I roll over in the musty sagging bed and attempt to piece
together the night before. The dank room I occupied was windowless; graffitied
walls painted pink with the lingering stench of a million Mexican hookers. I
lay naked on an old spotted mattress, itself smelled of mildew and various
indescribable aromas. The bathroom was down the hall. I arose 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, there 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 - Albatross, Bananas, Riches - all
glaring and giggling at every crotch. The disco and chacha beats thumped as
outside between the clubs agile hustlers lurked in the shadowy shadows to rob the
unwary tourist or desperate old queen with time worn accuracy. We stood outside
Bananas 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 - heated me pants every time he
The place was lit, you dig. Wall to wall boys lined up
and jumping to the beat, swirling and dipping and cruising around like aroused
Tom Cats. The sexual tension was thick like only it can in these Mexican gay
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. And the boy really liked to drink his drink. On that note - beer and tequila began to flow.
Arturo, Manny and I hit the dance floor and boogied until the joint closed down at 2am when the lights snapped on immediately followed by the shrill cries of trannies hiding their melting faces in dispair. The waiters ushered
the entire lot out into the streets where continued the frenzied 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, I refused.
Arturo, Manny 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 that was running the joint - and that's when
Arturo came up with the idea to rent that cheap ass room. First we stopped to
buy a fifth of cheap 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 pries the wooden door open, flicks
on the light and the cockroaches scatter. We ritualistically pass the tequila bottle
around - tastes so good going down. I retch. Little Manuel jumps up and down on
the bed - something breaks inside with a muffled boing - we all laugh.
Tongues and fingers probe 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. Manny played with
my nipples as 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 gasped and grunted
through clenched teeth. Manny jacked me off, kissing and massaging me - talking
oh so dirty. Manny was the first, kneeling over me - he squirted his cum across
my chest...then it was me, with Manny milking it out, I gasped and squirmed in
an intense orgasm. Pounding faster and harder, Arturo pulls his cock out and
squirts his semen all over my stomach, too - falling next to me in a sighing
We lay there talking a bit sharing a delicado cigarette.
Eventually both had to split and they did. They got dressed, we shook hands and
said good night - I finished the bottle of tequila we had purchased and fell
onto the bed.
Okay, here goes: I am not normal and I have never been normal
and I’ll never be normal and please don’t ever say I’m a nice guy because being
a nice guy is the last thing I consider myself. I am a horrible, damaged
monster doing his best to stagger through this shit storm I was born into. I suffer crippling manic
depression and have been diagnosed as borderline schizophrenic. I can almost never
go to sleep. After a childhood and adolescence filled with continual abuse and
violence, I literally feel as if I’m dying when my body does something stupid
like try to rest. I see demon or monster faces when I close my eyes. This is
similar to meth addicts who have stayed awake too long and probably just a
product of my insane insomnia. I am not a person. I do not do things a person
does. I haven’t been a person in years.
I don’t want your pity. I don’t want a fucking thing from
you. I’m not posting shit to look cool. I’m a garbage person attempting to expell through written word what I’ve done with my life. Simply allow me to write and make my jokes. This is
all I have, understand? Ah yes, I forget, you cannot understand.
I have been, and inevitably will always be, trapped alone in this black diving bell at the bottom of a lightless ocean...cables severed...
An age such as ours is the most difficult one of all for an
artist. There is no place for him. At least, that is what one hears on all
sides. Nevertheless, some few artists of our time have made a place for
themselves. Picasso made a place for himself. Joyce made a place for himself.
Matisse made a place for himself. Celine made a place for himself. Should I
rattle off the whole list?
Those who are perpetually talking about the inability to
communicate with the world, have they made every effort? Have they learned how
to be as wise and cunning as the serpent, as well as strong and obstinate as a
bull? Or are they braying like donkeys, whining about some ideal condition in
the ever-receding future when every man will be recognized and rewarded for his
labors? Do they really expect such a day to dawn, these simple souls? I feel
that I have some right to speak about the difficulty of establishing
communication with the world since my books are banned in the only countries
where I can be read in my own tongue. I have enough faith in myself however to
know that I eventually will make myself heard, if not understood. Everything I
write is loaded with the dynamite which will one day destroy the barriers
erected about me. If I fail it will be because I did not put enough dynamite
into my words. And so, while I have the strength and the gusto I will load my
words with dynamite... You want to communicate. All right, communicate! Use any
and every means.