Romantic Interludes.

We were eating raspberries in bed. I had a candle lit in the corner of my room, which was burning hazily and without conviction because one of my windows had a kink and didn’t shut all the way. I’d been meaning to fix it for a long time but it was just one of those things which never seem important enough during the day.

Anyway, the effect of the candle was rather prehistoric. With all that flickering, it was impossible to tell where light ceased and shadows began. The walls and the ceiling throbbed and pulsed like the insides of some living thing. I fancied that this was how Adam and Eve might have felt, huddled together inside a cave and trying to keep a fire alive, realizing for the first time the precariousness which comes with being simply human. I turned and asked if you thought we might be the only two people still awake in the city. You said you didn’t think so, since my roommate was still watching the TV in the living room.

We were winding down from one of those well-intentioned but intimately inadequate conversations about love, how it makes us so insecure, how it makes us so happy and miserable at the same time, and how irreconcilable being loved seems with our perceptions of self. As we split the last of the raspberries between us and began fondling each other, I said I didn’t want you sleeping with others. You said you’d stop, all you wanted was me, but by then my cock was already inside you, and I wasn’t sure if you meant it.

At some point during sex, you asked me to choke you. I obliged, and felt the rush of blood to my cock as your breathing became sparse. I was hard as fuck and my head was spinning. You wrapped your legs around my waist and whispered you were sorry. I asked you if this was how you liked to be fucked. You said yes, yes, you loved being fuck like this, this is how you wanted to be fucked all the time. Then you came. Your ass was sucking and pushing my cock as though its life depended on it and as I came, too, inside, I called you a bitch and a whore.

I was so ashamed, heartbroken. As you lay there catching your breath, I got up and left the room and locked myself in the bathroom. I was crying. I felt bitter. The tears stung.

When you came out of the room to get me I could hear my roommate ask if something was wrong. There was more curiosity than concern in his voice. You said no, nothing’s wrong, we just had a little argument. He pried further but instead of answering you knocked on the door and asked if you could be let in. I let you in.

I was sitting on the toilet with the seat down and wordlessly you pressed my face against your chest, stroking my hair. Your heartbeat was steady and soft. You smelled like sweat and sex under my shirt. You said it was okay, you were unhurt by what I’d said, I shouldn’t feel guilty. I told you I had meant those things, that I had been angry inside you, and that I didn’t like it. You said that was fine too, you said that you’ve been selfish and that was why you’d said sorry.

Once back in bed, we kissed and cuddled, fell asleep, touching each other. I had a strange dream about caves filled with vermilion glow and prehistoric paintings of all things now extinct.

By the time we woke up, there was a distinct hand-shaped bruise around your neck. You winced when I placed my hand on it, gingerly, like a tourist on Hollywood Boulevard. Can you choke me gentler next time, you said, and we both laughed.

“I’ve never understood why straight fiction is supposed to be for everyone, but anything with a gay character or that includes gay experience is only for queers.”

- Jeanette Winterson

Done.

Spent all afternoon in a coffee shop today (how hip am I) to escape the misery of the rain. Sure this has been deliberated on before but it’s so interesting that 90% of the conversations that you hear are inane, whereas everyone else’s silence is far, far more engrossing. My house mate has ventured out so I’ve got the house to myself, which is a rarity, enjoying the tranquility (and the frozen yoghurts I bought fuck they are nice). About to watch Blue Velvet as I’ve been wanting to for so long (if it’s as good as Mulholland. I’m in for a treat) then stay up reading Naked Lunch all night until my eyes give up on life.

Writer's Cock Block.

Fuck me.

The cursor flashed at me. It taunted me and almost dared me to write something. I rapped my fingers gently against the sides of my laptop, praying to every god I could think of and even made up a few for good measure.

I waited, swiveling back and forth in the chair I found at a garage sale that smelled faintly of cat pee.

Anything, I thought. It didn’t have to be a noun. A verb would have made me happy, even a flowery adjective would be welcome.

I leaned back in my chair, reached for my bottle of Fundador and poured myself a generous amount into the glass beside me. I brought the glass to my lips and took a swig. I grunted, gritting my teeth and let the slow, warming burn engulf me. I slid out a Lucky Strike from its pack and tapped it a few times on my desk. I lit the cigarette and took a long, steady drag then blew the smoke at the computer screen, where the cursor still pointed and snickered at me.

I felt like David facing down Goliath, a version of David who had forgotten his slingshot and stones at home. That’s it. I have nothing left to say. I’ve written all of the words out of me. I mourned and then poured myself another glass of tequila. A word flashed bright in my mind’s eye.

I smirked. The word burned like blue fire, searing my brain. I excitedly chewed on the butt of my cigarette. The smirk grew into a wide, silly smile. I reached for my Fundador and took a delicate, lapping sip for courage. My lucky had gone out and my mouth was full of fibrous shreds of filter, but I didn’t care. I still had a few words left, a couple of more stories to tell.

The silly smile grew into a goofy grin.  It was the perfect opening line. I placed my fingers onto the home keys and hammered out…

F-U-C-K.

Saul.

I wiped the cum I just sprayed onto Saul’s ass with the palm of my hand until it was nothing more than a clammy patch of copper-colored skin and then collapsed on top of his back. He told me I had to pull out. I kept thinking I should really wear a condom, but it’s so hard to go back once you’ve fucked without one. I couldn’t imagine being attached to Saul for the rest of my life should we both contract something. I’d already cum inside him once while we were drunk, and he went into a spiel afterwards about genital warts and STD’s. A real mood killer.

It was funny. There was a time when I couldn’t imagine not spending the rest of my life with him. I've known him forever and felt utterly comfortable around him. Now, I spent most of my days fretting over how to get away from him. I knew this wasn’t healthy. Fucking my ex-boyfriend. And not just any ex-boyfriend, the one who broke my heart the first time. The one who fucked Alfredo, my best friend from the first days of living in Tijuana. The one who sent me on the whole downward spiral of drug and alcohol abuse in the first place.

Despite all the guilt and shame over letting Saul back into my life, I still felt like I needed him right now. He took care of me in a motherly sort of way that no real boyfriend would ever put up with. He carried me home when I got too drunk, took my shoes off before he put me to bed, poured me a glass of water if I wasn’t unconscious already, and a lot of times he’d even blow my flaccid whiskey dick even when I knew there was no way I’d be able to hop on top of him in that condition. And I was still so lonely from losing Hector, I just, well, I needed Saul even if most of the time we spent together, aside from the sex, felt like my brain was being scrubbed with a piece of steel wool.

I knew the routine though. I’d wrap my arms underneath him and cradled him as I kissed his cheek. He’d turn his neck towards me and between heaves of breath said, “I love you.”

He’d said it every time we’d fucked since we’d ran into each other again on the patio at Bar Ranchero. It had been a couple of years since I’d last seen him, and he was drunk, and this time for whatever reason, I didn’t get up and walk away when he sat down. He gave me what I felt was a fairly heartfelt apology, and then offered me a no strings attached session of fucking after the bar. It had been six months since I had gotten laid, since Hector and I had fucked the last time on a drunken night a couple months after we broke up in El Paso. The loneliness was killing me. I didn’t even have a stupid crush to fantasize about, and I was so desperate for a man. I went back home with Saul, and I didn’t remember much of that night after the bar, but I remembered him saying, “I love you.”

I said it back the first time. I’d said it back a few times actually, but he said it every time. It had been two months since we had hooked up again. We’d spent almost every night together even though this was supposed to be a strictly fuckbuddies type of arrangement, and every fucking time, except for the one’s on drunken blackout nights I couldn’t remember, I was sure he said it at least once. Most of the time, I just smiled or pretended not to hear him. When it was really great sex, I’d get caught off-guard and reciprocate. For whatever reason, this time I asked about it, “Why do you have to say that?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I do.”

“It’s weird is all.”

“I think I’m still in love with everyone I’ve ever been in love with. I don’t think it goes away.”

I gritted my teeth a little bit when I heard him. Because getting back together with him had stirred some of these same emotions in me. It had been years since he’d broken my heart, and staring at him when he said that made me feel that time when I thought he was the most perfect specimen of human male I’d ever laid eyes upon. I decided to say it back again, “I love you too, I guess. It’s just weird, you know?”

“Why?”

“Well, I don’t know, well, I mean…”

“Because of Alfredo?”

As he said his name, I felt something vile enter my stomach through my esophagus. It was the hatred. He was one of only two people I could ever say he truly hated. Apparently, the hatred didn’t go away either. I wanted to forgive him. I’d guessed I had, but this whole situation just didn’t feel appropriate. I felt as if it was the perfect opportunity to tell him I didn’t want to do this anymore, but then again, where else would I be able to find someone I was so sexually compatible with who would put up with my drinking? I decided to just say, “Yeah.”

“Look, what we did to you was awful, and a part of me will always feel like a terrible human being, but it doesn’t mean I didn’t love you. Even when I was doing it.”

“I know. I know. And I’m over it. Mostly. It’s just, well, it’s just weird. I don’t know what else to say.”

“Let’s not talk about this right now. Will you just hold me?”

We rolled over and Saul pressed his back into my stomach as I put his right arm around his stomach and cupped his left chest with my right arm. I thought again about maybe it would be time to get my shit together. I wondered if I’d try to get back with him for real if it happened. Maybe he was the best I could do. Maybe the mistake that he made had altered the course of our destiny together. Maybe this was a second chance. After a few minutes of silence, I whispered into Saul’s ear, “What are we doing here?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, this, us, what are we doing?”

“We’re just fucking and hanging out.”

“We’ve spent every day together.”

“Yeah, I wonder about that too, but I’m having fun and I don’t know. I don’t really want to stop.”

“I know. I don’t either.”

“So let’s just leave it at that.”

“I just want to make sure you don’t want it to be more or anything.”

“I’ve already been your boyfriend. I’d really like someone new, but that doesn’t seem to happen for me, and you’re great for in the meantime.”

“So, I’m just some fucking replacement then?”

“Don’t get mad. That’s not what I’m saying. Look, you know we wouldn’t work together.”

“And I don’t want to get back together.”

“So, why are you acting all offended?”

I breathed a sigh. I wasn’t sure why I was either. I felt the same way. Maybe that was why. Our connection at this stage in my life felt so strong. Like we were on the same page in so many ways, and yet, all the wrong ways. It seemed like the last two years of my life had been spent suffering from all the shit that comes from loving the wrong people, and I just wanted someone new, but I didn’t want to be lonely anymore. Insert Saul. I looked back at him as his face stared inquisitively and intently at me waiting for a response.

I shrugged my shoulders before saying, “I don’t know.”

We laid there for a few more minutes without talking again before I looked at the clock and noticed it was ten-thirty. My friends would be showing up to the bar soon. I heard Saul’s heavy breaths, and whispered, “You awake?”

“Yeah.”

“Look, I gotta go.”

“Are you pissed off?”

“No, I gotta go meet Jose Luis at the bar.”

“Can I come?”

“Come on. Put some clothes on, and hurry up. I need a drink.”

Tequila Bottle.

Lip stick stains his shot glass.

The transvestite sat at table 7, his lucky number. His lucky night.

Shaking hands reach for the near empty bottle, desperate to consume the dreams he drowned years ago in clear poison. Skinny wasn’t the word for his fragile frame, bones stretch the translucent skin of his shoulder blades, his cheeks are hollow caves of malnourishment, stringy muscle are the only remnant of arms. He sits in his dirty, silken dress which barely covers his sunken thighs, bones jut out at his shoulders, and the tattered strap of his bra rests in the crook of an elbow. Stubble peeks out from kabuki make-up. His face - once pretty - is now worn and sallow, eyeliner carelessly applied, highlights the dark bags sleeping under his eyes. Once the amber color of the eyes held a small spark of hope, now they are sunken, watered down from years of wear.

Thin lips open to reveal a black hole, ready to consume the seventh glass of the night, cradled in the bony claw of his hand. As the hour darkens, the bottle empties, and his eyes grow more dull, his face more shallow, his lips less red. One bottle down, he reaches for more, but his money stretches less than his dress.

In the black of night he makes his trade, more money to pay for his memories to be wiped clean, to fly free in a bottle. Strangers approach and use his body how they like, no use caring for a broken toy. He stopped crying long ago - never while in public or when performing. He had attended to more important problems, like how to cover bruises in the daylight. He wasn’t much good at school, couldn’t read, couldn’t add or subtract, couldn’t even smile, no sympathy for the hollow boy. Back then he was a sad, confused, spat upon boy, anyway. Shunned. Ridiculed.

So, in this roach infested, forgotten Tijuana dive, as a sad ranchero love ballad warbles from an equally sad jukebox, he leaves his empty bottle and his empty glass to seek payment in some dark alley way. A man, tall, dark, dangerous guides him to the shadow of choice.

He didn’t notice the knife.

Scream.

Snap.

Silence.

No one cares about a joto prostituto dying in the dead of night.

They find him fucked up, beat up, cut up in the sunshine. Dank wig glittering red, eyes as glassy and dull in death as in life, neck smiling at the sky. Bones stick out at odd angles, blindingly white in the litter strewn alleyway. His silk dress lies in tatters, dripping with blood.

Seven birds take flight, free at last.

Snapshot Poetics

It was the end of May and of course, the infamous showers had come hailing down and hadn’t showed any sign of stopping. I was curled up on the sagging, musty couch in the living room of my tiny Tijuana flat – grey, cinderblock walls, red and dusty tiled floor, used furniture slung sparsely about, situated slap bang in the middle of skid row. But today was different. Instead of sighing despairingly at the weather and wishing it to go away, I gazed out of the grimy window suddenly wishing I could stand it in. Letting it fall down my shoulders and soak my hair right through. After a couple of minutes, the strong desire slipped and I shook my head, passing it off as simply boredom - and maybe a moment of insanity. I shuffled to the kitchen and began making a cup of coffee of which I then took a sip and promptly spat out. I’d been to the mercado (market to you ding-a-lings that don't speak the lingo) but there was no sign of my usual brand, so absent-mindedly, I had picked up whatever they had. Clearly that was a big mistake.

“Oh my God,” I coughed slightly. “That’s vile.” Now I was, even though I ashamed to say it, somewhat pretentious when it came to coffee. Even though I didn’t always have the time to make filter coffee, I always made sure I had the best instant. It was this incident which was the tip of the ice-berg.

“Right,” I slapped my hand on the counter. “Coffee shop it is!” I pulled off my large ‘comfy’ pajamas, pulled on a coat and some khaki Dickies pants and flung myself out of the doorway, grabbing my umbrella on the way and got lost in the gray, wet haze of the labyrinthine streets...


Fat electrical wires criss-cross in the air between terraces of dead, potted plants and hissing gas tanks, steam billows from Chinese restaurants and temale vendors as water rages down from a million corrugated roofs. A multitude of neon signs blink and blare in vain - everything is grey, dull, lifeless. The rain is cascading so hard, the narrow streets are lost in a thick, shimmering haze.

Smoke.

I shot it onto his thighs and gave him the cash. He pulled his jeans up and left me in the men’s room to wash up. Hair wet and slicked back, I walked out feeling a little better. He finished up his cigarette and we left the bar to wander the streets. Tacos sounded good. Mexican hot dogs sounded better, so we used technology to find our way there. Some wandering later, the wooden doors swung open and we ate. Cum came up in the conversation and how a fag must absolutely love it and it on him or else there’s really no point in continuing any relationship. I agreed with him and mixed my crimson hot sauce with the puke green guacamole. A group of black fags all stared at him and for the first time in my life I felt the envy of men with bigger penises than I. But I don’t fuck Saul - I cuddle with Saul. I wander with Saul. And when a fucking piece of shit walked up to him and asked him for prices, I put my fist in his jaw. My hands pushed his throat against the wall and I fed him a neon light, cutting his face and putting electricity in his veins. When the lights went out he put his hand on my shoulder and whispered, “You gotta stop doing that.”

“You’re better than that.”

He took me outside and we caught some fresh air, smoked a joint to mix. “Look,” he said. “Let’s get your fortune read.” And he pointed across the street at a little shanty boasting three questions answered for ten pesos.

“I don’t have three questions.”

“Just ask about love, money, and death.”

“Love, money, and death. Alright.”

We finished the joint and went in, black-clad in leather and looking all sorts of smoke. A woman came out from a set of curtains and asked who had the questions and I began to say something along the lines of ‘some fucking psychic’ but Saul threw me a look telling me to behave. I bit my tongue and smiled that I was the one. She sat me at her table and put Saul to the side. A couple of orbs sat on both sides of her and it smelled like cat shit in the cramped room. The tarot cards were shuffled and spread and she asked me for my first question.

“What’s the name of my life partner?”

She told me to pick a card and I go for the one I was eyeing. She flipped it over and it was the card of The Devil. The room stammered and the woman sunk her shoulders a little, hesitant. Her eyes looked up at me, looked around me. “There’s darkness in you.” I chuckled. “They are around you,” she said, softer.

“What are?”

“Dragging spirits. You’re imbalanced and they’re waiting for you to fall.”

“I’m possessed?”

“They are not in you, they are only around you. But if you invite them in - if you conjure or open yourself - they will answer you.”

Part of me liked The Devil being so close to me and part of me wanted to pull my cock out and fuck Saul on the spot. Fuck him on her table and have her tell me when I’m going to come and where I’m going to put it. But, The Devil card was there and I had two more questions.

I looked at her again and she started choking. She stood up and gagged, tears welling up. Cum came to the brim of her mouth and began dripping out. The cum turned to blood, and blood to spiders and when the spiders were through there was fire. She burned down and from her scorched corpse rose The Devil, all red and smoking.

He took a seat across from me.

Saul took out a cigarette and He tossed him a flame. He winked a smirk.

“How was the drinks?” He asked.

“Not bad.”

“I saw you killed a man.”

“I did.”

“And enjoyed the company of a prostitute just before that.”

“He ain’t a prostitute.”

“I’m not talking about Saul.”

I shrugged sorta, asked Him what He wanted.

“You’re dead, pal, and I’m here to collect.”

I looked at Saul and he blew some smoke out, crossed his legs, and told me not to look so surprised.

“Look at him! He doesn’t even know!” The Devil leaned forward. “Buddy, you electrocute a guy you’re holding onto and you’re gonna get shocked just as much. But, that fuck went one way and you, my friend, went south.”

The Devil opened a walkway to Hell and I saw glowing in the cracks in the floor.

Saul slinked up slowly behind me and put his lips near my ear, “Come up and see me again. There’s only Hell and forty minutes between us.”

When the door chimed on Saul's way out The Devil stood up and a fire and black smoke consumed me.

Emotions Are Messy.

It was surprisingly easy not waking him up. As he lay there, curled up on the sagging, old bed with his head comfortably nested between the safety of his arms and his shiny, ebony hair curtaining a calm face, slumbering despite the ongoing alarm which reverberated through the rented room. The room was dark and reeked with the mixed, pungent aroma of dust, musty clothes, and dried semen. The snoozed noise reminded me of what I needed to do, and I broke my lingering gaze from him as I turned the alarm off and got out of bed. The young man remained unmoving, drawing deep breaths from the air around him, and I studied him again as I pulled on some of the few clothes which weren't packed down in bags. ‘Why had he come?’ The question came naturally to me as I looked at him turning around in his sleep and reaching for a person which was no longer there. The emptiness of the vacant body didn’t stir him to wake up — instead he withdrew his arm back towards his chest and hugged it with his other. It wasn’t like I didn't want to be there with him, quite the opposite, but I needed to go, and yet I didn’t want to pull away from the sight of him, didn’t want to turn around and leave him there. So vulnerable and so pure. Yet I had to, so eventually I did, tearing my gaze away and unwillingly stepping out in the cold morning.

I walked over wet, cracked sidewalk to a corner café. Ordered a coffee Americano from a grimacing Indian woman behind the cluttered counter. The sky was as grey and bland as I felt that somber moment. I looked out onto the cobblestone plaza which stretched in front of the silent cathedral across the street. The smell of piss and wet dog hung in the air. Several city workers slowly made their way across the plaza with fire hoses attached to a tank on wheels washing away the filth from the previous night. They moved slowly as if in a dream.

I watched as I sipped my bitter coffee. The heat scorching my lower lip. I thought about him. Should I go back? Why am I so afraid to follow up on the pursuit of a relationship? Emotionally, I am so lonely, but the walls I have built around me are far too high and far too thick. I am truly lost.

I throw the styrofoam cup into a trash can cascading in putrid garbage and briskly walk back to the rented room. I am going to show him love, compassion, respect. Everything he asked for  throughout the previous night. I stop. Light a cigarette, turn the other way, and return home…

I Think So. So?

I look out the window wistfully, pressing my face against the glass. I thought this to be a rather accurate representation of what my life had become. Watching life happen from behind a screen. Separated, but not completely cut off. It was in this moment that I realized just how sorry I felt for myself. Things never really had a way of working out for me, but it seemed now that Fate was just playing with me. The warmth emanating from the laptop that rested on my legs reminded me that I was up to something.  This was, of course, nothing new, as I was always up to something. I scroll the pages of my blog. How depressing I found it to be now. I closed the window, considering deleting it entirely. No one read it. When it was updated, it was always something sad. Actually, tragic is a better word. At least I thought so.

i heard he died.

Had I known that would be the last time we talked I would have never fallen silent. I would have looked you in the eyes and told you how I see the stars shine deep inside your soul; that light in your eyes, the kind you only see when you gaze off into the distance, deep in thought. I would have taken your hand, traced each and every line, scar, and flaw, only to tell you that you have the most impure yet perfect complexion. I would have put my hand on your heart and leaned my head into your chest, listening to the purity of your existence; just those two beats that make you human; the two sounds of life and love, like rhythm and rhyme, day and night. I would have pressed my lips against yours, the most gentlest parts of skin against one another, to remind you that no matter how rough your exterior may be, there is always the you that exists deep inside; the you that anyone rarely sees; the you that is shared with only those you trust most. I would have taken your head delicately in my arms, pressed it to my chest and whispered your name, cooing words of comfort, peace, and human desire. Had I known that would be the last time we talked I would have never fallen silent.

Memo Pascal Rodriquez 1983 - 2012 Rest In Peace

Down A Dark Hole.

So I almost wrote today. Outside my head. Not on my phone. With the possible intent to … show it to the public.

I used to do it a lot. Writing, that is. One time, I wrote about 99% of a story on a dirty Nordstrom’s bag, because I couldn’t find anything else, and I needed to write it, just to see if I could write something with no dialogue. Or something in X POV. Or something, just because I saw a word and desired to use it. And then I’d post the results, send the story to the winds, call it good or bad or what have you. It was written. It was out there. There was some sort of completed cycle.

And then there was anxiety.

It’s not like anxiety was a new thing. Far from it: I’ve apparently been depersonalizing since I was 12. It’s just that, well, for my teens and early 20s, the comorbidity that tended to cause me the most trouble was depression.

Depression may cause me not to write, crawl out of bed, do dishes, wash my hair, wear anything but a bathrobe, and it may cause me to do some incredibly stupid things that would probably rightfully earn a trigger warning for suicidal thoughts and self-harm, but it’s an entirely different blocker than anxiety. There’s nothing there, so nothing matters.

Anxiety is worse, because the words are there. Whole plots, at times. Researched and intricate and probably only of interest to me, but honestly, that never stopped me before, so why is it stopping me now?

It’s not rational, anxiety. I dislike things that aren’t rational.

I dislike that I can’t just say, “You are an irrational thing. Be gone!”

One of the things I dislike most about mental illness is that there’s always, always collateral damage. Even after the worst of it’s gone, there’s always (for me) something I can’t get back. In the case of depression, there are more things than I could list (some good, some bad). In the anxiety case, it’s largely been my writing. Hell, my creativity in general.

The last two years have been the least productive years on a creative level of my entire life. I’d work out the Percentage of Useful Lifetime Thus Far Lost to Anxiety, but that would be even less productive than me sitting here counting the threads of navel lint is going to be, and perhaps even counterproductive, because then I’ll have a number over which I can obsess.

And the real snag I’m going to hit here is, as long as I have to be a responsible adult, with adult responsibilities, no matter how much I medicate it, the anxiety, that unwanted byproduct of my coping mechanisms, of always having to be watching, thinking, considering my reactions to things in light of the fact that I’m dealing with a neurotypical’s world, is never going to go away. So now I need coping mechanisms for my coping mechanisms, to try to solve the issues caused my coping mechanisms.

At some point, it gets really recursive when I try to explain.

So I think my coping mechanism is going to be attempting to write something and actually put it out there. Could be fannish. Could be original. Could be something in between. 

Drunk Stumble Love?

I was drunk. I knew. I could feel how the walls I had self-imposed on myself were growing thinner. Then again, I was not as drunk as I seemed to.

He smiled to himself. In a way, he had me just like he had wanted. But the truth was that in all his plotting he hadn’t count on him drinking as much as he had. So he was drunk too. On the other hand, he was faking to be more sober than he was.

So there we were, walking the distance between that place and his car. I asked him for his arm as I mumbled something about my balance and he wondered if that was a good idea. He was more prone to losing his balance than myself so in the even that he’d fall; he’d take me with him. Still, he kept his “normal mode” on and managed to walk as straight as he could, reveling in the strong grip I held over him.

Suddenly, a legitimate tumble from my drunk ass were indeed a complicated thing to manage as I walked over the stony surface of the street - made my body turn completely to him and his protective self-grabbed me by the arms with all his might. As it turned out, once the fall threat was over, his arms were completely around me and it only took a change of concepts to go from keeping me from falling to him hugging me.

We both felt something for the other. We were just too scared and too shy to admit it, but now that we were so close and the red wine that pumped through our veins not only clouded our self-consciousness but became the perfect alibi for us to show our true feelings, it only took a moment and locking our eyes to forget everything and kiss.

Our relationship might still be awkward in the morning and we may not know how to address what had happened the night before but for now, it just didn’t matter. We were where we had so longed to be, in each other’s arms. We were doing what they had so dreamt of doing, dwelling in the awesome feeling of kissing and finally giving into all we felt for each other.

That night we were not as drunk as we claimed to be but we were as in love as we could ever be.

Lust and Cigarettes.

He traps the cylinder between his pout. Gently gripping the filter the way you would hold a lover’s earlobe between your teeth, applying just enough pressure to communicate your desire. The flame of the lighter teases the end of the cigarette to life, like the tip of a quivering tongue, tracing the lines of a lover’s lips to stimulate a hungry response. He inhales sharply, with a sexy little hiss. Smoke fills his lungs, like tiny whimpers of pleasure echoing into the sensual cavern of his wicked mouth. He arches his back slightly and tilts his head to one side, exposing the delicate curve of his vulnerable throat; exhale...he smokes slowly. Each time he tilts my head back to exhale, his mouth stays parted in a small O shape, like he’s frozen in a moment of orgasmic passion.

My hands tighten to fists. I gnash my teeth and dig my nails into the flesh of my palms. It’s all I can do to stop myself from pouncing on him… and licking the residue of nicotine from his lips and fingertips.

I Don't want To Be Famous, I Just Want To Be Read.

these days people like to talk about having sex and tasting that hard cock with their broken hearts which whirls around in their rib cages so they take a swig of alcohol and smoke a cigarette and then look up at the stars which remind them of his eyes he’s was always so beautiful i traced his spine with my fingertips i kissed his clavicles and i cupped his sorrow in my hands and his veins bled ink because he wrote beautifully and sent letters and sipped tea and petted his cat while he sat on the other side of the room and watched t.v. and he had a beer in hand and was totally wasted and his breath smelled like whiskey and sorrow and there were old books on the floor the birds were singing outside and their memories were swept away by the ocean and everyone was in love - 

almost everyone was guilty of this at some point

(The above was written in a post-alcoholic state in the middle of the night. Management apologizes for any inconvenience.)

Tijuana Trepidations Vol. 7

In a Ranchero bar in Tijuana, I watched as a slender, petite boy in his late teens was being pulled into a room by his hair, screaming. My Mexican friends told me not to worry about it.

Upstairs in our private room. we chose our men and boys and mine sat on my lap and fed me. He had to be 17 or 18 and he was trying to be coy. I’d chosen the guy I’d seen being pulled into the room by his hair.

The rentboys had lined up in front of the four of us, sprawled out on the U shaped sofa, and I’d been told to choose first. The boys and men stood there looking bored. I knew they were used to this, but the idea of ‘choosing’ a guy was alien to me. I chose my ‘date’ because his eyes were red from crying.

I sang Born in the USA because it was one of the only songs in English I knew well enough, but mostly I just sat there drinking Carta Blanca in big glasses filled with ice. I sat and listened to the others sing sad love songs in a language I couldn’t understand and I smoked Lucky Strike cigarettes.

Afterwards my friends encouraged me to take the kid back to the hotel, but I said no, and he began crying again. I gave him two hundred pesos and he stopped crying and was happy again.

Back at the hotel, I tried masturbating in the shower, but nothing happened. All I could think about was that kid being pulled into that room and the way his eyes lit up when I put the money in his hand.

***

There was an American bar in the Red Light District of Zona Norte and I went there to watch the American football games and drink myself stupid in the company of overweight, old white men. In a lot of ways it was like being home, except I could smoke inside, and all the girl hookers were Central or South American.

On some of those nights, I called my brother because I knew he was watching the game too.  But I was always too drunk and when I woke in the morning I always had text messages asking me if I was okay and telling me to come home.

You’re scaring me, one of these read.

***

One night I ended up on the roof of the Rex Hotel, alone. I just sat there looking out at the city, depressed, thinking about what a mistake it was to come here. My boyfriend and I had come here before he was my partner for seven years, when we were still just friends, but I remembered it so clearly.

I’d wanted to visit the Rex because I knew Charles Bukowski had lived there for a time, but my partner didn’t know who Charles Bukowski was. He liked the view though. At night the city looked gorgeous from up here and we took pictures of ourselves, the city behind us.

I knew I was going to spend the rest of my life with that guy.

I was wrong, I guess.

We Are All Lonely.

He walks down the motel hallway and the lights above him flicker as he passes. His lanky, black hair kind of bounces with his steps - it’s bobbed short and parted down the middle, he looks like a runway supermodel - but this man is a whore. The torn, faded jeans scream it, the cheap, wrinkled t-shirt commands it, the come in his hair brags about it. He won’t hesitate, he’ll fuck you and leave and he can do it all without talking, so he’s popular. The shadows in the hall mix with the shadows around his eyes and when he stops in front of me all I see is white. He looks in and I look out and we meet somewhere in the middle. I let him into my room and the hallway goes dark, the lights in my room spark out. He stops a few feet in and turns around, red eyes glowing in the black, he curls a finger at me and I step inside.

(When everything is dead it gets quiet. Quiet enough to hear muscles move or blood rush. Quiet enough to hear penetration at its deepest point- where flesh touches flesh and you can hear the body send off electricity full of excitement. And if you’re fucking a beast you can hear him purr beneath you, bent in front of you, vulnerable for you in the utter black that is around you. A beast from fire will lay for you with smoke and char as you succumb to the demon that wants your cum.)

After all, we are all lonely inside.

Truly Fucked Up.

Trudging slowly over wet sand - no, wait, that's a song. I can't start there.

The sky is as grey and uninteresting as a dead television channel. I walk along the warped boardwalk - curled planks, exposed nails - and look out onto the equally colorless, crashing surf. Sad and weary ice cream vendors prowl by and notice my equally sad demeanor and offer nothing to this frumpy-looking gringo.The air is chilly. It has been quite cold since my arrival. Several families frolic along the littered beach and brave the brisk water.

I found my way down to the border. A huge rusted fence of steel girders juts out fifty feet into the sea. An enormous corrugated wall separates the haves from the have-nots and stretches and meanders east for miles and miles.

What brought me here was the attempt to get a reception on my cell-phone. I got one but it was in vain. The truth of the matter is: I am flat fucking broke. This move has drained all I had in the bank. To keep afloat, I was told by my landlady back in El Paso that my deposit would be mailed to me. Much needed, I assure you at this point. Even if it is a paltry fifty dollars. It would help to get by the next two weeks until I got paid. But, it is explained to me on the phone that it would take "up to thirty days to process". In other words - it will be months. Fucking bureaucratic bullshit.

My roommate Paco has been kind enough to award me a daily allowance for the past week to eat with. Money I am sure he can not spare - but, he is being humble and sweet about it. I tell my inquiring friends that it is lack of funds for the reason of my depressed mood. "I haven't been without money since 2007." Is my usual reply with a forced grin. That is a bald-ass lie.

I am so depressed. This depression is consuming me like cold fire. I just want to hole up in a room somewhere and be alone - however, under the circumstances, that is an impossibility. No one's fault but my own.

What have I done? Is the question screaming in my head. Why did I make this stupid, impulsive move? Why?! My health - both physical and mental - are rapidly deteriorating. I can feel it. And it's insidious. The mask that I wear is beginning to crack and fall away and one day, one day soon I will stand in front of these people not the suave, cool, world weary traveler that I put up, but as a shivering, babbling, terrified invalid who will simply sit and cry and sob in never ending grief. So much loss over the past few years...

I want to go. I am not supposed to be here. The main reason I had left Tijuana two years prior was the paranoia of fucking up my pension. How am I going to live here in comfort with that sword of Damocles hanging over my head? 

Damn, this mental shit. I loathe conversation with anyone. I just want to be alone. Then when I am alone, I feel like shit because I realize what an insufferable monster I have become. And, seriously, who would want to be friends with my anyway? Everyone is out for their ulterior motives - to take instead of give. I just want a good friend who I can trust without any of the bullshit of physical contact to fuck it up. The fucking fags in El Paso screwed that up for me. That is why I guess I left in such a hurry - being in absolute loneliness for a year, distrustful of everyone.
And here I am in Tijuana - the city of hedonistic dreams and broken hearts - ten million people all wanting nothing more than to drink and fuck. And, I want to be alone.

I am truly fucked up. Maybe death is a way out? It surely wouldn't be skin off of anyone's back...no ones at all....

Lalo.

Where storm clouds hid past the horizon, in a desolate city that no one visited - he lived there.  Woke up there. Put out personal ads there. Romantic ones, and ones which hinted towards a vintage love that had gone distant in light of technology - texting, instant messaging, skype. He wrote about pebbles at windows and bike rides and holding hands and when he finished another draft of an ad, he’d jerk off to grainy porn that came in glitchy and on stolen wi-fi.

The  following mornings he’d walk to the paper and pay the fee for his ad to run with bold letters and asterisks and a fake circle around it so when readers went back to see what they had chosen to follow up on, his would get sneaked in.

No one answered the ads but overweight married men, or overweight lonely men, or overweight normal men who were just overweight, but he kept at them - writing longer and longer tales of romance and eventually taking over an entire page in the newspaper. Men flocked to him every week. Some would wait for him at the paper to intercept, but he would look them over and walk in, pay his fees and leave.

In that town there was no cannabis or alcohol so he found himself smoking a mixture of herbs, seeds, sticks and kitten’s whiskers. It was a confusing blend of smoke, but it got him to different planes and he would use those escapes to fantasize further about a man:  Short, but not too short. A nice neck. Black hair and blue eyes. Classic, American boy next door good looks. A subtle southern accent, but not too prominent - the kind which only comes out in certain words. A man who can hold his own but would also need someone beside him. He wanted a man to stand behind, let him do his thing, and step in if he needed.  He wanted the free spirit to his planted oak.

One week he decided to fore go the story and instead made a simple checklist.  If a man could complete it and meet the requirements, he would be welcomed to contact him. The requirements were the same as the above desired characteristics in addition to having a certain no-greater-than weight and a complimenting spiritual outlook. There was also a blank section for applicants to use as they wished: a small written bio, or a certain playlist, or a dirty limerick - their choice.

The attention stopped and the city gave up on him. They shunned him and considered him an outcast.  After a couple days he couldn’t go to the grocery without them spitting on the sidewalk in front of him.  Children would throw snow at him. Men would push him behind drugstores and give him what-for’s. The town had decided honesty was something left to the library, and they wanted what they saw on television and movie screens.

He stopped with the ads and ate his TV. dinners and smoked his cat whiskers and took out the trash when it was absolutely too full to fit anything else in. Neighbors would watch him from behind their blinds, sending their eyes to him all judgmental and southern. He missed California, and the Orange County swap meet.

Eventually he got lost in his beard and smoke and ran a stop sign, crashing into a pick-up truck and spinning it a little. A woman hopped out the bed of the truck and ran to the passenger door and pulled out a baby in a car seat. He sat in the car, wide-eyed and pale, and watched the neighbors come out pointing. The small family in the truck was fine, just rattled, and his phone started vibrating in his pocket. Things were getting noisy with the hollering and the glass and he rolled up his window, flipped open his phone. The text read: “My name is Lalo and I saw your ad in the paper. I’ve been following your ads for some time now, but have come to miss them recently. I found your last ad, filled it out, and I’m pleased to say I meet your little requirements. We should meet.”

He looked around and saw the cops walking towards his car.

He texted back: “Send me a picture.”

A cop tapped his window and he got out and started the apologetic “Is everyone alright” routine, checked on the baby and put his hand on his forehead like a worried man would do. He thanked the cops for their assistance, cleaned up the shards of bumper and headlights, and tried to get to his house to check out the man’s picture as quickly as possible.  But the boys in blue put their hands on him after the neighbors had gone to their insides. They left him bruised and warned.

As he laid there in the street and street lamps he got another vibration from his phone and checked it. He was handsome. Space black hair, House-blue eyes, a neck to die for.  He texted him his address and he responded: “30 mins.”

He left his car parked facing the wrong way on the curb after having to push it the 3 or 4 blocks back to the house. He walked through the door and said out of breath, “I’m having someone over. I need you to stay in the back of the house tonight.”

The house was an old house, with wooden floors and windows stuck in their panes, having expanded with the rain. He lived there with a ghost, but the ghost was friendly. It would take light bulbs out of their sockets and fill the water jug in the fridge, but it never brought fear to him and it gave him privacy when he masturbated. He had announced one night to the living room that he was placing a white board and marker on the wall and should the ghost feel the want to share its name, it could write it. He told the ghost it could stay, so long as it didn’t frighten him - though waking up to a name on the wall would be terrifying, no matter how friendly the penmanship. The board stayed white and was white still when he locked the front door behind him.

He wasn’t home five minutes when there was a knocking at the door. He hollered for one second and he washed his face and combed back his hair. With everything dirty shoved away, he answered the door and almost buckled with surprise. The picture was one thing, but to see him standing there, surpassing expectations, nearly took his air. Tall and lean. Strong Aztec features. Copper skin.

Lalo walked into the house, made an irked face, and looked at him.
”How ‘bout we go out?” Lalo asked.

He looked back and saw a shadow scurry behind a wall. “Alright,” he said.

They went to a bookstore and didn’t find much. The faggoty cashier winked at Lalo as they left and Lalo mentioned this to him when they got in the car. He went back in and, though Lalo couldn’t hear what was being said, Lalo saw there was pointing and one punch thrown.

He got back in the car and shook his knuckles.  ”Where do you want to eat?”

They went to a movie instead and saw something called Devil and tried to figure out the killer before the credits. His pick was the first killed so he tried to make out with Lalo instead, opting to do it then instead of waiting nervously. Lalo obliged and they felt their tongues for the first time. They stayed entwined for the film and by the end had wandered their hands under each other’s jeans.  Lalo was hard and he was throbbing and they decided to go back to the house.

They rushed through the door and threw off their coats as they bumped into the walls and door frames, making their way to his bed. He hit the radio and Murder Ballads came through the speakers, bloody and dark. He threw Lalo to the mattress and held himself up over the inviting form, his hair brushing the tips of Lalo’s nose and lips. Lalo unbuckled his belt and pulled it from his jeans. Lalo undid his button-fly with nimble fingers and put his hand around his cock, pulled on it, too. He fed Lalo his tongue again and Lalo put the tip of him against the long, throbbing bulge of his denim.

“I want to do something,” Lalo said. ”Put on a movie.”

“What movie?”

“I don’t fucking care.”

He ran to the living room with his flopping member and came back with Edward Scissorhands, put it in the player, then noticed Lalo was naked and stretching his limbs, his ribcage expanding around his frame, all flesh and inviting. The long, thick penis was stretched up along the flat stomach. The skin was pulled back over the head, clear semen formed at the tip.

He lay with Lalo and when the movie began Lalo said, “I’m going to suck your cock.  And you’re going to tell me what you’re watching.”

Lalo smiled and put his cock in his mouth and he began sucking on it, slowly gliding his mouth up and down the shaft, flicking under the head with his tongue.

He put his head back and watched the saliva build up around Lalo’s lips. Lalo looked up at him and pointed to the movie.

“Uh…There’s some houses…and they’re…they’re all colorful, or…suburban like…Jesus Christ your mouth…” He felt the suction and Lalo's tongue caress the sensitive head of his penis. It made his back arch and toes point outward with each stroke. Lalo was naturally hitting all of his buttons.

Lalo pointed back at the screen again.

“Uh, fuck, ok…there’s a lady walking…around…and she’s…she’s selling something…are you fucking kidding me? Come here.” And he grabbed Lalo’s face and put his lips to his, but Lalo pushed him away and went back down to his glistening, slobbered dick. Lalo put it back in his mouth and moaned, pleased with himself.

“Ok, ok…the lady is still walking…and no one is buying anything…and she’s thinking about sucking my cock, gagging on it and wanting its cum…”

Lalo looked up and smiled, shook his head with his cock between his teeth, and said, “No improv.”

He sighed and lifted his hips into Lalo’s face, pulled Lalo towards his erection and had him swallow it.

“I’m going to fuck your face.”

And Lalo smiled, or tried to smile, as the stiff cock pumped inside his throat. Lalo put the man's hands in his hair and made him grip the dark, curly strands. He pulled on Lalo and held his cock deep in his mouth until Lalo turned red and his eyes watered. Lalo brought his head back and a wad of drool fell out his mouth as he took a breath. They smeared it on themselves and he jerked off while Lalo put his fingers in his hole.

“Bring it here,” he told him.

“Come in my mouth,” Lalo said.

Lalo gripped his cock and began stroking it between his lips, smeared saliva bubbles and spit-covered. Their eyes were no longer strangers. They had found something in each other’s and they stared with it, reaching out and finding the other. He began to rapidly breath through his nostrils, mouth clenched such. He held Lalo’s head and cheek and shot his spurting load into him, jabbing his hips roughly up at Lalo's twisting, bobbing head, making Lalo squirm and whimper and close his eyes and lose some of it as it seeped out the corner of his mouth. Lalo swallowed what he could and licked up the rest before laying his head on the man's sweaty chest. Some cum slowly made its way out him and they laid there while Edward got accustomed to a waterbed.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Lalo whispered.

“Yes.”

“Do you know you have one here?” Lalo asked.

“Yes.  But it’s harmless.”

“I don’t think it is.”

Martinis at Sunset

I lay in my room. Outside seagulls squawk, dogs bark. My roommate is in the living room killing zombies online. Enough of this shit, I shower and dress and walk down to the cafe to shoot the shit with anyone who will lend a friendly ear.

Mostly on account that I wanted to smooth talk this one guy who I recently met named Jose Luis. He is attending medical classes and makes the occasional trip to the beach to watch the sunset. The first time we chatted and I thumbed through his text books, I made a quip about Freud and he followed it by a comment about artists having oral fixations all the while giving me that look. You know...that look.

So, as I was saying, I went to the beach to talk with him yet instead wound up sitting in front of the beer/pizza joint called Horno 320 and drinking beers with expat writer Robert Smallwood. Me being without funds, it was nice of him. We sat and chatted of writing and writers. All the while blowing my rendezvous with Jose Luis. A ver...

Eventually, Robert invited me to the rooftop balcony to his house on the beach to smoke weed and sip martinis. Though that 52 year old was sloshed to gills stumbling over words and sometimes his own feet, the old man made sense - he urged me to continue writing (I had confessed that I was thinking of throwing in the towel) and I should exploit my gift. Funny, never saw it as a gift - more as a curse, but I digress.

As the sun sank as a flaming ball over the silver horizon, we returned to the pizzaria and sat out on the tables on the sidewalk and joked and laughed - mostly Robert making off-kilter sexual innuendo at two girls who sat across from us - it was actually a relaxing time that I needed after the emotional rollercoaster ride of the previous week.

And as for Jose Luis - the poor boy is in my sights and I think it is high time to begin the hunt...

If You're Going to Try, Go All the Way.

I sit here at the cafe on the beach. Sunny skies and crashing surf. A fishing boat bobs languidly on the silver horizon. So calm. Yet my paranoia and angst runs rampant. Why am I so wound up? When I get like this, I want to write. My mind is awash with a million images and words splash across my eyes like a kaleidoscope of fireworks on a summer night. The only recourse is to write my way out of this insidious depression which I battle on a daily basis.

I sit and I scribble notes on a new novel. No title as yet. It is still in it's larval state. However, it will be gritty and raw and harsh. I will not hold back anything. I plan to puke it out onto a page and then smear that mess into some sort of coherent prose. It will be an anthology of several stories of my adventures through the back alleys and underground sewers of American society.

Staring out into this idyllic vista, am I living the dream or have I thrust myself into another fractured nightmare? I think the paranoia is that I still hadn't adjusted to this change. Or it is the tidal wave of nostalgia from previous Tijuana episodes. Have I changed that much? Has my age finally caught up with me? Do I crave the tranquil stability which I had spat at for so many decades? Only last night, I lay in my room pondering the idea at the first of next month packing my shit and moving to Tucson. Why? Hell if I know.

Charles Bukowski once wrote, “If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery - isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is.”

Oh, how I envy writers who can turn their misery into beautiful flowers. That is the goal I am attempting to reach with my writing. To excise all the misery and heartache and letdowns and depression from my body and mind onto paper. But, there seems so much. A vast, dusty hall of memories piled to the high, dark roof in uncategorized, dirty, and soiled boxes echoing with the low hum of absolute solidarity. Well, it seems I have my work cut out for me.

The Theater of Noise

Too much is too much
In the Theater of Noise
Blue dog barks at the night sky
How much is the cries
How wet is the wet
Girlfriend, where's boy?
Total cries of lust
Why hogs of beauty come?
The back story of my place
The Theater of Noise
Interesting, but true
The Theater of Noise
Belongs to the people!
For the people!
By the people!
By the people
How do you know?
By rotting governments?
By stupid politicians?
By rancid presidents?
Behold my Word Hoard!
Sky red, Blue night. Why?
Why? Why? Why?
Perhaps the answer is in you?
Anytime
missed the cumshot
Blew the shot, blew the shot
Blew the shot