A Real Loo-Loo.

Wind outside is fierce. The sky is that ruddy shit brown only an El Paso dirt storm can create. I sit quietly - no radio, no tv, no internet, the only sound was low whistling from the gales - like I was saying, I sit in my darkened apartment on this shitty afternoon - the smell of dusty ozone and stale cigarettes - and ponder an event which happened yesterday.

I was waiting in a McDonald's downtown to meet an old friend and give him a signed copy of my new book. While sitting in the crowded restaurant - all the downtown nacos staring at my oddly-dressed gringo ass like I was la migra - I was overcome with an extremely sever anxiety attack. A real loo-loo. The whole enchilada. Shakes. Nausea. Flop sweat. Stomach pains. Dizziness. I stumbled up to the counter under the fey stare of the late-teen cutey who was at the register and I barked out an order for a large Dr. Pepper. I had to get something in me. He grinned and rapidly retrieved my drink solely to get this deranged looking mother fucker from his view.

I returned to my table, sat, thought. Quivering like a terminal junkie, wiping the oh so attractive cascade of sweat beads from my ravaged, pink face with a sole, flimsy napkin. It dawned on me, it surfaced at last. Months of debate and analyzing and cross-doubting surfaced into this one revelation. Every cell in my body now screaming for me to leave - the very thought burning in my over-active brain. I know I have to escape, get out, flee this hell I have put myself in. As the waves of paranoid nausea ebbed away, I came to the final conclusion - if I stay here, I will die.

Seriously. Why?

Dive Bar Knock Out.

The bar gets quiet and my nose starts to bleed. I look back at him and he sends another, crushing in on my eye. The guys behind me move away from the bar and I get some blood on their shirts and their pants. He grabs the back of my collar and throws me to the floor. The air gets knocked out of me and my vision starts wobbling. He kicks and my ribs get a burn. Someone yells to let me up and he laughs and steps back. I get to my knees and someone helps me to my feet, pushes me in. I put my hands up and try to wrap my head ‘round things. I throw a punch and he dodges, follows with a body shot and I cringe. He steps back and laughs some more, takes a hit off a joint making the rounds. The fags start screaming and the men start hollering and I catch my composure and put my hands back up. He comes back, fakes a left and comes with an overhand right and I duck out of it and go for his legs. I get his front knee and start pulling him down, but he’s a good forty pounds heavier and probably works out. He starts pushing on my head and pounding my temple. Some black covers me and I back away and move, dancing with some ghosts. Throbbing and fog and everything cloaking and I’m punching at nothing. I see him get close again and I go for another takedown. He stuffs it and puts my face in the floor, crushing my nose. He kicks my ribs again and steps back. The bar is filling with smoke and blood and some haggish girls start taking their tops off and dancing. Black leather and sagging biker tits start clogging the room and it’s getting hard to care. I get back up and someone behind me pushes me again. He catches me and I smile and let him hold me by my bloodied button-down. That close, I catch a glimpse of his tucked in nose ring, the kind my punk-rock sister had. Then he drives his forehead into mine and drops me.

I fall on my ass and I’m outside, sitting next to him and a pond and we’re having some sort of picnic. It’s sunny out and the air is clear, and his raven hair flows about in the breeze. He’s blue eyes and bumble-bees and he looks good in my denim jacket. I try to smile but there’s blood and broken teeth. He puts his hand out towards my face, says something, but it gets lost in the mirage.

And then everything goes white as I hit the floor down for the count.

Death Don't Matter No More.

Under the freeway overpass and behind the first few feet of brush, at the top where the slanted concrete meets with the underside of the above street, sits a torn man, dirty and ragged and watching the red, blue, and white lights flashing in circles around a dead girl in the dirt some yards away, making scattered shadows out of the caution tape and the detectives, the ambulance and fire truck, the few bystanders awake this late or this early, all of them moving their own slow limbs in the night trying to find trajectories and motives in each other with little urgency as the girl was a known whore with a heroin habit: nothing more than in the gutter, putrid, like a soggy sheet of newspaper blown under a freeway overpass and behind the first few feet of brush.

Faster Pussycat Kill! Kill!

How dare you consider yourself a cult movie fan if you've never seen this film!

It's The Only Thing I Noticed.

The Fuck Files No. 257

When I slide most of my cock out I can feel the breeze of the ceiling fan blowing on it, cool from the drip you coat me with. Then back in, deep, and finally warm again. You cling to my neck and I keep one hand on your hip and one under your ass, spreading you open. I push up and into you while you press down and into me and this is us - fucking, sweating, kissing, all tensing muscle and slight corner-smiles. You take my earlobe between your lips when you squirm with orgasm, and when it’s my turn you roll to your back and pull my cock to your mouth. With me on my knees over you, you jerk me off until the thick white bursts out my head and flops onto your face and waiting tongue. You swallow my come and my cock and I fuck your face for a moment while the rest seeps out. I fall back spent and we lay there looking at the ceiling fan, trying to make it spin backwards with our minds.

New Novel is Now Published.

From the back cover: "Like nearly all of Blasini's writing, the novel OF MEN AND MAGGOTS is a thinly fictionalized autobiography, filled with a cast made of the author's real life friends, lovers, and fellow travelers. Narrated by John Poston, one of Blasini's alter-egos, OF MEN AND MAGGOTS is a cross-country odyssey that brings out the junkies, hoodlums, prostitutes, sexual perverts, and thieves crawling in the back alleys of the world. OF MEN AND MAGGOTS composes a very tough, yet very funny narrative of two friend's adventures with drugs, homelessness, and lifeless romance.

OF MEN AND MAGGOTS is hard, derisive, inventive, comical, serious, poetic, and ineradicably American - a fast paced, quirky work in which you are not permitted to laugh and yet, at times, will find yourself doing so."

People have inquired what is it like. Like? I answer, if Gus Van Sant raped David Lynch in the ass while reading Kerouac's On The Road, this novel would be the result.

Enjoy!

Another Sleepless Night.

The kind where my heart aches so terribly for something that may not even exist. Sometimes it seems as if it longs for one night of pure passion, insane lust. It screams for a lover’s warm tongue tracing over my skin, the sting of his nails digging into my back, and the bite of his hot open mouth all across my body. It begs me for one night of insane, mind-blowing sex with a nameless guy who will have me down on my knees swearing I’ll love him forever, but only for tonight.

But then again, as if contradicting itself, it pleads for a love story, for a budding romance, for a partner in life. It cries for the nervousness that accompanies a first kiss with a handsome man, the comfort of falling asleep with a warm and gentle body wrapped up in my arms, and the indescribable happiness of being able to say “I’m in love with you, forever” and knowing that I’ll hear it back just as sincerely.

My heart aches so mercilessly, so relentlessly, that it brings me to my knees. I pray to every god known to man that I’ll discover the cure before this ache takes over my entire being. But, I fear that I never will. I fear that this ache will break me down to the core and leave me as nothing but a pile of brittle leaves on the ground.

So, please, lover, find me. Find me for that one night of absolute bliss that I’ll never forget with a lover I’ll never remember.

So, please, lover, find me. Find me for that love story that trumps every other love story I’ll ever experience.

Please, lover. I’m fighting this terrible ache, I’m fighting it for you.

Who Am I?

His head was a maze. He could no longer separate his fantasies from reality. He tried, in vain, to find an anchor, yet none stood fast. He withdrew. His faults maximized, and his skills began to minimize. His observant, determined, independent behavior began to diminish, as a sad, cold, foreign sense of emptiness overtook him. His sense of being was no more. He felt empty, cold, lost. Gone.

Lady Blue Shanghai

A nameless woman (Marion Cotillard) enters her Shanghai hotel room to find a vintage record playing and a blue Dior purse that seems to come from nowhere. The security guards that search her room find nothing and ask if the bag belongs to an acquaintance. The question reveals to the woman a vision of her traveling to the Pearl Tower and old Shanghai in search of a lost lover who can’t stay with her.

Rose Tinted Glasses.

Imagine all the emotions on the spectrum you go through in a single day. Imagine anger, joy, happiness, loneliness, love, enthusiasm. Imagine feeling incredibly regretful for something you did. Imagine self-deprecation putting yourself down to the point where your heart is pounding in your chest with regrets regrets regrets. Imagine that ten times stronger, ten times more passionate. And imagine hatred for having such intense feelings, hatred ten times stronger.

And imagine bottling it up. Bottling it up so much that your outer image is perceived almost cold and emotionless. Bottling it up so that one day I’ll explode and shatter into a million pieces into the earth that will bury me, forgotten. This is who I am. This is what I have become.

birthday

It's my birthday, today. I feel like this guy.

Re:

Nights like tonight when I just want to pick up everything and get the fuck out of here.

hotel room

Something Pointless

Pain comes and goes. It comes more often than it goes, however, just like everything you actually want goes more often than it comes.

I want to cry all the time but I don’t want to cry at all anymore. Nothing good comes from crying. Crying makes you wish you hadn’t started crying in the first place. Just like forgetting makes you wish you had remembered. Just like remembering makes you wish you had forgotten.

I don’t wish to forget. Not anymore. Memories are torturous, but it is a good form of torture, perhaps. I won’t forget those lonely nights—those nights where I walked until my feet hurt, thought until my brain hurt, remembered until my heart hurt, those nights where I watched the train come closer and wondered if I would feel it knock me into the tracks and lacked the courage to take a few more steps forward. Maybe it wasn’t courage that I had lacked. Maybe it was courage that I had gained.

And I won’t forget the people who have fucked me up. You never want to forget the people who have fucked you up, for those are the people who make you stronger. I won’t ever forget names, faces, dates, times, places. I will remember it all, for it is everything I remember that makes me who I am. I won’t ever forget those nights where I felt like it was me against the world—those nights where I watched my gas tank emptying by the minute, where I watched nearly everything crumble to pieces in my hands, where I felt like I had run out of time to escape the tide. It is always you against the world, and that is something you can never forget. The wine in your glass—if you ever get that glass filled—always does taste sweeter after an unbelievable drought.

Hipster.

Hipster. A term that originated describing those who were hip to the groove, it once represented a beautiful group of individual and ideological people - the open minded poets and artists and writers of the Beatnik generation who listened to jazz and smoked marijuana cigarettes and drank deep into the night, discussing social evolution and a collective rise in consciousness. They were the ones who literally paved the road for revolution into the next decade.

Now this adjective has been besmirched and manipulated to mean the exact opposite of what it once stood for.

The hipsters of today are nothing more than the posers of the new century. The emos were just proto-hipsters. Pathetic little twats, with no unique personality of their own, these screamemoscene kids who witnessed their trend disintegrating, simply moved on to the next ‘cool thing’ they could get their monstrous little mitts on.

Before my very eyes I’ve witnessed girls cut their scraggly pin straight scene hair and ditch their scarykidsscaringboyswholikeprada band T's for Beatles shirts when the only songs they know are on the Across the Universe soundtrack. Boys forsake come overs for mutton chops and sweatbands for hemp bracelets. Kids who crave recognition as being independent individuals, without knowing who they as an independent beings are. It’s almost like these zombie coyotes in sheep’s wool have so long been striving to be apart of the pretentious herd, they have forgotten and lost what they really are, and how to think for themselves, as they parade around in their faux skins.

I feel like they have basically hijacked and raped an entire culture. The beauty that was bohemian has been accosted and abducted by creatures who know not what they have done. They attempt to adopt trends that they do not comprehend to be genuine ideals. They wear peace signs without believing in peace. They act like they care about the environment, when in truth they couldn’t give a single fuck, they just want that cloth “feed bag” proclaiming to the world what a good person they must be because they threw $15 some society’s way. Shallow and beyond egotistical, they are literally wasting themselves as people. Falsely advertising something that they do not understand, and indeed should not even be advertised, they dumbly strut about in their scarves and head bands and talk pompously without speaking any real substance. It sickens me.

What sickens me even more, however, is how I keep getting mistaken for one of these assholes.

It’s not because it’s trendy, it’s because that’s just who I am. It’s where I come from, and what’s more, these are all things I once was horrendously ridiculed for. So the fact that my beliefs, my lifestyle, and that of so many others who exhibit genuine compassion and devotion for said way of being, has been turned into some sort of trendist cultural immersion really grinds my gears. When I get mistaken for a hipster it’s just as insulting and infuriating as for a punk being mistaken for an emo. We, being of the aforementioned groups, are those of enigmatic revolutionary minds craving changed and social evolution- not brain-dead posers looking to look cool. So please, if you’re gonna attempt to label somebody, make sure you know what the fuck you’re talking about.

curled into a hollow ball

Your lips were too heavy, your tongue too vicious, your hands too restless, your heart too loud, your sighs too forceful, your requests too pathetic. My blood was too full of liquor, my lungs too full of smoke, my skin too cold, my lips too raw, my hips too terrified, my protests too weak.

You crash landed on your bed (it seems you didn’t see me laying there first) and I kicked and I screamed and I clawed and I thrashed blood onto the walls (yours or mine?) and I recoiled and I attacked. You may be a weak little creature, but your arms carry the strength of a hundred battalions, and not even I, in my frantic oppression, could overtake you.

You whimpered, you sniffled, you wiped your nose, you curled into a hollow ball. I laughed wickedly, I dragged my battered body into the light, I saw the bruises and the scratches, I saw your skin and blood under my fingernails. I did not cry, I did not panic, I did not run away.

I heard you sob, then I heard you snoring. I poured the rest of your fruity liquor down the drain while staring at my eyes on fire in the mirror.

You may have taken me down, but I won this fight.

The Way It Is Is The Way It Is.

All that really makes sense to me these days is writing. All that makes me feel happy is writing. All that makes me feel at peace is writing. It allows me to get away for a while. To be someone else, in a way. Sleep provides some release but waking up is inevitable. And when I wake up, everything comes crashing down on me. All my worries, struggles, and insecurities. Every day is the same, yet when I look back it all seems different. I’m never sure where I belong or who my friends are or what I want to be.

I’m so out of place.

But when I write…I’m home.

Dig it.

BELIEF AND TECHNIQUE FOR MODERN PROSE

1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy

2. Submissive to everything, open, listening

3. Try never get drunk outside yr own house

4. Be in love with yr life

5. Something that you feel will find its own form

6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind

7. Blow as deep as you want to blow

8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind

9. The unspeakable visions of the individual

10. No time for poetry but exactly what is

11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest

12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you

13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition

14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time

15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog

16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye

17. Write in recollection and amazement for yourself

18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea

19. Accept loss forever

20. Believe in the holy contour of life

21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind

22. Don’t think of words when you stop but to see picture better

23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning

24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge

25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it

26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form

27. In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness

28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better

29. You’re a Genius all the time

30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

As ever,

Jack

Your Stupid Minds.

I was told today that I am the Ed Wood of writers. Is that good?

John Carter

Saw John Carter that opened today. Like many others, I have waited decades for Edgar Rice Burroughs fantastic novel to be presented on screen. I understand that it is very difficult to translate a book to film and several things were changed and/or left out. However, I had found it very well done and I highly recommend it.

The Pain is Internal and It Never Stops. Never.

An hour ago, I was sitting in the plaza, editing my work, when this vato came rolling up on his bike and stopped in front of me. "Hey! You remember me?"

I stated no, in fact, I didn't recognize him.

"It's me, Javier!"

Of those of you who had read my book PUTA, the character Oscar was based on Javier. As a fact, it's Javier on the cover. I hadn't seen him since 2004. The guy that stood in front of me was stooped, misshapen, and dirty. He was missing the entire top front row of his teeth. His eyes were canceled and full of sadness. He face was lined and weathered from years of hardship and bitterness. I did not recognize him. After a flashbulb moment of him confessing past adventures with me, sure as shit, it was him.

After small talk and what-ever-happened-to-so-and-so, I told him that I'd written a book based on our relationship we had. He stated timidly he was quite honored and requested a copy.

I then began about my other books. As soon as I mentioned TWEEKER, he pulled out a baggy of meth and attempted to pawn it on me. "No", I said, "I haven't touched that stuff since '97 and I'm not about to now." He asked for my address and number in which I scribbled down fakes. Then he took off "To sell that shit in Segundo Barrio."

How emotionally depressing. Yet, it was to be expected.

To those of you who had read my blog and comment on how "exciting" or "romantic" my life is - this is why I always simply comment back, "It's horrible, too." Everyone I had known from those wild days are either dead or their lives are wrecked in lieu of their vices. (Mostly dead. Oh, how much death I have had in my life concerning past friends! Too much death to the point that it has numbed me.)

Though today was a depressing encounter in which I had experienced untold times over the years, I deal with it the best I can: I simply go on living.

rabbits

Dirty Fedora and Rancid Cigarettes.

Don’t know the time and don’t care to know. With the blinds pulled I sit when I want to sit and sleep when I want to sleep. Shit to shit, eat when I’m hungry. I shuffle from small room to small room with dirty britches and a dingy robe. It’s warm and feels soft on my dried out skin. I scratch where it itches and I also masturbate at the faintest hint of sexual arousal. There are dirty dishes piled up, waiting. The television comes in fuzzy. I don’t care for lights, so mostly it’s an apartment filled with a digital glow - greens and blues.

Had a hustler over once. He didn’t like my place or me for that matter. I fucked him during the commercials, but paid for an hour, so he stuck around and during the next show, I fucked him again ‘cause it was a show I didn’t care for. When I sent my seed over his chest he stared at me, in my eyes. It was weird and ruined any sensation I was supposed to feel from ejaculating on a whore. I stood over him dripping and apologized. I sincerely apologized, and I didn’t even know I was doing it, or that I even felt guilty to begin with. But his eyes, those brown fucking eyes, looked up at me like I was supposed to be helping him and instead I fucked him pathetically and shot pathetic fucking come on him like he was trash when he was just a guy trying to make some fucking money. He said it was ok, he’s used to it. I said something stupid like he shouldn’t have to be or something like that. I didn’t know what to do but get a towel and wipe him off. He said something I couldn’t make out and put a peck on my cheek. We were both on the ground then, and I asked him to dinner. “You’re not the only lonely guy I see. Don’t get romantic now. You’re a nice guy. A really nice guy.” He kind of shook his head a little, like I was a silly boy. “This is just business, homie.”

I saw him once again after that night, at a cheap Chinese take-out joint. He was with somebody and I thought about walking up to them and asking the guy if he knew his date was a whore. But I didn’t and I shuffled back to my dark little hole and scoured the internet for naked pictures of him to jerk off to.

It's Hitting Rather Hard.

The Black Pink

Past the sun and over the stars, beyond black and the vast, space turns pink and the one planet there thrives with vegetation and intelligent life. Stars are still white, but with a pink backdrop they’re a lot harder to see, so the people don’t wish on stars. They are a level-headed folk who find happiness in the now and the already existing. Their evolution is unmitigated irony and yet their overall simplistic happiness is an abundant resource, fueling the quality of their days rather than hindering it with dreams and plans. Love exists, and it’s always right in front of them. They don’t have to look because everyone is beautiful. Love is easy. Being happy is easy. The sky is equal and with the blue oceans it reflects back a purple tint. And when they send people into space, their planet portraits looks like candy. It’s a calm planet, with calm lives and calm days, and if there is a dispute then there is also a well-behaved discussion with each party getting an equal allotted time to explain their side.

Fuck.

I don’t want to write about reason and pretty fucking planets. The gist is: people fucking suck.

But ‘people’ is too broad a term and I don’t have the energy to take on everybody. If you want to do something nice today, that would be great. If you want to, or are about to, do something that would classify you as a ‘dick/bitch’, stop. Don’t. Instead, do some kind of dance. It will be funnier. The unexplained is always funnier. And read a tombstone. Or plant some flowers where there are no flowers. Buy a homeless soul a meal. Follow a butterfly. Stare at the ocean ‘til it gets dark, then stare at the stars. If you do those things, I don’t think you can be an angry person. And not being angry is the first step to being happy.

Yellow Diamonds In The Sky

I tell him to lie on the bed and get himself started.

He says he needs to smoke something first. Residue from a pipe he has nothing to put in. He smokes and his eyes begin to glaze over, his face starts to sag a little. Then, he sits there and slouches into a faint daydream. I ask if he wants any music, any television, and I pull out my laptop and get it running. He says he wants music. Something instrumental. I put on Sigur Ros and he asks for Godspeed as he takes off his pants. He sits up on his knees and spreads his legs to show his crotch, bulging out, behind black underwear. I pause and look, and then I write a sentence.

Then another.

As he begins to rub the tip of his cock, I see his underwear slowly darken with moisture and I tell him to slide them down, so I can watch him masturbate. My pants start to tighten, and I look at the glowing screen in front of me to keep my focus on writing, and not coming.

I wanted to write with a visual stimulant. They’re easy to find if you know where to look or where to put an ad. For every twisted request in every classified section there’s a lonely perv waiting to answer. Put an ad out for someone to tickle your asshole with chopsticks while you pour milk over yourself and jerk off. See what happens. See how many replies you get saying they’re up for that and more. See how many replies you get with no words, just pictures of crooked dicks and come-covered stomachs.

Put an ad out that you’re looking for two people: one to hold your wrists and the other to hold your ankles, and then say you want them to swing you with your erect member flopping back and forth, smacking against your hips with solid “thwap”s every time until you can’t hold it and you have to shoot your seed all over, ropes of cum shooting up and away and over you and them and the carpet and the cat. You’ll get replies from people who want to fuck the cat.

I had put out an ad stating I wanted to watch a guy get himself off while I write from across the room. I said I might join in, but there would be no fucking, and there would be no money involved. Not the most graphic or enticing, but I didn’t want a fucking slut or some fag ready to put things in his asshole. Hopefully, I would get a slightly lonely guy who isn’t very sexual and is looking for something bold and daring that he can do for himself, something that would be his dark little secret. Something he could later - years later - when he’s around all his new friends, enjoying cheap red wine, sitting in a circle all slightly tipsy, he could mention that he got himself off while a man he didn’t know watched, and wrote until he couldn’t take it anymore, and had to feed himself to him.

And, I got one reply. We didn’t talk over the phone; it was all done via email and texting. We set up a date, and time, and here we are.

There’s a man whose name I don’t know, seven feet away from me, undressed and rubbing the stiff shaft that juts out from between his legs. His eyes are closed, hiding in a dirty, sexual affair that needs only him and his fist, now rapidly pounding away.

The screen begins to blur and multiply and my hand grips my twitching cock under my jeans, squeezing it and moving it along my thigh. It’s getting to be too much and I take off my belt, unbutton my pants and slide the zipper down releasing this spring-loaded erection.

When he opens his eyes, he sees me standing in front of him. Without hesitation, one hand reaches for a handful of dick and the other starts to vigorously slide north and south along his shaft of pleasure. My hands go behind his head and bring it down so he can start sucking and tonguing. He engulfs it gratefully and moans with thankful pleasure. Gags and muffled whimpers escape from the places where his lips aren’t sealed around me and a line of drool begins to stretch and drip down the corner of his mouth. Tears run streaks down his cheeks every time his solemn, blue eyes water up. I pull it out and stroke it, smack it on his lips and wanting tongue. Give him a good hit on the cheek and then back in his mouth, making him squirm for a second.

He’s laying on his back now, legs apart and bent, not staying still, his left hand giving him the pleasure he knows best, while I slowly move my hips to fuck his mouth. His right hand on my thigh pushes back when I get too deep. His mouth juts around building up spit until he has to swallow and pull me out to get the breath he’s needed for a while now. He sucks in air just as hard as he gives head and when he’s full he puts me back in, sucking it like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

His hips rise, begging when I replace his hand with mine. He licks between his fingers and smiles. This is when he looks at me, the stranger with his fingers all over him, standing over him, blocking the ceiling light, and covering him with my bearing shadow. This is when he says something. And I tell him to say it again.

I want you to blow your load in my mouth.

His mouth opens for a scream but nothing comes out, eyes wide and surprised they focus on nothing but look at me intently. His lips pucker together and he pouts. I start jerking myself next to his face. My hand violently coming at him I want to grab both his ears and fuck his face until I feel the back of his skull. I want to coat his throat with my pre-cum and empty my sac over his face. And, at that thought, I am unleashed, sending come across his face, another shot up into his hair, one in his mouth and he takes it, all of it, like a baby bird being fed.

He pushes what went in his mouth out and it slides down his chin. He smears my come across his chest and down between his thighs. He licks his lips and sighs, squeezes the tip of my cock for the few last drops and they drip onto his tongue and slide away. After a moment of catching our breath, he sits up and asks for a towel. It’s with that question that any lustful or sexual vibe that was in the air is quickly extinguished and we’re back to being strangers, rather than strangers that want to get off with each other.

I get a towel, and use it first, then toss it to him. He wipes up what hasn’t already dried and lacquered and offers to take the towel home and wash it. I say it’s fine, don’t worry about it. My cock slowly goes back to being a penis, giving off faint jolts of a fading orgasm. I put my pants back on while he gets himself dressed and configured. After making sure he has everything he came with, he stands up. I ask if he enjoyed himself and he blushes with his head down. He doesn’t look at me when I walk him to the door and he doesn’t turn around or wave when he walks to his car.

He gets in and drives away.

When I come back to my room I see his black underwear, wet in the center, lying across my pillow.

The General Opinion.

I Don't See What You See In Me.

The restaurant has wooden floors and mirrors behind the bar. It’s full, but politely so. We sit at the bar and I ask why we never sit in a booth. Hector says this is easier. He orders something spicy to drink and I ask for vodka and cranberry. Why is there a baseball game on? I’d like to drop my face on the bar and let the blood slowly draw away from my nose, down to the other patrons, drip some and pool to a puddle below my stool. I grab the menu. I shake my head. Snails and gizzards and cracklings and what the fuck is a date and why is it wrapped in bacon and stuffed with bleu cheese? Do you have ranch dressing? Of course not. Every place Hector wants to go to is too good to have ranch dressing or salt n pepper and let’s talk about sex. Fuck me. From behind.

Our drinks come and his is manlier than mine. I try it and cough a little. What is that? Martini? Yeah. I’m hungry. Why do you like me? Because you’re fucking weird. I like you. I know. Hector asks me to go to Los Angeles with him and I stretch my lips across my face like a smile and say maybe. The bartender takes our food order and I get the only thing I recognize and he gets the steamed escargot. When it comes, Hector asks me to try it. I say no. Please? No. This continues and I get frustrated. I want to leave. I want to drop my face on the bar and break my teeth, force them into my gums and pucker my nose in on itself, piercing my brain. Hector says if I don’t eat one then he’ll never be mine. I laugh and say we’re now officially wasting each other’s time.

I catch myself in the mirror, where two panes come together, and I look crooked, deformed, demonic, and utterly suave. Black leather jacket. Grey button-up shirt. Black tie. Stubble. How could he not want me? He cuts a snail in half and says to try that much. I tell him splitting it apart doesn’t help. I think about leaving and I start thinking about what I’m gonna say, ‘cause I have to say something. Or would it be better to walk out without saying anything? Not even a glance at him. Leave, man. Get up.

The bald man in the cowboy suit next to me leans in and says something about the game. I say something back to prove that I am a man and I know sports and stuff. Then Hector and the bald man talk with me in the middle feeling suddenly awkward, but watching this scene in the mirror. Hector likes the bald man’s ambition and his watch and that he speaks four languages. I notice his black teeth and beady little eyes. Hector says he’s moving to Los Angeles, the bald man asks when, Hector says March, the bald man says he should be out there then. I say we should get goin’. I finish my drink and don’t take another. Look at Hector, look at the bald man, the game, the condensation ring, the mirror, me. What the hell happened? Heavy sigh, noticeable. Hector leans to my ear, You gonna fuck me when we get home? You gonna leave your clothes on? If you want. Maybe. You wanna go? Yeah.

I pay and in the taxi, Hector asks if I want road-head and I say no and ask the taxi driver to turn the radio up. Lady Gaga, Bad Romance and I think about her video, when she’s dancing in slow motion, her knees in and out and now I’m hard but we’re almost home. Up the stairs, to the bedroom, push the blankets aside. I fuck Hector bent over and I pull and push into him, using his hips like handles. Hector moans and sighs and whimpers and tells me to lie on my back. Tells me not to move. He fucks hard, twists and grinding but changes his mind and bends over in front of me, ass spread. Fuck me ‘til you come. I tease then give it then take it then give it deeper, taking Hector to the furthest until I have to pull out and empty onto him, weakened as steam in cold night air. I like you. I know. I mean, I like you a lot. I like you too. But why, though?