Black Fire.

Met some young hipster train jumpers hanging out down at a local coffee house near the tracks. Wanted to size up some citizens to get real and write. Prostitutes with itchy scabs and purple scars, convicts with nervous furtive glances, and drab hobos sit dunking pound cake with the smell of sour feet and unwashed genitals. Good taste in music. Johnny Cash. Santa Fe art dons the peeled walls.
You know how old people lose all shame about eating, and it makes you sick to watch them? Old junkies are the same about junk. They jibber and squeal at the sight of it, the spit hangs off their chin, their stomach rumbles and all their guts grind in peristalsis while they cook up, dissolving the body’s decent skin, you expect any moment a great blob of protoplasm will plop right out and surround the junk. Really disgusts you to see it.
So's I meet this one cat, Billy he says, blond sandy hair, skin red and toughened and wrinkled by years of exposure to the elements, not an old guy...but handsome. The smell of locker rooms and flop houses. In the men’s room, he is shooting up with his Indian and asks "Wanna bang?"
"Naw. Cut that crap eons ago."
Pinpoints in his eyes and he slumps against the wall, shoulder sliding down against white grimy tile, t-shirt clinging. Dragged down by the pull of junk. The Indian, toothless old woman smile takes the spike, and jabs. The Indian is down for the count. I stood there with the cooler system clacking in a foul-smelling bathroom, slowly toking my joint as I watched Billy and the Indian go on the nod with dreamful nostalgia.
Ted, tall and could be a model with raven hair and jagged looks, enters in swishing of a long black trench coat and searches through Billy's pockets for the stash. Wouldn't you? He looks up at me with steel blue eyes, "That greedy fucker shot it all?" I shrugged, watching a large cockroach skitter across a drainpipe. Beer got warm and strictly from boredom I returned to the bar. Savage Charlie, a man of the grossest dimensions sidles up to me and puts down the faggot patter. Compliments. Free booze. I gots lots of cash, he grins with his cherub smile. Lose 150 lbs. and we'll talk. So quiet between us after that. Song changes. Sunday Morning, by Pat Boone. What asshole played that? Oh, yeah...me.
An Indian from the Rez enters the fray. Tall and lean and a face so smooth and pure. Jet black hair and warm brown eyes. Torn black jeans and a black t-shirt with a white wolf on it. Goes by the moniker Lester. Guess you can't win them all. Still striking and lovely at the same time for a guy of twenty-one.
"You new here?" He asks, ordering his Bud Lite. I drank Corona. I go into my spiel and we jibber-jabber of Mexico, the Rez (Indian reservation, for you uneducated.), and the glories of marijuana. "You like good weed; I got some back at the rez. We can take my car." I see where this is leading. Flop into his Hyundai, rattling fender and coughing muffler, we shoot south to Injun territory. He lives with his uncle and little brother in a trailer surrounded by dirt and cacti and old rusted cars. Out back of the blue and white mobile home, we sit next to a shed on crates and junk and smoke the sweetest herb I have ever enjoyed.
Discussing literature and the decline of Western Civilization, the sun sets crimson behind the mountains in a glorious blast of fury. As the stars twinkle, Lester steals a kiss and it doesn't go further than that. We talk more and giggle and joke and toke. Chatter of Science Fiction and homosexuality. He says he likes white boys and would like to "do it". Wouldn't you? In the shed, fumble, kiss, masturbate. Blowing Lester, penis was short and uncut, he comes quickly in great hot spurts and apologizes. Don't worry, handsome, I smile. Long ride back to town, I shared a hamburger and my fries. Just Breathe croons Melissa Etheridge, and I do.
Never had an Indian until today. I shower and go to bed high and happy.

The Rarebit Fiend.

Had a strange dream. It was so vivid. I used to keep a dream journal, but for the longest time, I would wake up and not remember a thing. Not this time, my oompa-loompas, so away we go:

I was living in my parents house in Georgia with my co-worker Jason from the job I have now. Jason is this Aryan hottie of nineteen. He also, in the dream, was a veterinarian. So, he told me that a rich old couple was bringing over their cat so he can check it out.

Now enter the three other roommates. The first was an seventy year old midget in black and then the guy who played Lurch in the 60's T.V. show of The Addams Family. Except he didn't wear a tux, he was decked out in a grey plaid shirt and khakis. The third guy was some anorexic junky hobo who I seemed to fear the most. Unshaven, rotted teeth, smelly torn clothes.

So, the elderly couple arrive, a fat lady in white evening gown and jewels and the balding man in a dark green velvet suit. We said our hellos and the midget asked if Jason and I would go into the kitchen and get drinks for the guests. Which I found odd. I didn't trust those strange roommates.

In the kitchen, it is dark outside and when I look out out the window, I see Lurch dragging the old woman and man, who are bound and gagged, into the barn, followed by the midget. The way was lit by a naked bulb hanging from a wire. Other than that it was very dark.

I tell Jason and let him know that I am going into town to notify the police. In town, I am paranoid that the midget and the scrawny hobo are following me, so I casually meander into a Mexican outdoor market and then into the Greyhound bus to inquire about prices to I can't remember where.

I was so scared, from these two guys that I woke up.

Work went by slow today. Except for when this real fat girl fell of her bike across the street. And, yes, she jiggled when she hit pavement. Fat girls are funny. I have decided to return to Tijuana. Purchased my plane ticket online. I can not wait...well, I guess I will. So, soon Borrowed Flesh will be back on the air.

I want to make a website about Tijuana. There is one, though it is straight, it is very well done and informative. They mention Kin-kle in it...one of my favorite bars. Go here and check it out. www.chicachica.net. It is under the section on bars. He warns of Amazonian drag queens feeling you up as you enter the door. Yup, that's Kin-kle. I have a fellow blogger, Chris in San Francisco who would get just all giddy over the hardcore trannies in this joint.

Again, Tucson is gotten blah, so nothing to write about. Birthday today. Called some friends long distance. Why did I leave the ones that meant so much to me? I sit here staring at this screen, sipping my whiskey sour...ho-hum. Maybe I will go to the gay bar in this town. But, it is such a drag. Surrounded by Abercrombie and fitch clones and leering old queens. No, a quite night indoors sounds like a better option.

Mugwump junky.

Well, two things, first I am a little blue because tomorrow it will be my birthday and I shall be spending it alone in a desert town. Got the bum kicks, y'all. Even Gloria Swanson can't dig me out of this one, Jose. However, a comment from south of the border has set my mind in motion. As of today, I have given my one weeks notice to my manager and on the 3rd of April I shall be moving back into Mexico. A co-worker has decided to purchase the meager furnishings I have bought over the three months. I have not made my mind up yet, Tijuana or Cuidad Juarez. Both have their sinful charms...I have more friends in Juarez, though.

Wait. You don't know? Oh, that's right...how could you. You came in on the second act. Before I slid up into Tijuana's ass, I had lived in Cuidad Juarez on the border of El Paso, Texas for many years. From El Paso, I ventured out and did my five year globe trotting with Dan Cokenhour before flopping into San Diego, asshole bloody and beaten. What adventures those were, kids!

And so, perhaps living in those urban wastelands will get the creative juices oozing once again and perhaps getting some kicks here and there in between. I am really looking forward to the trip, Tucson has become somewhat of a snore factory. And everyone is just so unattractive!

Juarez City is high on the flagpole right now, though El Paso is a human void, the Mexican side is quite the party town. Boys, booze, and dope flow freely and with apathy. I can live out my retirement dream and save enough money to open a gay bar in a Central or South American country.

I shall call it The Screaming Whore.

Sabado noche en Tucson.

After work, I decided to go and cruise the local porno theater. Perhaps I have low self-esteem. Perhaps I was just horny. The fact that I'm pretty damn lonely doesn't help either. Anyway, it was a magical time because of all the faeries and the trolls doing their ballet through the theater. The local inhabitants here are a sorry-looking bunch. Cruised by nothing but oldie moldies, I watched the movie, which was a wacky episode of Bang Bus. Porno lunacy.
As I left even more frustrated than before I arrived, I stood at the bus stop and as I waited, a freaking transvestite on a beach cruiser bike flew by in the darkness. Black dress, blue wig, black horn-rimmed glasses, red garter belt outside the dress, and old-style black high-top sneakers. I hummed The Witch's theme from The Wizard of Oz as she whisked by.
Kooky.
Anyhoo, saw The Ring Two. The couple in the row summed it up best, the guy started snoring. What a yawn fest. The first was far better. Just for kicks and giggles, saw Be Cool. It was entertaining. Great cast and had a few laughs, especially The Rock and Vince Vaughn were both funny. As were Andre 3000 and Cedric the Entertainer. (Great speech on racial tolerance!)
Ran into David on the bus again, he said Hi and I mumbled my response. He offered me some of his cheesecake and I accepted. How can you turn down cheesecake? It was the longest bus ride downtown, though. He said his wife, kid, and himself were shacking up in a tramp motel. Downtown, shook hands and parted. Went home feeling the faggot blues.
Blech.

Hillbilly Children and a spun lezbo dwarf.

Never talk of work much, cause it’s a drag. Work usually is. Nothing really goes on. What can I say, I am a sassy front desk agent at the largest hotel chain in the world. I had to work Friday night because one of the blubbery women I work with came down with The Curse or some other insidious female infirmary. Thank little baby Jesus I was born a man!
There is a national basketball playoff going on at the University near here, so the hotel was sold out. So, my night consisted mostly of turning tired travelers away. The only things that made the night interesting were the lesbian midget and the hillbilly kids.
Ready? Here ya go...
Was standing there admiring my reflection in the window when this small SUV came hurtling up the parkway and screeched to a halt in front of the hotel entrance. With steam pouring out of the engine, the driver’s door flung open and a little dwarf of a woman popped out and skittered to the front desk. Her eyes were glowing and her body was vibrating like a tuning fork. She wore army fatigues and sported a blond mullet. I just love mullets, don't you? Overrated, really. She flung herself onto the reception desk and babbled, "Ihavn'tsleptinthreedaysandi'mlosti'mtryingtofindperrystreetandican'tfinditcanyouhelpmeplease?!"
"Okay...slow down," I said, understanding her because I speak Junkie. "I'll help you find Perry Street. It's real close."
"IcanttakenomoreIhaftafindPerrybutIcan'twhereisthenearestpolicestation?"
"Why do you need the police? Perry is two blocks, sweetie...you're real close."
She swirled her dirty little hands around her head and through her spiked blond hair. She burst into tears. This girl was a mess and I didn't want to deal with her. I drew her a map and sent her back into the darkness.
Man, I thought, I used to be that fucked up?
Now, who told fat white girls that wearing tub tops with their pansa hanging out was sexy? I think it's a fucking eyesore and I had three of these bitches standing in front of me. French braided hair, nose rings, low-cut jeans. All in their tweens...egads.
Well, the older stated that their mother was staying here and after stating that no one by the last name that was given was staying at the hotel, she then asked to use the phone to call the trailer park where they lived (One of the younger girls actually said, 'Call the trailer park.') and asked Uncle Pooch for gas money. All of the kids (Four girls, and one guy.) decided to hang around the hotel property until Pooch arrived.
I returned to my dazed dreaming and when I looked out to the hotel grounds, the young guy had his pants rolled up and was dancing a jig in the pond, one of the lil' uns was pulling the small lamps out of the ground, and yet another was spooning the pond water into her mouth.
"Mmmm, this water's good!"
I yelled to them to get out of the pond, stop destroying property, and that the water's poisonous.
The girl drinking the water's eyes bulged, her face turned blue, and fell back onto the ground, twitching. The rest of the kids scattered. But the boy picked up his little sister, threw her in the back of the car they arrived in, and drove off.
Fade out to Country Bear Jamboree music...

Terrorist transvestites and little Ling-ling.

This morning as I sat at my favorite hangout, The Grill downtown on Congress St., I looked up from my bowl of Cap'n Crunch to see Tony staring and smiling back at me. I knew he was doped up on speed and invited him to sit and have a cup of coffee.
After a shaky couple of sips of Joe and a long puff on a Lucky Strike, he asked if I wanted to go and visit a friend of his. Sure, I said, got nothing better to do. We hailed a cab and pulled up in front of this seven-story red brick building. The elevator didn't work, so we took the stairs. From down the stank hall, with its yellow and flaking paint, hissing pipes, and shredded red carpet, Tony and I heard muffled yelling being drowned out by Ricki Martin's Shake Your Bon-Bon being blasted at high decibels. Knocking on the door to 7E, it was flung open by a tall fat guy in a flowered mu-mu and dark sunglasses. His brown sweaty face was covered in black stubble. She looked like a third-rate Divine but had the grating voice of Harvey Fierstein. Drunk off her ass, she invited us in. Now being accosted by drunken transvestites is nothing new to me at 9:36 in the morning. But, this one put me on edge.
The small one-bedroom apartment looked like Elton John threw up in it. Everything was red satin with tassels and boas hung from dusty chandeliers with cheap gay pornographic pictures ripped from magazines taped to the yellowish walls. Christmas lights twinkled in an electric spiderweb. There were clothes, dresses, and theatrical costumes everywhere. Sitting on the floor in the lotus position gazing into a large mirror propped against the leg of a table stroking their eyeliner, were two naked transsexuals, one black, one Mexican. Naked. Their penises and large breasts for the world to see.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi" They honked and smiled and returned to their mascara.
"Higher, Goddamnit!! I said higher!" Screamed the big drag queen to a little Asian guy who wore nothing but blue running shorts and sandals. He crazily teased a beehive wig on a Styrofoam head. The titanic transvestite slapped the Asian on the back of the head. "I want more height, you fucker! Make it fuller! Goddammit, Ling-ling, can't you do shit right?"
Ling-ling continued to tease and tease.
The big drag queen turned to Tony and me. "Hey, bitch!" She smiled, took a toke from a joint buried in an ashtray, and stomped over to Tony with arms outstretched. "How the fuck are ya?"
"Hey, Marcus," Tony said, his small frame being swallowed in sweaty fat. "This is ****, I invited him over."
"Oooooh, he's a cute white boy." She tottered and we hugged and pecked cheeks. names were exchanged and drugs and liquor were offered. The morning went by and Tony, Marcus, and I sat on the rickety couch smoking pot, drinking whiskey, and watching The Jerry Springer Show. The gay double entendre flew! I had everybody laughing, except for the occasional outlash, verbal and physical, from Marcus to Ling-ling. Who the fuck were these freaks? Why was this little Asian being tortured by this thunderlizard?
When Marcus found out that I was a filmmaker, he went ape-shit and talked me into driving around town and filming him in drag terrorizing the locals. Hell yeah! I said. And once we drove to my apartment in his ratty Volvo to get my video camera I soon came up with a couple of ideas.
Marcus dressed his 350lb. six-foot-two frame in a white spandex dress with horizontal black pinstripes, Jackie-O sunglasses, black cha-cha heels, and the huge beehive wig Ling-ling labored over. Marcus...I'm sorry Ida Slapter, stood at a bus stop and waited for one to arrive. Tony and I got onto the same bus route but a couple of stops before her. When Ida Slapter clomped onto the almost packed bus, I sat in the very back middle seat and filmed the whole debacle.
"Excuse me." She asked the bus driver, "How much is the fare?"
"A dollar."
"Oh, all I have is a ten-dollar bill." She then proceeded to walk down the isle of the bus and ask each and every appalled and terrified patron if they had any change. Trust me, the look on their faces was fabulous! Finally, a little Mexican guy gave her change and we were off.
Ida sat next to an old, retarded man wearing shorts, t-shirt, and rain galoshes. He quivered and fidgeted with that huge bitch sitting next to him. Wouldn't you?
"Humph, that grrlz ready for Hell and high water." Ida quipped, casually pointing at the galoshes, and some patrons snickered and laughed. The retarded guy had a nervous tick in a way that he kept swaying his head back and forth like he was saying no.
"Excuse me," Ida asked him. "Do you know the way to San Jose?"
The retard kept moving his head.
"No? (Man continues to swing head back and forth.) You don't? (Continues to swing head back and forth.) No? Really? (Continues to swing head back and forth.) Why do you keep nodding your head no? (Continues to swing head back and forth.) Stop being so negative!"
The back of the bus was loud with laughter.
We were asked to put the camera away and leave the bus by the driver. Spoilsport!
I videoed Tony and Ida sashaying down the street, arm in arm, right past a construction site. There were cat calls and faggot was yelled a couple of times. Oh, the men were going nuts! It was a fun time with that big bitch and Tony today. Ida invited me to come watch her and her two roommates, Cameltoe and Virginia Hamm, perform at a Drag Bar this Friday called The Hawaiian. I told her I'd red-mark it on my calendar.
We then spent the remainder of the evening at Venture In and got very drunk. After a few Martinis and Cape Cods, I remember I met some real cute white guy with blue eyes and black hair (I'm a sucker for guys with black hair!) from the University of Arizona and made out with him by the pinball machine. Tilt! Ding! Ding! Ding! I think Tony had my video camera and taped that softcore porn. Egads!
Well, I'm back home and sitting on my bed in my boxers typing on my laptop and I wanna say Hi to everyone. Because I'm drunk.
Hi.
Welp, good night and don't let the bed bugs bite!

Time traveling junkies, Count Dooku, and steaming chili.

Woke up around seven this Sunday morning and after draining my bladder and then my balls, I laid in bed and read some of The Lavender Screen by Boze Hadleigh. Interesting read. Got bored with that and played some Gameboy. Fixed breakfast; diced fruit covered in honey and a cup of black coffee. Originally, I was going to stay home and type out that new script Porno and work on editing my film Crossed Wires but instead, I went to the movies.
Dressed fabulously and took the bus to the El Con Mall. I think Tucson has three malls, but El Con is a mall filled with nothing. I mean, it is a full-sized mall that consists of a Macy's, a J. C. Penney's, and nothing else. All the shops, all fifty of them are closed with blank marquees. Like a bad Dawn of the Dead set. But, there is a remarkable state-of-the-art cinema behind it, which makes it all right.
I purchased my ticket from the frumpy fat girl with the canker sore on her lip and entered the theater. The first film I saw was The Jacket starring Adrian Brody. Wow, what a honker on that guy. The film itself had good intentions but it just didn't quite do it for me.
The Jacket was about a Gulf War Soldier who gets discharged and sent home after getting shot in the head by an Iraqi brat. He's hitchhiking with a cop killer and after the cop killer kills a cop, Adrien Brody gets the blame and is sent to the booby hatch where psycho doctor Kris Kristofferson performs "tests" on him. The test consists of throwing Brody into a strait jacket, pumping him full of drugs, and shoving him into a morgue closet. Where Brody slips through time. Right. I enjoyed the look of the film but 12 Monkeys and the book Slaughterhouse 5 are a lot better. Ho-hum.
Next, I snuck in to see Robots. The kids that packed the house loved it. It was okay, but the trailer to Revenge of the Sith was awesome. Drool. When Ewan McGregor, who played the lead Rodney Copperbottom in Robots talked, I closed my eyes and could tell. But, he does have a very convincing American accent.
On the way home, I was getting on the bus and it was packed. The only seat left was next to David. Yes, David, that rat-fink asshole. I don't know where his fat wife and moppet were. I decided to stand and face the front, but I could feel his eyes burning into the back of my head.
Returned home and microwaved me a bowl of chili and played my GameBoy. The New Droid Army. It's a tuff little game. Damn you, Dooku!

Burn, baby, burn.

No one has a sense of humor these days. I try to say funny things to lift the dreary and the normals out of their daily humdrummery, but it all backfires. The citizens of Tucson just can't get my witty repartee. Three things happened today and I was shot down by all-around sour pusses! Firstly, I was visiting a friend’s house for coffee and Danishes early this morning, and, well, to put it mildly, his wife has a really fat ass, okay? I mean, there's a lotta junk in da trunk. And she wears stirrups. Blech. Well, she bent over in front of me whilst I was sitting on the couch and gave me a face full of stuff. So, I just pointed at her titanic Montana-sized buttocks and squealed, "Good God, that's no moon, that's a space station!" And began to laugh like a herniated donkey.
I was asked to leave.
So, I was on the bus (Public transportation is so underrated.) sitting in the back with the hip kids, when this tall, thin, elderly black gentleman got on board and sat down across from me. I noticed he wore a black baseball hat with a small dirty feather jutting out of the side. So, I pointed and quipped, "I get it...macaroni."
"Fuck you, honky!" He retorted.
The back passengers all laughed at me, the goofy Chinese kid with the bad bed hair, the fay Indian guy whose boobs jiggled when he laughed, the scrawny speed freak sniffing and snorting and guffawing..
Well, at least the old guy was Old School about it. Honky.
Later, I was crossing the street after purchasing a Yoo-hoo, I just love Yoo-hoos, don't you? Well, I'm crossing this street and some gimp is walking next to me, braces clicking and clacking, and comments with a smile, "It's hard to walk fast after that operation."
"Well, slow your goofy ass down," I said blankly. Thinking I was simply stating the obvious. I mean, I stride kind of fast.
"You got an attitude problem, ya fucking faggot!"
"Why do you paraplegics and cripples always hafta be so bitter?"
"I ain't no goddamn cripple!"
"And illiterate. I pity you" Taking a rather Imperious swig of my Yoo-hoo and walked away on my perfectly good legs.
I left him there, fuming.
Yeah, I'm going to Hell.

Snaps back wash after wash...

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And slowly, the world continues to spin...

I work hard for a living. I slave all day under the brutal whip of my Hindu overlord! Taking daily abasement and ridicule from the geriatric demons that rent rooms from the hotel I am now employed at! But I tolerate it with a smile and a "How do ya do?".
Yesterday, as I dragged my weary and tattered ass home, and as I pushed my front door open, what did I find? Some little curly-haired girl sitting on my living room carpet playing with my collector edition Superman action figure, no slobbering all over my collector edition Superman action figure with one-year-old glee. The Son of Krypton was covered in baby saliva and goo.
Sitting on my brand new futon couch, the very same futon couch that David and I would thrash and moan in ecstasy in the still of the night was some fat Mexican girl with big boobs smiling moronically at me.
I said, "Hello, who are you and where's David?"
"Hola." She meekly said.
I repeated myself in Spanish and walked into the bedroom to find David crashed on my bed, the very bed that we banged each other in the love that dare not speak its name on a nightly basis, crashed out in his boxers with that distinctively pungent aroma of freshly fucked panocha wafting in the air. Scattered about MY bedroom were a couple of suitcases of lacy feminine clothing scattered about. I gasped at bras and shrieked at panties. I stared at a box of fucking Tampax and went ape-shit.
"DAVID!!" I yelled.
He jumped up and I asked who that bitch was on my couch. You see, David had returned to Nogales, Mexico for the last three days to take care of family matters or so it was claimed. Casually and calmly as he dressed, David told me that the girl was Maribel.
His.
Fucking.
Wife.
And the kid gnawing on the Man of Steel? Cindy, his one-year-old daughter. He then proceeded to explain that he smuggled the two across the border and now we all can live as one big happy family. He strode into the kitchen and swung open the cupboards to show me all the food that he and she had purchased to show that they were serious in "helping out" while living here with me.
Now, have you ever blacked out? So angry that you lose all control of your mental functions? Where the only thought that burns in your mind is the complete annihilation of those in your immediate vicinity? No? Well, I tell you it is a rush...a confusing cartoon vortex of adrenaline and unbridled hysteria and madness.
There was a lot of screaming, slapping, Mary-ism...front door was opened, clothes--his and hers--flinging down the metal stairs and hurling into the street, Superman was yanked from baby clutches and the family unit excised from the apartment.
Slam. Front door closed.
I lay on my sofa too angry to cry, my mind contorted in hatred and contempt. Why? Why am I to be used like this? Finally, after years of scraping Felix off of the bottom of my shoes, I opened my heart to someone who in all earnest showed nothing but compassion in return only to wait and use my feelings as a second fiddle when his wife was not here. I wondered why David took those weekend sojourns down to Nogales. He said it was to visit his mother. Oh, I am so bitter. My heart is so much colder now. No love. No nothing.
I need crystal, I need heroin, I need pot...something for me to forget. Well, this crappy town's got nothing.

Post Nasal Drips.

Late night. 11:30 p.m. Went and hung out at this 24-hour Internet cafe downtown called Shot In the Dark. Pretty hip joint, a sprinkle of college students, literary fags, dykes, and junkies spun out of their minds. As I passed through the door, took a macho pose on the back wall and listened in on a poetry session already in progress. Yes, bongos and incense were well represented. A little lesbian with short black curly hair and green army fatigue pants asked if I wanted anything. Ordered a Yoo-hoo.
Was reacquainted with a friend I had met recently...no, I knew him from Primavera. Tony, they called him. Little guy, with real white teeth. Nice smile, I suppose, in a nerdy bespectacled kind of way. Well, Tony was glad to see me and I guess I was the same. Pretty numb about talking and associating lately. People are quite a bore.
Sometimes.
So, I stood there with my Yoo-hoo, still feeling the high from the joint I toked before leaving my trap angry that The Aviator did not win the Oscar for Best Picture. Assholes. A handsome black guy rapped off a beautiful sonnet about the desert and sunsets. My fascination swung to lust as it often does. I had not made it with a black guy in a long time. The guy on the stage was a chocolate-colored Hercules. In dreads. Wonder if he fools around. Dream of running my pale hand across his dark and muscular chest, down his chiseled six-pack...
So, I was dragged out of my reverie by the nasal whine of Tony. So, wacha wanna do? Was asked about seven or eight times. Damn, boy, shut up and let me enjoy my high. With a ding-a-ling of the doorbell, our feet were hitting the pavement under the pale full moon and we found ourselves at the Iguana Bar. The clientele was old hippies, bikers, and drunk Indians. Country and Banda filled the room. Old, and I mean OLD, Mexican bitch started hitting on me as I entered the bar. "Buy me a drink!" She tottered, breathing halitosis and beer and vomit into my face.
"Let's get outta here."
Walked...no stumbled...down 4th Ave to a bar called The Surly Wench. Why not? Entered...college crowd, cheap Coronas. Hip and groovy clean-cut assholes did a ballet to and fro through cigarette smoke in a vain attempt to impress one another. No towering hostile transvestites or slick-talking boy hustlers here. But, I digress...the beer was cheap.
 

Tony, who started getting cuter as I was getting drunker said let's bar hop. Why not? The next bar was Che, and for the love of fucking God a karaoke show was in progress. Three...four shots of tequila and I am up on stage belting out Raspberry Beret by Prince. A showstopper, I tell you.

Let's go to I.B.T's...
What's that?
A queer bar.
Ech. The thought of being surrounded by a bunch of sneering aloof-looking fags peering around with their "Attitude Face" gave me the horrors. Listen to How Soon Is Now by The Smiths, so true...so true.
I shudder but follow Tony anyway. At the door, we are turned away by the large and surly doorman. Glares at Tony, "You're barred, brother. You can't come in."
Barred? Fuck. Asking no questions, mainly because I didn't care, we headed back downtown and finished the night playing pool at some dive called Sharks. These assholes had a karaoke show blaring here, too. Played drunken pool with three exchange students from Central America. Two hot, one not. Sat in the back on a red Velvet couch and made out with some guy from Peru. Last call and I said goodbye and took a taxi home. Jack off and fall asleep in that mess. And to top it off, my nose is running from that fucking cold that won't go away.

Assuming the Position.

Went with David to the Ballet last night, then to dinner and this gay bar called Venture In, I think, surrounded by dreary faggots then home where I came down from coke and was a little drunk and went into a deep depression. Poor David talked me through it and was very patient and sweet, and then he fucked me, all of which helped. He's right though, I must lay off the coke, because it just emphasizes my manic-depressive personality and last night the depressive part was feeling pretty nearly unendurable---though, of course, it wasn't actually, at least not with David there with me. But, I still feel so fucking alone. But that's no justification for facilitating an awful funk.

So, I fasted all day as an experiment in spiritual hygiene. Gave me a headache and a dull depression. I don't feel particularly cleansed, either. So, here I lay on my bed, smoking a joint and drinking black coffee staring at a blank piece of paper in my screenplay notebook.

I want to do a trashy comedy in the vein of John Waters or Pedro Almodóvar…Okay, how's this:

The title is called Assuming the Position and it is the tale of two incestuous yet gorgeous brothers who live in a trailer in Tennessee with their morbidly obese sister who drives around town on a scooter raping men for fun. The three are erroneously charged with possession of heroin and flee the law in a wacky chase across three states in a black Mustang convertible full of shotgun holes.

God. Awful...just awful. You see, I have no inspiration.

Nothing.

Reading Virginia Wolf's Diaries. How effortless the excellent writing seems to pour out of her. As if the world collaborated with her and helped her along, rather than presenting her with dead ends and solid objects that resist meaning. What was her secret? Surely it was not good luck to have been at the right place at the right time with the right people. But I often feel that I am obstructed in just this way: the wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong people.

Found a poem by Fredrick Seidel in an anthology. It ends: "Convinced life is meaningless/ I lack the courage of my conviction."

Bad Education.

After David and I woke up and took care of each other’s morning erections, I prepared breakfast and David went to work. So, having the day to myself, I decided to catch up on my movies. Dressing fabulously and rather sexy, I took off to the El Con Mall and checked out Pedro Almodóvar’s Bad Education. The movie was terrific! Gael Garcia was fantastic and the whole film left me homesick for Mexico. (Even though it took place in Spain.)
The film was an erotic telling of passion, blackmail, double identities, Catholic boy-loving priests, and heroin-addicted transvestites. And the urge to turn this into a movie by aspiring actor Ignacio, played by that sexy midget Gael Garcia. Dear Reader, I strongly recommend this film if you like intriguing gay cinema. And it made me horny, the sex scenes were hot. Boy, when David gets home tonight, it'll be time for a little bada-bing!
I then snuck into and saw the new Keanu Reeves movie Constantine. It was okay. Basic comic book on film. He plays a freelance exorcist with some great effects. I enjoyed Bad Education more.
After stopping in a local bar downtown, The Green Iguana, I downed a Corona and a burrito machaca amidst drunken Indians. Walked around downtown and perused a local bookshop. One film I want to see is War of the Worlds. That was the first book I had ever read when I was but a sprite. I remember walking home from school and looking down at this pile of garbage was a ragged copy of H. G. Well's The War of the Worlds. I remember sitting on the back porch of my mother’s house and reading it cover to cover. I loved the 1955 George Pal take on it and await to see was Spielberg does with it. The trailer looked awesome. Inspired by the films and trailers I saw today, I went home and started to bang out my new screenplay called Porno. It is about two guys that find romance in a porno theater. It is a comedy.

Normal.

Woke up to Margaritaville by I think Jimmy Buffet. Man, did that make me homesick. I started to wonder about all the friends I left behind in Mexico. I still have a strong urge to return there one day. After, I ate a bowl of Fruit Loops, showered, put on my shirt and tie, and went to work.
Two drunks were sitting at the bus stop, passing a bottle of Jack between them. At six in the morning. Oh, well. When you gotta have it you gotta, I guess. At any other time, I would have joined them. But I am still down with this damn cold. I wish I didn't smoke that weed last night with David...I am so tired. So weak. I have had a sore throat for about two weeks now. Perhaps a trip to the croakers is in order.
At work, time went a little slow. Got yelled at by abusive guests. Same old shit. Man, what a boring normal existence. I dream of Mexico on a daily basis. After work, went home and cooked dinner. Grilled chicken in tomato salsa with Spanish rice. A nice glass of Merlot. Did some final edits on my laptop to that movie I filmed in Tijuana. It lifted me out of the doldrums for a bit. David came home from his job, we talked, ate, and fucked. That boy really can make one work up a sweat. Went to sleep around nine-thirty. Gads, is this what is like to be normal? How can you people deal with it?

Slow day at work.

Okay, some friends and I at work were talking about if we did porno movies what names would we have. A guy said he would be Dick Viscous. One of the girls said something like Tittiana Boobaliscous, and I stated mine would be Fanny Albright or Ida Slapter. Then the wizened old night auditor put in his two cents. He stated blankly that he did a couple of flix back in the late 70's and early 80's in Van Nuys, CA. "Back when they's were called nudies." He wheezed. Okay. Anyway, he said that in the Industry the way a star gets his or her porn moniker is that the first name is the name of the first pet that you owned and your last name was the street that you were raised on.
So. There.
You have it straight from the horse’s mouth. In that case, my first pet was a light brown collie named Chucky and the street that I grew up on was Brooks Road. Hence and therefore, if I ever indulged in the adult film industry, my porn name would be Chucky Brooks. Mmmm, gettin' you horny, people? That's a hot-sounding name, right? Actually, it sounds like a late talk show host from the 1960s. "It's the Chucky Brooks Variety Hour with his guest Phyllis Diller and the Ed Blank Orchestra!"
Anyway, kids...why don't you jump on the bandwagon and leave a comment of what your porn name would be. Can you smell the fun that will ensue?
I am all a-quiver with anticipation.

I'm so freakin' fabulous!

Vishnu, grant me strength! Since I decided to live here in Tucson I had spent the last four days buying an obscene amount of stuff for my new apartment. However, my little swinger pad is starting to look grr-jus! Simply grr-jus!!
I love my job...my Hindu hottie boss is really cool and the other employees are laid back. Haven't been doing much...working, shopping, getting things in order. I sit here in my darkened place, typing on my laptop and drinking hot tea with honey (I am down with a slight cold.) and my feelings go out to a certain Aussie whose apartment recently burned down by a freak act of God. Well, it is my belief nothing is by accident. Everything happens for a reason, and only good times can come out of it. He snapped back like a 16-year-old with a hard-on! Happy and carefree in even better digs.
But, more about me.
I have been so happy lately...walking down the sunny streets kissing babies and hugging bunnies...things are going my way. David is being wonderful and for the first time in many relationships, I am not filled with doubt and self-loathing. I really like this feller. I know, you more prudish faggots will shrill that I a cheatin' two-faced liar...but hey, it's my life and YOU are so perfect, reet?
The only thing, Dear Reader, is the content of my writing. It's so tame. I really never have anything to write about...I don't live in filth and shit and perversion anymore, so I have no inspiration. Most of the time I stare at a blank screen or just look at porn. I don't suffer any longer. Have you noticed some of the greatest literary works in human history were written whilst the author was in misery?

• Naked Lunch: William Burroughs was living in a boy brothel in Tangier shooting heroin.
• 1984: George Orwell was dying from hacking tuberculosis.
• The Metamorphosis: Franz Kafka was diving into dementia and a failing liver.
• And Edgar Alan Poe? I won't even go into her crazy descent into coke and ether-induced madness.

What I am saying is, I think it is time to gather my notes, print my blog Borrowed Flesh, gather my old letters and e-mails while I was on the road, and start my great American novel for the 21st century. It'll be something...a monumental descent into Hell and hazardous addictions only to rise Phoenix-like and stand amidst the ashes in my borrowed flesh with a shit-eating grin on my face.
Now, I have to come up with a snappy title. Hmmm? Let's see...Loser? It's the last thing Felix Montero said to me as we parted on the subway in Los Angeles a million lifetimes ago. Lost Highway? paying a homage to one of my favorite David Lynch movies. Or simply...Borrowed Flesh. Even though, some plagiarizing cunt has used the title for some hack work she pounded out. I'm not bitter, though.
I'm open to suggestions for a title. I mean, Kerouac came up with the title Naked Lunch, Old Bill wanted to call it Interzone.
Anyone?

Kooky.

Went ahead and rented me an apartment today. Pretty swanky joint...no smell of sewage, no amassed army of cockroaches, no heroin addicts sleeping in my doorway, fat hookers lurking in the darkness. Yup, think I'm gonna dig Tucson fer awhiles, kiddies.
Now, to break in me new digs, David and I humped on the floor (Not possessing furnishings yet.) I mean, I gotta bed, but we managed to thrash and flounder onto the carpeted floor. Quite limber, that Mexican, and very pneumatic in the hips, if ya takes my meaning. Do you dig, daddy-o's? Really starting to fall for that fellah...and a sweet fellah, too. Real nice and kind. Not greedy money hungry hustlers expecting cash or drugs for my sugar bum. No...not David. He treats me right gentle and kind, he does. I feel a warm stirring in my heart...a feeling I haven't felt since---well, that's dark and forgotten history now, folks, no need to bring him up, again. I turned over a new leaf...a sunny disposition. Clouds seem fluffier, birds are singing, music is always in the air, I feel like running through the streets with childlike abandon. I feel as if a shroud of shadow has been lifted off of my soul.
I really do feel quite optimistic of late. I think it's....that is to say, I do believe I am in, well...love.

Epiphany.

I will be receiving my tax return check. It will be an obscene amount of money. What to do? What to do?! I stand on a cactus-covered hill, hands upon my hips, sunglasses deflecting the red setting sun, khaki shirt and pants, cigarette jutting out between my teeth. My favorite red baseball cap turned sexily backward. My roving eye moves west...I could return to Tijuana and live a life of delightful perversity. I could go north and bask in the razzle-dazzle of Las Vegas, living an existence of pure decadence. Or I could stay in Tucson and settle down with an apartment, a steady job, a boyfriend, and a rut. What to do, Fair Reader, what to do? Open to suggestions.
Plus, I am really horny and there is no way to outlet. David is at work doing construction and the general population is fairly unattractive. Again, open to suggestions.
Yup, pretty damn horny.

Tucson trepidations.

Was enjoying an afternoon of Dillinger Days here in Old Tucson. It is a block party where they close off the main drag and have a great big wingding. Celebrating the capture and death of that old gangster John Dillinger. The street was lined with candy-colored cars from the 1910s and 1920s. Various people walked about in period clothes of the 1930s. There was a stage where Mariachi's wailed and Aztec costumed dancers danced and I felt the nostalgic pang of Mexico. One young Mariachi had pants on so tight it didn't leave much to the imagination. So, Tucson’s citizens milled around under the bright white afternoon sun checking out the vintage cars and I checked out the strolling guys.
Two facts about Tucson come to mind:
It is a lesbian mecca. Strolling down 4th Avenue, Tucson's equivalent to Hillcrest or West Hollywood, or Castro Street, I was surprised at the amount of frumpy boot-wearing flannelled lesbians that clomped around the street. Almost all the cafes, bookstores, and vendors were teeming with these stubby-mulleted denizens. I was filled with a sense of imposing dread. This is definitely a lezbo-controlled community. My caseworker at Primavera is a sinister man loathing dyke and she has it out for me.
Second thing. Taking the bus to and fro I have noticed that the general population has no fashion sense whatsoever. Almost everyone looks like a transient or deranged Vietnam vet. Every bus line I have taken at least once a drunken Indian has gotten on and luck would have it always sat with me, "I hate fucking white people!" One hissed halitosis and beer into my appalled face. When I first arrived in this town I always felt overdressed and self-concerned. I still do. These people can use some tips from the Fashionatrix.
Well, so there I sat, staring at that Mariachi's impressive crotch, gobbling down a huge carne asada burrito, when I heard, "Hey, white boy."
That voice. That accented baritone voice. I recognized it immediately.
David Miranda.
About five years ago...maybe four...I stopped in Tucson on my way from Las Vegas to El Paso. In front of the public library, I met this Mexican guy who had just crossed over from the border. We hit it off pretty well. He stayed with me in my room in the Hotel Congress during the two weeks I was in Tucson. Six feet two, light-colored skin, wavy brown hair, and those beautiful green eyes! I melt every time he looks at me and flashes that heart-stopping smile. Unfortunately, I was returning to Mexico, so I had to bid him farewell.
So, flash forward, and there he was. Standing in front of me and he looked as handsome as ever. After a half hour of swapping what had happened since stories, I told David that I decided to live in Tucson until further notice and he went completely ape shit. He was so happy that we spent the rest of the day hanging out on 4th Avenue visiting shops, eating dinner, and talking about sweet and funny things. I confided in him that I resided at Primavera, but since I was employed, I was going to rent an apartment on the first of February. He smiled and whispered in my ear how he wanted to break in the new apartment. My cock snapped to attention.
I felt so good. So alive. It was really great to see David again. I think this Tucson thing just might work out after all.

Down.

I am so sad. I cannot connect with anyone. The loneliness eats away at me like a stomach full of maggots. Everyone here is so odd and I can't relate. Like polarized magnets. I want to go home. Hrumph...home? I have no home. For ten years I've had no home. For ten years I have floated on an unhealthy current unable to find a safe harbor. I feel like I am in a diving bell, hitting the bottom of a black sea...cables severed.

My only course of action is to write my way out.

Tacos and bullets.

I have found that the south side of Tucson is quite the gangland. Decided to visit a shabby one-dollar movie theater that was hip enough to screen The Motorcycle Diaries. This particular cinematic opus has eluded me for some time and I decided it was time for me to check it out.
The southside of Tucson is a rotting museum of 1930s concrete blockhouses and rows of bars that cater to drunken Indians that stumble out waving away the phantoms of bygone cowboys. Cholo boys in Fubu and Dickies pimp walk side by side whistling at the fifteen-year-old mothers that float from dollar store to dollar store with the sad look of a wounded gazelle. Bloated Mexican migrant workers gobble mouthwatering tacos prepared from homespun shops shaded by phallic-shaped cacti under the blazing glare of the afternoon sun.
Walking from the Laos Bus terminal, home of hip hustlers and frazzled soldiers of Vietnam, red diseased eyes squint and follow me like lazy predators following the course of their prey.
Gotta light? Got change? Do you have the time? I walk silently with the sounds vibrating around in my skull, ignoring the outstretched palms. Young Mexican Fag crosses my path with cell phone to his ear, his eyes burn into my own with silent screams of broken lust.
I find said movie house and spend the next two hours in dark bliss. The movie is pure genius. The direction, the cinematography, and the acting; are all perfect. I leave saddened...it makes me homesick for Mexico. Exiting the theater, the twilight stars are beginning to twinkle in the swath of navy blue desert sky. Have not stopped to watch the stars in eons. I find a park with concrete benches and I rest, looking toward the heavens. God is so cool to create so much beauty.
Across the park, teenage boys play futbol, not football mind you, but what the yanks call soccer. I watch, dreaming of joining them. There is one kid, has to be sixteen, or seventeen, with dark curly hair draped across savage wild dog eyes, fantasizing of asking him to a hotel. Lean brown torso turns to light a cigarette as my pale hand glides across his ribs in the shabby twenty-dollar rented room. Enough of this!, I think, and I walk over to a taco stand and order three carne asada's with a Dr. Pepper.
Tough brute with blue-inked words covering shaved head; 13, 69, Tucson, others I can't make out asks if the tacos are any good. Muscle-bloated arms hang from a dirty wife-beater, track marks and prison tattoos crisscross rock-hard torso. Gold Guadalupe hangs from a thick chest.
"Yes," I say, looking up into his brown eyes that have seen a lot of death and tragedy. There were sparks in those dark eyes; far down and deep.
We stand by his green Toyota truck and have a casual conversation about crime, prison, and drugs. He much amused at my tales from Mexico. He showed me the bullet holes in the side of his truck from police chase a week prior. Seemed to pistol-whipped a former friend in front of his house, said friend was caught in fellatio with his novia, cops didn't take to well to his action of justice. Guess it's wrong to eat your buddy's pussy, in certain circles.
After joking about masturbating in front of his C.O. and three more tacos, he announces that he has to go home to the "Lady" and gives me his cell phone number. "Yeah." He says flopping into his truck. "Gimme a call and we can hook up sometime." Smiles. Thick pierced tongue glides across bottom lip. The grind of gravel and I watch as he pulls away.
I walk through the cooling darkness and return to Primavera.

Punk.

You know, I decided to stay here in Tucson because I was afraid to go back to Tijuana and return to that black and lascivious life. However, I concluded that it wasn't the city. It is me. I am cursed to walk this planet and live a volatile existence.
Case in point...no...no, you don't want to hear this, do you? I mean, I do other things. Go to the library...hang out in the mall...see movies. There is more to me than being the world’s psycho cumrag. Right? Please...am I right? You're shaking your head. Stop looking at me like I'm crazy! You don't believe me? What did you say...you...in the back, speak a little louder, please. 'Stop jabbering and get on with the story?' Cripes! Okay.
It started like just any other day...the sun was shining, the birds were twirping, clean happy children laughed and played in the park as drunken Indians and child molesters did a ballet around them. I sat there on a bench, guzzling my Dr. Pepper and eating a cream pie cookie when all of a sudden a dark and sinister shadow loomed over me. With a look of utter disgust and sheer foreboding, I gazed up to see none other than Dan Cokenhour standing over me.
I let out a hiss and said flatly, "What the fuck."
He grinned, "I'd been reading up on your blog and followed you to Tucson..."
With uncontrolled rage and unbridled fury, I was on top of him slamming my fists into his face and jaw. Flinging me off of him, Dan grabbed me by the neck and started belting me in the stomach and face. It felt as if the ground shook by the way we slammed into each other.
He kept grunting between hits, "Calm down! I wanna talk to you!"
Pop! Pop! Pop! I punched him in the face.
Whap! Whap! Whap! He took his licks on me.
I don't know where it came from, but I found a broom handle in a nearby trash can and began wailing on Dan repeatedly. I was so twisted in contempt and hate! He fell, covering his head as I swung blow after blow. His blood began to flow as a couple of Indians approached. A big Indian grabbed the stick out of my hand as the other one held me tight from behind. "Stop it! Stop it, yer gonna kill 'em!"
"That's the idea!" I hissed between clenched teeth, spewing blood.
The two Indians calmed us down and when Dan composed himself, he looked at me and said, "Look...I wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I fucked you around like that in New York."
Choice words were said on my end. Dan told me that his Sugar Daddy’s sister showed up and caused all kind of drama and grief over the thousands of dollars Dan had swindled out of him. Dan was asked to leave.
"What the fuck do I care? You deserve that and all other bad shit that comes your way!" I retorted.
Dan sat down on the bench. "Well, you may be right about that. So, I went looking for you."
"Why?!"
"I don't know. I guess I can just relate to you. I don't know." He looked down at the ground. "Hey, I'm on my way to San Francisco...wanna go?"
I just rolled my eyes and walked away, leaving him with, "Don't cross my path again, Cokenhour, okay?"
I think I heard him say goodbye. What an asshole!
Well, I had to get this out of my system. I went to the local gas station, cleaned myself up, and walked over to this porno shop on Oracle. I must've looked a sight, all beat up with blood on my shirt. The booths in the back were sprinkled with some University students and the ever-present troll. Plugged my quarters in, took out my stiff soldier and all I have to say is Oh those glorious glory holes! You understand I believe sucking cock is the best stress reliever there is. Am I right? Whenever you're feeling blue, blow someone. It works wonders.
After a couple of hours in there, I stumbled back to Primavera. How am I going to explain this black eye and bruises!?

Two Horny Mexicans.

I like my new job just fine. My boss is real cool, and the other employees are laid back. Not at all the stress factory that I toiled away in San Diego. Already started looking for an apartment, decided to pitch my tent in the "Artist Colony" section of Tucson, near all those free thinkers and student bodies.

Yesterday afternoon, I was following some train tracks to downtown when I noticed under the shade of a tree, two Mexican guys were relaxing, sitting on discarded milk crates. Well, Momma told me never talk to strangers, but guess what? Mamma's not here. So, I took a sip of my Sobe soft drink and tried walking by, not making eye contact.

"Hey...do you have the time?"

From the blistering deserts of Tucson, to the grand and snowy peaks of the Andes, to the bustling metropolis of Rio DeJinero, and all points in between those words Hey, do you have the time? always preempts dramatic situations, ill fortune, and misguided sexual positions.

I stopped. Looked at the clock on my cell phone. "It's 4:06."

"Hey, you smoke pot?" The shorter one said, smiling. Obviously they have been indulging in the weed for the better half of the afternoon.

For the life of me, I couldn't control my actions! As if possessed by some disembodied ghost, I found myself standing under that shade and taking the well smoked joint out of the guys hand. I took a long drag as the guy who invited me over pulled up a milk crate and invited me to sit a spell.

I looked the two over. The one that offered the joint was stocky and not bad looking. He had to be about twenty five, black hairs hanging limply over full lips, smiling eyes, and black straight hair stuffed under a baseball cap. His English was pretty good. The other guy was tall and skinny and had to be in his mid-thirties. He had strong Aztec features with a thick black mustache and hardly smiled or said a word. Their clothes were well worn and obviously both didn't have a home. They also were passing back and forth a bottle of Jack, offered to me, I declined.

Talking with the two, I found out that they passed over the border from Mexico into Arizona the day before and was on their way up to Colorado. They were staying one more night and was going to ride the rails to their destination. They were amused at the fact that I had lived in Mexico for some time. Between tokes, I related some of my adventures in Tijuana, Cuidad Juarez, and Guadalajara.

I was a little concerned about smoking pot out in public, so I asked where they were sleeping tonight. They asked to stay at my house, but I told them I had roommates. So, the short guy told me that they had a room in this house and if I wanted to go there. Sure.

We walked a bit to this old, ruined house with boards covering the windows and the yellow weeds growing crazily in all directions. We slipped through a hole in the fence and entered through the back door that was surprisingly unlocked. The place was empty save for some garbage strewn here and there and I saw that their gear and blankets made up a corner of the graffiti covered living room. It smelt of mold and urine.

Entering, I heard a click. Great, the door locks. I was a little paranoid but kept my cool.

The two guys took out more weed and rolled another joint. We smoked and talked and laughed for a good hour or so when the short guy asked the obvious question. "Hey, man, can I ask you a personal question?"

"Shoot." I said, taking a drag.

"Are you gay?" He asked, lowering his voice.

I quipped back, "By gay, if you mean cock sucking faggot. Yes."

He laughed, waving off the swirls of smoke in front of his face, "What other gay is there, man?"

"There's Mickey Mouse gay, gay Christmas, gay ol' time...wait come to think of it they are all the same." I pondered.

I was laying on my side, propped up on my elbow. He reached over and slid his hand across my hip down on my butt. "I like your ass."

I looked up, "Really?"

Next thing I know, he's on top of me brushing my teeth with his tongue. It was getting pretty hot. I felt his erection rubbing against my stomach through his jeans. My soldier was standing at attention, too.

As he kept biting up and down the sides of my neck, I kept looking at his older friend and when he noticed, he put his hand on my chin and breathed, "Don't worry, he doesn't care. He's cool." And then shoved his tongue in my mouth again.

Through fumbles and gropes, I was on my stomach without my pants and boxers. My seducer was down, spreading my cheeks apart and flicking his tongue in and out of my asshole. I saw stars, that fucker knew how to give a good rim job. When I looked up from my blurry bliss, I noticed that his older friend was sitting on a milk crate with his pants down stroking a freakin' HUGE uncut cock. It was monstrous! At least nine inches and the girth was amazing and I was consumed by uncontrolled temptations.

I wiggled my way over to him and slobbered all over his thick head. I could barely fit that fucker in my mouth. The other guy slowly slid his middle finger in and out of my ass as he unbuttoned his pants and pulled out his short think erection.

"Get up, mijo...up on your knees." The little guy breathed. Slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap! His brown hips smacked against my ass as he fucked me fast and in short thrusts. Squirt! I felt his hot cum enter my ass in three spurts.

Crazed in lust, I sucked the older guys dick like my life depended on it. He stopped me, got up and mounted me from behind. No your not going to shove that big fucker in me, I thought as I playfully tried to squirm out from under him.

Jeeeeeeeeeeeeessssus!!

In long hard thrusts he rammed that monster up in me as he pinned me down by his vice like muscles. I couldn't help myself, with that big dick shoved in me, his hot breath on the back of my neck, with clenched teeth I moaned and squealed with fireworks bursting behind my shut eyelids. Eventually, he let out a low manly groan, hot and lustful, as he dumped his semen deep and nasty. He relaxed and slid off of me. He mumbled something to the effect that he hadn't cum in a month. I said I hadn't been fucked like that since elementary school and laughed it off.

"You like that, skinny?" The short guy smiled brushing a lock of hair from my eyes.

"Fuck." I sighed. I couldn't say anything else.

Out of breath and legs shaking, I cleaned myself and got dressed. We three sat and smoked a cigarette as the pain in my throbbing ass subsided. Before I left they both hit me up for ten dollars and I payed them. It was well worth it.

I returned to Primavera and took a shower under the watchful eye of the resident pedophile. I went to my bunk and read James St. James' Party Monster until I fell asleep.

I wish I could remember the two guys' names. Two rather nice fellahs.