elston was roughly tossed into the back of a squad car and whisked away to be booked.

And so, I am stuck, once again, alone in this no-where town with nary the person to converse with but slack jawed burnt biscuits and shabby train hopping hobos. I think this Friday it may be to my advantage to lay tracks for a different local…

yesterday's lost tomorrow

Going to gay bars to meet other men? Not my thing anymore, really. Been there, done that. What's the appeal? Strangers when you meet, strangers when you part - a gymnasium of bodies namelessly masturbating one another. People possessing no morals often consider themselves more free, on the contrary mostly they lack the ability to feel or to love. The dead fucking the dead. There is no gamble or humor in their game - it's a corpse fucking a corpse.

dark pine float

Under a profound night of a clear and starry sky, I sat on a decomposing log as yellow flames of a rapidly constructed camp fire illuminated our three faces. The fragrance of pine fused with charred wood floated high up into the darkened trees.

To my right, Elston passed the enormous joint to me. For some time we sat silently. Me, young Elson, and an elderly Indian of indeterminate age in black denim and worn cowboy boots with a grimacing expression equally stoic and unreadable as a totem pole. We met the old Indian in the Rescue Mission food line during evening chow. After we ate, he approached Elston with some familiarity and invited the two of us up the ridge of the mountain to his camp and smoke weed in friendship. He introduced himself as James Ironheel. I shook his lanky hand and could have sworn his bones rattled. He possessed a firm grip and a toothless old woman smile. With a frail body and bent stoop, James’ single braided hair was jet black with long streaks of silver. Subsequently, we made our way toward the nearby mountain.

It wasn’t much of a hike, but then again I was still getting adjusted to Flagstaff’s high altitude and was ruby faced and winded when we arrived. It was a simple camp; a fire pit, a blue tarp tied across two pine trees, a couple of sleeping bags with the tale-tell signs of humanity: empty soda cans, wadded napkins, a lonely and filthy sock lay about the pine needles carpeting the camp.

It was Elston, under the approval of James, who prepared the fire. It was a good thing too, because I found out to my dismay since my arrival, the temperature drops to the low fifties during this time of year and the chill in the shade of these majestic pines were already taking effect. I rested on the for mentioned log, observing in fascination as the two performed a stylized ballet around the modest camp; each movement as if practiced from time antiquity.

I glanced around at the darkening forest. The lighting, the smells, the shadows of mysterious beauty.

“Damn.” I mumbled. “This is what I imagine the entrance to The Black Lodge in that show Twin Peaks must look like.” I glanced over to Elston, “You ever catch that show?”

“What show is that?”

“Twin Peaks.”

“Nope.”

After preparing the fire and asking if it was warm enough, Elston took a piss in a nearby shrub as James squatted across from me, reaching into his dingy, canvased backpack and removed the weed. The pungent yet satisfying smell assaulted my nostrils. Elston sat in the dirt and dead pine needles next to me as James rolled the joint, lit it, took a huge puff, and passed it to Elston.

“Long ago…” James began as he sat squinting solid faced into the fire, “Snoqualm, the Moon, had a spider make him a rope out of cedar bark and stretch it from the sky to the Earth.” He exhaled large plumes into the crackling fire. Elston passed me the joint and I inhaled deep. Harsh. I instantly began to cough and certain my face turned crimson. Elston chuckled and in contrast James never moved a muscle as he continued, “One day Fox and Blue Jay found the rope and climbed up to where the rope was fixed to the underside of the sky. Blue Jay pecked a hole in the sky and they climbed through to the sky world. Blue Jay flew to a tree while Fox changed himself into Beaver and swam in a lake. Moon had set a trap in the lake which caught Beaver. Moon skinned him and threw the body in the corner of the smokehouse.”

With silent ceremonial movements, I handed the joint over to James. He paused, inhaled, continued with a slow solemn tone, “That night when Moon was asleep Beaver got up and put his skin back on. He looked around. He took a few of the trees, and the Moon's daylight making tools, some fire, and the Sun which was hidden in Moon's house. He changed back into Fox then he found the hole that Blue Jay had made and took the things to Earth. He planted the trees, made daylight, gave the fire to the people, and put the Sun in its place.”

The weed began to hit me and I felt that slow pull of gravity and tingling dizziness. I glanced over to the aquiline profile of Elston. The shadows, along with the droning baritone voice of James as he continued his story, I found myself smitten. So handsome Elston was, so calm, so reserved. I wanted to reach over, grab his chin with my hand, turn his face toward mine and kiss him.

James droned on, “When Moon awoke he was very angry. He found the tracks that led to the hole. He started down but the rope broke and he fell to the Earth in a heap where he became a mountain. One can see the face of Snoqualm on one of the rocky cliffs. Today it is called Mount Si and it is near Northbend, Washington.”

Apparently, he was done as abruptly as he began as the three of us sat in wordless peace listening to the crackling fire. My thoughts raced in a kaleidoscope of a million images. What’s next? Where am I going? What am I doing? Moreover, why was I here?

I finally said to no one in particular and most likely just to myself, “Well, I'm on my way, I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way. I'm takin my time but I don't know where...”

Elston coughed and then stated, “You're rushing things.”

For the first time in hours, James became animate, his face contorted into anger and pointed a twig thin finger at the both of us, “Its fucking life? Why wait for something you want? Fucking go for it cause if you wait too long you'll miss your opportunity. Life's about taking risks and rushing things and finding out if it's right or wrong. And if you fuck up or get hurt in the end then its life, you simply just try again...”

“Yup.” I said.

“Yup.” Elston grinned.

“Yup.” James smiled, his face of dark lines and black, toothless mouth.

Crimson eyed and wobbly, we said our goodbyes to old James and made our way back down the mountain well after midnight. It was extremely cold and I missed that fire. I stated that fact to my new friend. Elston stopped in his tracks and said he had a sleeping bag roll hidden close and though not as fancy as James’ camp, I was welcome to stay the night.

Under a deep navy starry sky, amid pine trees and dew glistened tall grass, I lay on my side in the fetid sleeping bag with Elston spooning behind me. My jeans and boxers down about my thighs as he slowly and methodically screwed me with his arms wrapped around my ribcage in a python like grip. Subsequently, our heavy breathing subsided, Elston and myself spent (we wiped our mutual slimy matter on the inside of the sleeping bag), still embraced, we both fell into a deep, contented sleep until dawn exploded over the red ridge of the mountain.

the man with the elevated hair

He stated or at least mumbled something to the fact he arrived the previous evening from Black Hills up somewhere in South Dakota. His face was young – somewhere between nineteen and twenty-five – yet weathered and lined from being subjected to a myriad of harsh elements. Obviously, a certain type who was comfortable in the shadier aspects of truck stop lavatories, musty locker rooms, and bed bug infested flop houses. He possessed razor sharp facial features from a thin, hooked nose to a well-defined chin. An almost faint splattering of light brown freckles lay across the nose and upper cheeks. It was his eyes, though…it was those light green eyes in thick, black lashes which caught my attention. He lay on his back sprawled across the sidewalk in musty clothes, puffing on a rollie, squinting in the early morning sun, big worker boots crossed out into the post dawn golden street. He scratched at the grey knit cap that covered a shaggy mop of straight raven hair.

“They both need one another, you know.” He continued in a whispered, raspy drawl. “It’s called 'inter-dependency'. And they both know it. Yeah…he does terrible things to Tom. Nasty, even sadistic things. But that’s fine, as long as that’s what Tom wants. Think about it. His actions. He’s always asking for it. It’s his partner’s job to fulfill that need and Jerry knows it.”

“Proof?” I asked, taking a sip of tepid coffee from a small styrofoam cup.

“Well, in the Tom and Jerry Show, they live with one another…”

His train of thought was interrupted by a stooped codger with gravity defying hair. His face was bright red and coarse; lined and covered in silver stubble. He was wearing double denim with a faded red checked shit. He spat. “I knew I’d catch up witcher stupid ass soon enough!”

The boy watched the old man as he approached, yet remained immobile. His dark, copper-colored face as stoic and unreadable as a plaster of Paris mask.

“Ya fergit it back at the camp, dincha?” The old man stopped, stood bow-legged in tattered faded jeans. “Give yer ass a place to camp and this how you repay me?”

“Yeah, Bob…I forgot it back at the camp.” He finally replied after a long pause.

“Well doncha think yer dumb injun ass should go back and git it?”

“Chill out with the old white devil shit, Bob. You want your tobacco, go get it yourself.” The young lad stated calmly. “I’m talking to this man.” He flashed a dirty finger toward me; then slipped his slender hand back into worn pants pocket.

“Who da fuck dis?” Bob spat, one eye squinting at me.

“I’m Lou. Who the fuck are you?” It came out calm with a hint of sing song.

“Watch out fer dis boy.” Bob said, motioning toward the nonchalant lad who sprawled out on the sidewalk. “He bad. He fill yer head fulla sweet promises, then lie to yer face. Kid got no scruples!”

“I like him already.” I smirked.

Bob harrumphed or made some sound equivalent and began his bow-legged shamble up toward his camp somewhere on the pine covered ridge. I stood there and silently watched as the little old man was out of hearing range, sucking on my smoke so nasty. I looked down toward the prone form of the Native boy.

“Fill my head full of sweet promises…what was that all about?” I asked coyly.

The youngster took a long puff of his rollie and blew an enormous plume casually into the azure sky. “Don’t be boring. Up until now, you were nothing like those other men I’d met on the road. All hard and brutal and masculine, until we get back to the camp, then they dissipate into a gooey, syrupy mess of uncontrolled faggoty-assed passion…cooing like enamored school girls; promising me the world if I remain by their side and keep them warm on those oh so sought after starry nights. You know exactly what Bob meant…so don’t disappoint me by becoming one of them. You indicated so much promise in being otherwise.”

“I apologize.” I said flatly. “I never been to this part of the country and don’t entirely grasp the queer lifestyle outside the mundane screeching faggot you see at clubs or a coffee chain.”

“Queer? Gay? Heh. Those outmoded constructs. Never favored to be pegged by either label…hell, what is the LGBT acronym up to now?” He chuckled, “LGBTQURTUVEEPD .v2?!”

“Right…right. So many unnecessary labels. You either suck dick or you don’t.”

He removed both wiry, brown hands from his pocket (both shiny over the dirt) and folded them across a lean, flannelled stomach. However, he sure as shit made me notice the throbbing jump in the crotch his dusty khakis. “Yup. You nailed it on the head there, mister. And speaking of head, I sure could go for some right now. Bob was too drunk last night to finish and passed out. He just wanted to lay by the fire and snuggle. His body felt like jerky and he smelled like expired ham”

I chuckled as my gaze scrutinized his prone torso. He noticed. The crotch of his pants jumped three more times. Somewhere in the distance was the faint sound of a rumbling locomotive being carried on the never ending breeze.

I took another long drag and croaked, “Well, I’d be happy to oblige, but I don’t know this town. Where can we go?”

He leisurely lifted himself off the sidewalk, brushing the dirt from his faded backside. “Follow me.” He casually slipped his hand down the front of his pants and adjusted his erection to a more clandestine position.

As we began our walk toward his secret location, down a lonely set of shadowy warehouses and boarded up red brick buildings, I passed a smoke to him, “By the way, what’s your name?”

“Elston. Elston Manygoats.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Nope. Manygoats is a proud and longstanding name in my tribe.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Elston Manygoats.”

it's kinda like being dead

Black winds howl down off fir tree covered mountains leaving the rustic town bitter and cold. Enormous crows swarm and swoop in the pristine indigo sky as weary and beat Indians shuffle in tattered clothes past cafés and restaurants occupied with clean and well-dressed white man. They smile whitened teeth and sip expensive wines as an intoxicated Native obsequiously shuffles up clothes grimy and dusky with soot, he extends a withered brown hand asking for a handout before warned away by the asshole barista with the beard and the man-bun.

Met a hip Native by the moniker Elston. Primarily, we sit on some sunny stoop smoking and talking. Perhaps talking too much. I enjoy silence. The echoing voices within my head living and re-living nostalgic memories over and over again. Shit…I can sit idle for eight hours straight staring at the tip of my shoe and I’d be utterly content. It takes up Time.

Long days pass waiting. And it’s cold. Always the cold. More so from the for mentioned gusts blowing down from those picturesque mountains, goddamit. I sit catatonic in a park under swaying trees as the local hobos bask in the sun rolling cigarettes and sipping liquor from brown paper bags – it is so maudlin. I have witnessed this scenario a million times and I venture I will see it a million again before I give up the ghost.

Time spent waiting. Waiting waiting waiting for what exactly? I have no idea. I am out of fucking options. Too many let downs and dead ends over the past few years. I am at the point where I have given up. Is this the end? Is this the beginning of a sweet and much sought after death I so welcome with open arms? I surely hope so because quite honestly, I am damn tired of this shit…all of it.

silent rumblings

Awoke, washed up the best I could, and after breakfast of tepid coffee and a stale donut, spoke with my appointed case worker, Carlos.

I explained my intentions to remain in Flagstaff and apply for assisted housing. After getting the address to the Flagstaff Housing Authority, I( made my way there only to find out to my dismay that their waiting lists are closed (opposed to the outdated internet site which stated otherwise).
Well, fuck. Now what?

familiar paths

Woke up to grey, mottled skies, grabbed my gear, hailed a taxi and placed my personals into a rented self-storage unit. With only a back pack stuffed with essentials (toiletries, socks, and boxers), I made my way to the Sunshine Rescue Mission located over on Benton. Until further notice, I am homeless. Again.

Nestled in panoramic mountains swathed in pine trees, the town of Flagstaff seems extraordinarily laid back. It is a pleasant departure from the demented and anger saturated locals of a metropolis or the drug/incarcerated addicted mindset of Yuma and Tucson. Definitely a slower paced environment.

I found the mission. A rust colored brick building in a residential neighborhood. Quiet, clean, much in a way from previous places. In the open patio, sprawled on a metal bench, ran into my first wing nut. An early twenty-something Native American zonked out on dope. Because of the long walk, I was thirsty, so when I asked the location of a nearby convenient store to purchase a bottle of water, all I received was a mumbled incoherent reply. However, as I was walking off property to search for a shop to buy said water and I lit up a cigarette, all of a sudden the demented fucker became as literate as William Shakespeare. Told him to fuck off when he asked for a smoke.

Had some time on my hands, as hobos often do, and found the local library to sit and wait check in for a bunk for newbies, that being at 4pm.

Was eventually processed. Most of the local homeless are Native American – raggedly somber men squatting, blinking in the late afternoon sun. After dinner (some kind of pasta with diced potatoes and a salad), I wearily lay at my bunk, but endured an incident concerning the immediate neighbors. A comical fist fight broke out between this large Native American and his black bunky regarding body odors. How mundane.

After that monkey business (Native American won), they switched off the lights at 9 yet endured little in way of sleep in lieu of the raggedy ass metal bunks and the guy in the bunk above tossed and turned shaking the bunk constantly.
A ver…

flagstaff

I have found occasionally it is necessary to take my own half-cocked advice. Recently, I was contacted by an acquaintance Stateside - he being William Wiggins from my old El Paso days - who found himself flat on his ass, stuck homeless and destitute in the middle of nowhere. William asked for some financial assistance and me being the big softy I am, wired him some money. Nevertheless, during our phone conversation, I questioned what he planned to do with himself. He explained in precise tones and I admitted his plan was doable with patience and perseverance. But, it was what I said after that affected me: “How bad do you want to meet your goal and futhermore, what are you prepared to do? My advice is by any means necessary, if you want it bad enough.”

For a few days, I pondered that conversation. I had grown stagnant in Tijuana, still bitter over the bad luck of missing my flight last January. In actuality I desired to go, to leave a city I both loathed and adored. However, with my current situation with rent, eating out all the time (the guesthouse offered no kitchen or means to prepare one’s own meals), the mooching boys, purchasing other extracurricular diversions…I was finding it difficult to save funds. I found myself in a financial black hole.

On the fourth of May, I awoke at 5am, shoved all my belongings – clothes, letters, written drafts, notebooks – into my ragged suitcase, stumbled downstairs from the room in the guesthouse I rented and hailed a taxi. Within minutes I was waiting in line at the border. Jumped the trolley to the San Diego airport and purchased a ticket to Phoenix. Taking a taxi from the airport to the Greyhound station, I purchased a bus ticket. I sat in bemused woe, staring out into the scene as it changed from simmering desert to golden hued grassy plains in lieu of a setting sun to majestic fir trees. Within three hours, I made my way to Flagstaff, Arizona. Arriving at the chilly and dark hour of 9pm, I rented a room at the L Hotel off Route 66.

How bad do I want it? At what lengths would I go to attain it? Good question. I placed myself on an if/or mission. I want a secure home to retire and live out the rest of my days in stable comfort. I also desire to continue on to Cambodia and traverse Asia writing about it. I crave both. However, the two proposals polarize one another. I cannot have both. I had longed wished to attain an apartment through section 8, in which I qualify. However, throughout the country, the wait lists are either closed or the wait is decades. During my year hiatus from writing in this blog, that was what I was attempting to do. Bismarck, Tucson, Yuma – all failing miserably. In any case, Flagstaff recently opened their waitlist and with the small population, I reasoned the wait to be no more a few months…if it fails, I would hopefully by that time acquired sufficient funds to continue on to South East Asia.

Tomorrow I will seek out the homeless shelter in this town. From digging with some local hobos, they apparently offer transitional housing to wait the ordeal out. We’ll see.

images that seem to linger

Rolled over in the musty sagging bed and attempted to piece together the night before. The dank room I was in was windowless, graffitied walls painted pink with the lingering effluvia of a million Mexican hookers. I lay naked on an old spotted mattress, itself stank of mildew and various indescribable aromas. The bathroom was down the hall. I rose slowly and staggered to the sink next to the bed and took a piss, washed it with water from the tap then splashed my stubbled face.

Gravity took over and I slumped uncontrollably back onto the bed. I lay there dizzy and aching - head pounding as I stared at the naked light bulb dangling from a wire coming out of a hole cut in the plaster in the ceiling. Directly above my face was a bright yellow spot in the plaster. That's rat piss, I thought, not water damage. Rats always piss in the same spot. Humans don't - unsanitary fucks...

My mind throbbed with the kaleidoscope of a million images. It had to be round nine at night, the bars were in full drive cause the sidewalks were pregnant - crawling with twinky Mexican fags. They swaggered and cooed to and fro from one disco to the next all glaring and giggling at every crotch. The disco and cha-cha beats thumped as outside between the clubs hustlers lurked in the shadowy shadows to rob the unwary tourist or desperate old queen with time worn accuracy. We stood outside and smoked and laughed until I was invited inside for some much needed drinks. He said his name was Arturo. Short in stature with a thin build and black curly hair cut short. I loved his smile.

The place was jumping, you dig. Wall to wall boys lined up and jumping to the beat, swirling and dipping and walking around like aroused Tom Cats. The sexual tension was thick like only it can in these Mexican gay joints.

Arturo introduced me to his friends - all fine characters and there was one cutey - a thin twink named Manuel and he really took a liking to me. The boy really liked to drink his drink. And on that note - the tequila began to flow.

Arturo, Manny and I hit the dance floor and boogied down until the joint closed down at 2am when the lights snapped on. The waiters ushered the whole lot out into the streets where there were some more socializing - fags, trannies, and lezzies huddled in groups talking and laughing all wondering where the next party was - a yellow hummer drove by and invited me to a fiesta in the hills, but I refused.

Arturo and I jolted drunkenly across the street to a chicken restaurant and devoured delicious chicken tacos and made out in the booths - where the waiter snarled pinche jotos but we just laughed under the sneering glare of the fat mamacita who was running the joint - and that's when Arturo came up with the idea to rent that cheap ass room. After we stopped to buy a fifth of inexpensive tequila.

Down dark, trash littered alleys of mangy dogs and bums with quivering hands reaching out forever, past shady characters glinting eyes under fedoras twinkle in the moonlight and hissing hookers with silver teeth and bruised thighs - we stumbled up worn wooden stairwells to a nameless hotel in an unknown place and slapped down the twenty in front of a fat receptionist chewing on a cigar so nasty.

With difficulty, Arturo pried the wooden door open, flicked on the light and the bugs scatter. We ritualistically passed the tequila bottle - taste so good going down. I retch. Arturo jumps up and down on the bed - something breaks inside - we laugh.

Tongues and fingers probed as clothes were peeled off and erections exposed. I sat on the bed as Arturo laid me back and began to suck my cock like a champ and that fucker knew what he was doing. He continued to kiss me talking all dirty like in Spanish. Arturo's fingers found their mark and were slid up in me and I didn't need to instruct this horny fucker in anything, he puts my feet up over his shoulders, spits into his palm, lubes his cock and slides in with slow deliberate movements. Thrusting and lunging, Arturo fucked me as I gasp and grunt through clenched teeth. Arturo jacked me off, kissing and massaging me - talking oh so dirty. With Arturo milking it out, I gasped and squirmed in intense orgasm. Pounding faster and harder, Arturo pulls his cock out and squirts his semen all over my stomach - falling next to me in a sighing plop.

We lay there talking a bit sharing a Delicado cigarette. Eventually Arturo had to split and he did. He got dressed, we shook hands and said good night - I finished the bottle of tequila he purchased and fell onto the bed.