Right on Time

I received my paycheck every Thursday and for some reason the neighborhood mooches possessed a knack to sniff this fact out. Like that teenybopper Jose from down the street, who bangs on my door for a dollar at the wee hours of the morning or that drunk, Elpidio, on the corner who constantly grabbed his long and nasty, gruffly asking for ten pesos every time he saw me pass by.

After signing my paycheck over to various bills and my impatient, but understanding landlady, I was exiting my trap and I hadn’t even pulled the key out the lock when I heard, “Hola, mi amigo!”

God, how I cringed from those words down here. They were usually always followed by being hit up for cash.

I whirled around with that Hollywood smile and there he was right on time: Oscar. Right on time being on Thursday, the only day he seemed to visit.

I stared at him - his clothes covered in dirt and speckled in primer. He looked at me sheepishly. I could see it in his eyes; it was on the tip of his tongue. Preparing himself for the light touch.

“You working?” I asked, reaching for a smoke.

“Si!” He cheerily informed me. “I have been working all day, up roofing a house.”

“Really?” I said, knowing full well he had to be lying. Why would he need money, then?

After stilted chatter, “Where are you going?” He asked.

“Uh…El Paso.” I said in a quick attempt to ditch him.

I was actually going for some burritos, take a walk, maybe cruise the Mercado.

“Well, I’ll walk you to the bridge.”

Damn.

Oscar and I strolled down to Centro and spoke of casual things, mainly nothing, me strongly banging into his head that I was broke.

“Hey, you hungry?” I asked, halting at a corner.

He smiled, sheepishly, “I’m always hungry.”

I began walking towards Burrito Row, “Let’s go get some burritos, Oscar.”

We sat at one of the greasy counters and ordered. We didn’t say much - our conversation was broken and stilted - eating and watching the hookers clomp by.

After finishing our meal, I said, “Well, I’m going back home. See ya around, Oscar.”

“I thought you were going to the States?”

“I changed my mind. I’m tired. Going to get some sleep.” I started to walk away, but he began to follow.

As we meandered through the congested streets, Oscar finally popped the question. “Hey, amigo - you think you can help me with one-hundred pesos? For the bus.”

“Oh, Oscar.” I sighed. “I thought you worked today - didn’t they pay you?”

He grimaced, “Not until tomorrow, amigo. Please?”

I reached for my wallet and took out a note. “Since you are a friend and a fun lay…here.”

I mean, I ain’t no miser.

“Gracias!” He chirped and took off.

Bored, I returned to Burrito Row.

Located on a filthy, dusty side street, there stood row after row of burrito stalls - the smell of seared meats, boiled beans, hot salsas, and urine. An eyesore that sat tottering on the edge of a river of sewage - Burrito Row was the hub, the very axis of all drug transactions in the downtown area, certainly if it dealt with the club areas that ringed the immediate vicinity.

Burrito Row also fed the army of transvestite hookers that prowled the night scooping up the stumbling, drunk American and then sucked his life force out of him in some shit-strewn alley, while pick pocketing their cash to boot.

Do I visit here for the cuisine? The ambiance? No. I enjoyed visiting a certain stall called Burritos Meni. Why?

There was a handsome guy that worked in that particular stall who was named Beto - hopelessly heterosexual and very attractive. I had known him since I had first moved to Juárez and that day the strangest things came out of his mouth.

When I sat down, Beto was making my burrito with small chitchat, “So, guero, do you have a wife or a girl friend?”

“No.” I said flatly. Blankly. Behind my sunglasses - Lucky Strike hanging off my lip.

He continued flipping the tortilla, “Really? No novia?” He smirked. “Novio? Ha! Ha! Just kidding!”

I stared at him with cool calm. My face as blank as a poker dealer. He began to get nervous.

“I had a black guy for a novio once…si! And he gotta a beeg one!” He said, laughing nervously.

“Thanks for the info.” I stated sarcastically as Beto served me my food.

As I ate, Beto said nothing, working - too embarrassed I guess to say anything.

To break the ice, I said, “You know, Beto. I wanna go out tonight. Maybe go dancing at a club or something.”

He continued to flip tortillas, “I never have the money, amigo. I just work, go home to my wife and daughter and watch television. I don’t make much money - I always have trouble making ends meet, verdad?”

I joked, “What you need to find is a Sugar Daddy.”

He looked at me peculiar and said, “You mean fucking the jotos for money? I used to do that, guero. Fifty dollars all night. Si…when I was younger, before I got married.”

When he was younger? He was only twenty-one.

Beto went all dreamy and looked at me; “I wouldn’t mind doing that again…I need the money.”

Then, a group of loud American tourists wobbled up and he got busy. I lit a cigarette, paid up, said goodbye and walked away.

Punch It

I was at a 7-11 in El Paso purchasing a carton of orange juice and a pack of Little Debbie’s before I had to go to work, when I ran into a fellow employee waiting in line behind me.

He was a new hire and introduced himself as Roberto. I had my eye on this person for some time. I mean, there was a lot of eye candy at my job – but, this guy was different in some way.

Not homo him - definitely hetro - however, I was to learn he was not from these parts; he was born and raised in the wilds of Idaho on his father’s ranch. No wonder the guy was built like a brick house and he had manners - real country politeness to him. And, just a spry twenty one - small town rube. Actually thought El Paso was a big city.

Roberto and I hit it off and after work, being his polite self - I was invited to his house for drinks.

As we drove away from work, Roberto confided, “I have a girlfriend here. We have two baby daughters together. I’m glad I met you, man - you’re cool. I just moved here three weeks ago and don’t know nobody.”

“Well, I’m here for ya, brother.” I said. “Let’s go for a beer at your house.”

“Not my house.” He stated, flatly. “Not yet. Where ya wanna go?”

“I don’t know - got any ideas?”

“Yeah!” He squealed. “I know! Let’s go to Hooter’s on the eastside!”

Yeah. Hooter’s, I cringed inward.

I reckoned that I should not drop the fag bomb right now and ruin a good time. I could handle being stuck in a chain restaurant with a bunch of slobbering Neanderthals guzzling pitchers of watered-down beer and gobbling hot wings.

“Sure. Punch it.” I stated.

At said restaurant, we sat drinking three pitchers of Bud and gobbled spicy Buffalo wings as the Hooter girls did their stylized ballet throughout the restaurant, making every guy in there horny, save one.

All the while, Roberto was getting a buzz going and confided in me on how much he hated his girlfriend and wanted to leave her. The alcohol was kicking in me, also - the sexual flirtation began and yup, you guessed it - Roberto took it, hook line and sinker.

“Have you ever had sex with a guy?” Inquired I.

“Nah - but, you know, I’ll try anything once. Like you said, ‘God put you on this Earth to live, so try experiencing as much as you can - if you like something keep doing it - if you don’t - don’t. Life is too short’. I like your philosophy.” He slurred.

However, Roberto was quite the pussy whipped - after a brief cell phone conversation, he promised his girl that he would return home within ninety minutes.

We drove back to his apartment - stopping for a case of beer - and got plastered on his patio with the help of Steel Reserve and that’s some evil shit.

To my surprise - Roberto started to flirt back in the cutest of ways - loudly boasting at who had the biggest cock between us.

“You just wait, guero - if we ever tag team some bitch, I’m gonna put you to shame.” He howled with laughter.

I think his girlfriend caught on - that blubbery, pinch-faced cunt - because all of a sudden, her sister invited them to dinner. How convenient.

I was driven to the border (not invited to dinner, family only) as Roberto mentioned he would call me later - pealing out, back to pick up the girl and kids.

After eating a can of Ravioli’s and conking out - several hours later my cell phone woke me up and Roberto slurred, “I wanna die, dude.”

“That’s stupid talk, man.” I said groggily - stirring outta my drunken sleep, the clock read 8:45pm.

“I hate her so much - I gotta get outta here. Can I come over?”

“My door’s always open for you, baby boy, you know that.”

“Let’s hit some bars in Juárez - you think fifty dollars is enough to have a good time?”

“More than enough - just bring forty - don’t waste your money.”

“I’m on my way.”

Twenty minutes later, I met Roberto at the International Bridge on the Mexican side - Roberto excited in the fact that he had never been to Mexico.

I helped him find some cheap parking - strolled down the main drag that was Juárez Avenue, lit up with the neon grotesques of discos and juke-joints.

Playing the guide, I attempted to give Roberto the grand tour, but the young buck was a kid in a candy store. He kept babbling, “Take me to the whores - I want some pussy - I gotta have some pussy, now.”

“Slow down - don’t you wanna look around first?” I kept saying.

We cruised a couple of strip joints - Hollywood, Virginia’s, Fausto’s - but the kid was just antsy.

I began talking to my over-sexed friend like Master to Student, “Now, calm down, buckaroo. Take your time and look around. When you go to purchase a car, you don’t go for the first one you see. You shop around, right?”

“Yeah.” He breathed.

We walked over to the dark and foreboding whore sector and out slithered a prostitute straight from some old French movie: red sequins, black satin corset, fishnets, titanic ta-ta’s. Roberto nearly came in his baggy jeans.

The tall, stoic hooker stood in the doorway to her crumbling cubicle – the window had red drapes that were open, displaying a sagging bed covered in a pink, frilly comforter. She stood sighing as one finger trailed her cleavage and shapely torso. Her heavily made up eyes flashed at Roberto and she smiled with a great row of white, carnivorous like teeth.

“That one!” He spat, wild eyed.

“Okay, I'll wait here.” I said, reaching in my pocket for my pack of smokes.

Standing outside the room, sucking on a Lucky, I wondered why this boy would pay money when I would give it for free.

Ten minutes – no, had to be less than that - Roberto stumbled out, grabbed my arm and mumbled, “Just walk, c’mon - let’s go.”

Depressed and frustrated, I asked, as I had asked a million straight boys before. “Well, how was it?”

“It was a fucking dude!” Roberto shook like a leaf. “A motherfucking faggot!”

“Really?” I said, without shock. “What did you guys do?”

“Look at me, my hands are shaking - I hope I don’t have AIDS.”

“What did you do?” I repeated, slightly annoyed.

“I fucked it in the ass - but the condom broke. When I pulled my dick out - the condom was ripped! You don’t think I will get AIDS, do you?”

“You have a better chance at winning the lottery.” I assured Roberto, who was obviously a nervous wreck. “But, you might want to get checked, anyways.”

Well, that burst the bubble. He was so freaked out - cursing fags and queers and transvestites under his breath.

Roberto sighed, “I just want to go back home.”

On the return walk to the border, he kept mumbling, “I hope that thing didn’t give me anything - Oh God - I’ll hunt it down and kill it if it did!”

Sigh.

Shaking hands at the international bridge - we said goodnight and good luck, see you at work Monday, and all that jazz.

The poor kid was now obviously scarred for life - another homophobic asshole created by a deranged and monstrous tranny.

I returned to my flat, fixed me a martini and settled down to watch Todd Browning’s Freaks. Perfect - gooble gobble.

Pinche ninos!

The sun shifted and long yellow rays beamed through my living room. Dust danced in the light. Miles Davis tootled over the dusty stereo. I stood there, took a gulp of my rum and coke from the dirty highball glass I held.

Oscar sat there, shirtless in khaki pants. Hunched over with little beads of sweat rolling down his thin copper-colored frame – my desperate eyes lingered on those dark nipples poking out, those rock hard, jagged abs. He lifted his head at me - wet, shaggy, black hair hung over dilated eyes.

Hawk-like features, asked slowly – dreamily, “Are you still going to that rave with Espie and Ricardo, tonight?”

I looked at the invite card on the end table. It read Marsha Brady’s Bedroom. A psychedelic photo of Marsha smiled back at me.

“Of course,” I said, lighting a Lucky Strike. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I pronounced it wurlt.

Oscar smiled, “Hand me one. Why do you smoke these 1950’s cigarros?”

I took a long drag, exhaled, “They have mythic qualities.”

Oscar laid back, hands clasped behind his head, “Eres raro.” (You’re weird.)

Later that evening…

Dressed to the ninths and tenths, Oscar and I entered Café Central, a 24hr restaurant located on Avenida 16th de Septiembre in downtown Juarez to meet with Esperanza Robles and others.

Esperanza, or Espie, was another longtime friend. A beautiful college girl who studied Economics at the University in Juárez. So smart and so wild.

Espie smiled her smile big under a giant, red poster of Che Guevara that bore down on us like some communist Big Brother. Clinking coffee cups with her was another chic chick named Maria and a fellow student named Xavier.

All three looked like models off of a runway from some foreign competition. Hugs and kisses and what ever happened to so and so’s issued and Espie invited the whole lot to a rave party up in the hills, in the Old Colonias. Juárez style.

Jumped a cab to ProNaf, the uppity-high falootin’ district of Juárez City. Espie read a map that was given to her by a friend.

Espie studied the map, “The bitch that gave me this better not have screwed us. Hmmmm…it says to seek a man in a parking lot wearing a Cat in the Hat hat.”

“That’s kinda vague.” I droned. “Which parking lot?”

“Wait!” Espie laughed. “There’s more. Here! The S-Mart on Calle Obregon!”

We followed in party atmosphere and childish glee with two other revelers in cars searching for this hidden and illegal fiesta.

Eventually, in the parking lot of an S-mart, there be he...a dumpy man that sat against a post wearing the Suessian haberdashery.

The chubby, tired looking man poked his head in the car window, “Go to Los Gatos de la Muertes. A coffee shop two blocks away.”

The cab driver laughed and muttered, “Pinche ninos.”

The meter ticked in the cab as we raced over to get more directions. Catch! We zipped through dark and trash filled barrios at break neck speeds and eventually came to a huge concrete warehouse in a desolate factory laden part of town.

“Oh, this is it!” Espie shrilled.

The wind was blowing and dust and debris swirled in little eddies. Music from inside the old, corrugated, iron-roofed building resonated and thumped as a hundred catatonic youths dressed in Day-Glo costumes meandered outside drinking cervezas, talking, smoking mota.

The new fashion with the guys was gangsta faggito, I called it. Pink and black, flashy, saggy, baggy, frilly clothes with little Band-Aids on their faces and oversized, tinted sunglasses, baseball cap sideways. They were out in cloned droves.

Esperanza looked great in her shiny, black, tube dress and her hair was fierce. Big smiles from ruby lips and hugs and kisses. Ricardo, already drunk, tottered up, smiling.

I mentioned, “Look at you, Ricardo! Wow! Really, you should try your hand at modeling.” The boy was strikingly handsome.

He laughed, hooked his arm with mine and said, “Let’s all just go in.”

We smacked down our fifty pesos at the door and entered under the watchful glare of several gorilla looking bouncers. I expected machine gun nests and barbed wire.

The warehouse seemed far more spacious inside than outside and hosted a seething mass of gyrating, sweating bodies. Scattered throughout the dark and cavernous space were several boxes with dancers precariously perched and jerking to the techno and house beats. Glittering, multicolored lights splashed over the candy-colored masses.

“I’m thirsty, dear.” Ricardo said to me, the disco lights playing in his big amber eyes. “Let’s get some beverages.”

“Good idea.” I said, hooking Espie’s elbow in with mine.

Ricardo and Oscar followed us through the crowd to the bar. This was the best kind of rave; the beer was only five pesos. But, the line was hella long and we had to elbow our way up there. The two beer attendants were a couple of gorgeous, shirtless fellows from Paraguay and seemed to be having the time of their lives.

From behind, I was shoved so hard that I was almost lifted off of my feet and up onto the bar. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that it was a muscular cowboy in a wife beater and white cowboy hat, sweaty and puffing from the dance floor, with his crotch well planted firmly against the backside of my black Kenneth Cole pants.

“Excuse me,” I started.

“Hola.” He smiled.

Handsome - in a rough Mexican Marlboro man kind of way.

“Would you kindly take your cock out of my ass, I’m trying to purchase a beverage?”

He laughed – pop – and returned back into the smoky darkness.

After we had gotten our drinks, finishing them and taking in the surroundings, we hit the dance floor. Espie, Ricardo, and I jumped up on a nine-foot high lime-green box and shook a tail feather as Oscar found an anonymous broad and remained on terra firma.

The DJ from Argentina was good and the music selection kept us going for hours – techno, trance, house, reggeaton, European disco, local Mexican music and others I hadn’t a clue. Then, they let the foam go – huge, billowing oceans of it.

Everyone was waist deep in the stuff and began to knock beach balls around. From the rafters, someone had constructed a couple of swing sets and kids would precariously swing screaming at supersonic speeds through the writhing crowds.

A hippie girl walked by and pinned flashing neon flowers on us without saying a word; she just smiled like the Cheshire Cat. Espie and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.

An old lady skated by on rollerblades and gave me a can of liquid soap and a ring to make bubbles and I began blowing thousands of glistening bubbles all over the twisting, gyrating masses.

Ricardo, high off of whatever he had been consuming, yelled over the music, “Where did you get those delicious bubbles, mijo?”

“A lady said if I took my clothes off she would give it to me.” I joked.

Ricardo then striped down to his boxers, ran off, and was lost in the crowd.

Hours passed and Espie and I were ripped. Somewhere – where? I have no idea – Espie or I found a frame to a television screen in the junk that littered the corners of the warehouse.

With elbows hooked, Espie and I would work the crowd, with me yelling, “Make way! The television lady! Can’t you see you are in the presence of a Star?!”

Espie held the frame up to her face and waved as we walked by.

The people applauded, the fags cooed and screeched – “Fabulous!” “Look at her!” “Love the TV show!”

Yeah, two drunk fools.

Because of this debacle, we had lost Ricardo and Oscar in the mix. Esperanza and I hit the bar, tore up from the floor up, only to receive the terrifying news that they had run out of beer. Run out? What now?

We stumbled around the warehouse and towards the back. Standing by one of the huge, concrete girders that supported the building was this little cholo - hidden in half shadows.

“Psst-psst. Hey, you wanna buy some beer? I got a case for fifty pesos.” He asked, putting his hand on my arm. He was one of those little tattooed, shaved head, tank top, khaki types.

“I don’t have any money, man.”

I walked on. Then – ding – an idea hit me as I drunkenly dragged Espie back with me to the little cholo.

“Hey,” I said. “If my girlfriend sucks your cock, can I have the beer?”

I mean, he wasn’t that bad looking. He looked at me, looked at Esperanza; Espie was splashed and just drunkenly tottered and giggled.

His eyes widened, a little, red tongue licked his thick lips, “She doesn’t mind?”

“You don’t mind, Espie? I mean, the bar is out of beer and we do need more and this gentleman is offering us this case. How about it? Pleeeeez!”

She smiled glaring at our benefactor, “Porque no?” (Why not?)

We slinked behind a large trash dumpster that was against the far wall. Under the glare of a naked, yellow lightbulb, the cholo pulled out his short, fat dick and Espie went to work. I leaned up against the wall and drank a beer and had a cigarette, watching.

Out of the shadows, like a cockroach, slinked this guy’s friend, similarly dressed, except tall and thin – hard and with his wiener out, long and skinny – so, there was Espie, crouched down, taking turns sucking off these two vatos.

That was until a bulky security guard showed up, waving his flashlight all over the place, snarling “Hey! What’s going on!? You can’t be doing that shit here! Take that bitch out to your car!”

Great idea, I thought.

We four staggered outside the warehouse to Chuey’s car. Chuey being the guy with the case of beer and his friend was Francisco.

Francisco and I sat in the front seat drinking our cerveza Tecate as Espie and Chuey got undressed in the back of the car and put on a porn show.

Francisco watched wide-eyed with crotch throbbing as his friend Chuey banged away. I liked the show, too. What a tight body Chuey had, and a little, round, brown ass. That turned me on. Ten minutes went by and Chuey squirted into Espie.

Switch and Francisco jumped in the back and began rutting Espie like his life depended on it. These guys must’ve felt special getting someone this beautiful – they were lucky indeed.

Skinny Francisco finished in a few minutes and pulled his long penis out, hard and still dripping semen.

“I think he wants some more, Espie.” I breathed.

“Vamanos.” Esperanza moaned, rubbing her red vagina.

Francisco rolled back on her and began thrusting and lunging. Sweat rolled down his lean back and off his muscular, smooth ass as he pumped furiously. Grunting, he let loose a second orgasm and collapsed on top of her.

I raised my beer bottle, “Orale!”

Chuey laughed and did the same to the two in the back, “Orale, compa!”

We all began laughing. Francisco slid out and began dressing; Espie did the same.

In the most boyish, timid way, Francisco whispered something to her that made her smile.

She leaned over and kissed his cheek, saying, “No importa, mi amor. No importa.”

Saying our good-byes, Esperanza and I walked around front to find Ricardo and Oscar waiting for us.

Hailing a taxi, we stopped at Café Central at four in the morning for much needed coffee and sweet bread and talked of things that friends talk about - politics, The Jetsons, and Oreo Cookies. Afterwards, we four crashed on my bed, back at my house to sleep a contented sleep.

Finish Up.

I sat in Café Taco Lucas chomping down some crunchy flautas on the corner of Avenida Juarez and Calle Ignacio Mejia - eyeing the handsome vaquero with his henpecked wife two tables over - he looked over and smiled - I grinned back, lit a Lucky and my blue eyes all sparkly and the man blushed.

His bitch grabbed his square jaw and jerked him around, “Are you listening to me?!”

Ugh - women.

Pablo decided to show up and looking like Pablo did, his lateness was pardoned - he kissed his wife hello - the cashier/hostess Gracelda was indeed his wife. Nice as far as broads go.

Pablo was dressed in his dark denim and black leather and I nearly creamed my dry goods lusting over that thick, stocky man-frame as he scraped up a chair to my table and ordered a beer and some tacos al fresco, cabron.

We ate as men eat - great gulps of flesh and swigs of beer - laughing at antidotes of wild drunken times of adventures and sexual escapades.

A few of my cigarettes later, Pablo asked, “Hey, guero, have you ever drank tequila called Xuxupaste?”

Pronounced Chu-chu-past-eh for you dumb fucks that don’t know Espanol.

“Nope.” I said, ordering another beer. “Can’t say I have. Is it any good?”

“Ay, guey! The best. Finish up - I’m taking you around the corner to the oldest bar in Juarez and offers the best Xuxupaste.” Pablo explained like an excited teen ready to burst my cherry - eyes a poppin’ and biting his bottom lip.

“Okay.” I sighed.

As we walked to the door ‘where are you going’ or more like ‘donde vas’ was roared at us from that mammoth woman of his.

Whirling around - Gracelda stood there like some supreme Aztec earth goddess, arms crossed and flanked by the condescending, greasy cook.

“Out for a beer.” Pablo sheepishly said to her.

She clomped over and towered above - holding up one finger. “Bueno, Pablo - ONE BEER! Okay?! Solamente uno!”

“Okay, baby!” He smiled - kiss on the cheek. “One beer - I promise. I love you.”

Out the door, the hot concrete passes under our feet. Past the crumbling adobe and the ravaged, heroin hookers - past the piles of garbage and the roving packs of cholos - we came upon a small cantina called El Arbolito.

I remembered visiting the bar with Oscar. As usual, the cantina was populated by the friendliest group of working class guys I had ever encountered in Juárez City. Behind the counter, the bartender was a friendly, jovial man that emitted warmth and hospitality.

Pablo ordered one beer each, cerveza Sol. He then ordered two shots of Xuxupaste. It came in a clear bottle with some sort of large root in it - to me it resembled a petrified hand. Slice of lemon - salt on the wrist. Slamming it back - the taste was bitter, with a hint of clove. Not bad - smooth kick.

Ten more and Pablo and I were fucked up. And we still hadn’t finished our first beer.

A fat guy at the end of the bar produced a guitar and the entire cantina burst into singing old Mexican folk ballads - it was something out of a movie. We all laughed and slapped each other on the back - told jokes and stories and downed more of that delicious Xuxupaste.

Eleven thirty rolled around and the bar shut down. Pablo and I - arms around each other for support - stumbled back to Taco Lucas.

Waiting at the door - arms folded and mad as a hornet - was Gracelda. “Look at you two! Borracho! I told you - one beer!”

Pablo looked at her - focused for a moment, “I didn’t break my promise, honey - we had one beer.”

“Ten tequilas - but one beer.” I snickered.

We both fell on the red cobblestone sidewalk, wracked in uncontrolled laughing fits.

Gracelda tapped Pablo across the back of the head, “You’re impossible!”

Pablo and I were both so gone that two pot-bellied Mariachi had to help us to a table as Gracelda brought us black coffee. However, when Pablo went to the washroom - he never came back. For over an hour, he remained in there.

First, Gracelda was at the locked door, angrily banging on it - calling his name - but to no avail. Then a line of mariachi continued knocking, calling out his name – but, Pablo still would not come to the door. Finally, the police were called to force open the door and there was Pablo - curled up on the soiled floor under the stained and cracked sink with a smile on his face, passed out.

With a splash of tepid bucket water - Pablo was revived and it was my duty to walk his drunken ass the two blocks to his house.

“Fine.” I told Gracelda. “I’ll crash on your sofa.”

“Look at you two! Borrachos!” She shrilled, as I helped Pablo down the cobblestone sidewalk.

Once back at Pablo’s house and after thirty minutes of drunken Three Stooges comedy of trying to get the door open - Pablo and I crept into his bedroom.

It took Herculean effort to control myself as I stood there and watched Pablo drunkenly peel off his clothes and crawl in bed. Damn - he had a physique like a pro wrestler - muscles bulging all over the damn place. He flopped onto the sagging bed in blue boxers.

He passed out again, snoring loudly and abundantly. I stood there a moment, until I simply staggered out of the house and returned to my own lonely, empty apartment.

Is everything okay between you and God?

My stint south of the border had taught me the fact that nothing was free. Nothing. Not even friendship. Everyone had a price or more correctly, “I don’t care what or how much you have; at least give me something.” Gets to be a bore and a strain on the old ego.

One morning, I strolled to Café Central, stopping at the Plaza in front of the Cathedral for a smoke and people watch. I was about to continue to Café Central for breakfast, when my friend Javier approached me.

We chitchatted about things; work, money, going out, when I invited him for breakfast. After a good meal of huevos rancheros and a taza de café, we walked over to my pad and took no time in getting down and dirty.

Several positions later, Javier and I took an afternoon siesta. Because, a good morning of humping can take the wind outta ya, know what I mean?

Woke up around noon, showered and said our good-byes. Not before Javier hit me up for some dough. All I had on me was sixty pesos and I was chagrined when Javier asked for more.

“You don’t have cien?”

“C’mon, Jav - don’t be like that.” I said.

I escorted him to the door, I mean really.

Later, I was standing out front of the Cathedral enjoying the sun and a fresca. A performance artist dressed as a cowboy and covered in silver paint was doing the old, robot routine, drawing quite a crowd, when a young, handsome guy stood next to me and began a conversation on the matter.

I glanced him over, not bad.

Above the racket, he confided, “I’m looking for my wife. I’ve been waiting for a couple of hours. I know she is going to be here with her new boyfriend.”

I thought this angle was quite droll and laughed it off. Eventually, money was brought up, on his part.

“Seriously, that bitch is draining me of all my cash. All she does is spend, spend, spend…I’m so fucking broke!”

I continued to watch the show, not looking at him, said flatly, “That’s too bad.”

We stood a moment in silence, then he chirped, “Well, I’m going into the Cathedral, Mass is going to start.”

With that, he was gone. Moments later, said mooch came out of the church and continued on how sad he was over his ailing mother.

“Shit. I need fifty dollars. My grandmother is so sick, you know?”

I asked, “Don’t you work?”

“Si!” He smiled. “I am a waiter at the Old Juarez Market.”

“That place is always crawling with rich, American tourists.” I pointed out. “Your tips must be very good.”

That shut him up for a bit. He then mumbled something about going to the International Bridge to get some money from a friend. I wished him luck.

At that moment, Oscar walked up and said "Hola."

“Where are you going?” I asked, smiling.

He pointed at the Cathedral’s entrance, “A la iglesia.” (To church)

Oscar shook hands and entered the church for Mass.

The previous guy, who I finally got his name as Antonio, started up on how he needed to get his son some new clothes.

I thought, C’mon! If you need some cash, come out with it and cut the corny stories of woe!

Seeing this was going nowhere, Antonio asked, “What are you doing later tonight?”

I said, “Drinking with some friends.”

“Where?”

“Oh, I don’t know the name of the bar…I just know how to get there.”

He smiled coyly and asked, “It’s a gay bar, right?”

I looked at him with mocked shock, “What? Gay bar? No…it’s…okay, yeah; it’s a fucking queer joint. You have good eyes – though, I pegged you, too, when you began talking to me.”

“I’m not queer, dude.” He smiled.

Of course - the old ‘I’ll blow you, I’ll fuck you, but I won’t kiss you, because I’m not queer’ line.

With that, he mumbled, “Look, man - I’ll meet you tonight at eight o’clock to party with you and your friends.”

“Sure.” I mumbled.

We shook hands and Antonio took off for the International Bridge for his rendezvous with the mysterious, fifty-dollar friend.

I sat on the Cathedral steps smoking a Lucky and watching the eye candy pass and that’s when Oscar approached me.

“Is everything okay between you and God?” I joked.

“I don’t have a problem with God. I think God has a problem with me.” Oscar smiled. “Let’s go to your house…did you get any new porn movies?”

I laughed, “Damn, boy! You just came outta church and you wanna watch porn?” Pause. “Let’s go.”

“Vamanos.” Oscar agreed.

At my pad, as the porn played, I gave Oscar some head on a cock that was so hard a cat couldn’t scratch it.

After that, I was hit up for one hundred pesos. Sigh, again, couldn’t we have sex just because it’s fun and not cheapen it into a financial negotiation? I mean, Oscar had a good job with a roof repair company (or so he claimed), why did he need money? Paid the little fucker anyway and separated at the front door. Him mentioning going to his house.

I prepared a light lunch in the kitchen and sat watching Mexican novellas. That became boring real quick.

Back in front of the Cathedral, the sun was sinking over the dusty mountains and I sat waiting for my friends to go have cocktails.

Lo and behold, there was Oscar sitting on a concrete bench eating an ice cream - obviously peddling that ass. He didn’t expect to see me so soon and seemed a bit agitated on speaking with me.

I explained sincerely, “Look, Oscar - no need to tell me some cockamamie story just to get out of my house. You are an adult and free to do what you like.”

He silently nodded.

I continued, “Hey, you hungry? I am. Let’s go get some tacos.” I grinned. “C’mon, ya little shit.”

In which after I flipped the bill, he hit me up for twenty pesos more. Egads. I just went home, watched some television.

I sat and thought. I did not know why I cared so much for that little creep - but, I did. It brought me down thinking that all I must be to him is free money.

A couple of hours later, I found myself at a dive I liked very much, Caletilla - a small cantina in a rough neighborhood. The joint consisted of a bar that ran the length of the oblong room. With a jukebox in the back by the foul restrooms, the purple-painted cantina could hold only about forty people. However, on crowded nights, it became so packed, the fags spilt out onto the crumbling sidewalk.

Not thirty seconds in the door, I was hit up for a beer by the local ‘Can you buy me anything’ mooch.

The first was a young man with a very athletic build – the types fairies coo over. Tall and handsome, he introduced himself as Alejandro. He wore a white tank-top with California Easy embroidered across the chest. He had on khaki summer shorts and wore flip-flops. One of those damn hustlers that preyed on Americans.

He slid next to me at the bar holding an empty glass, “Hey! Guero, how you doing?”

“Not bad. Yourself?” I poured the yellow liquid into my glass, squeezed in a lemon, sprinkled salt.

Alejandro tipped his empty glass at my bottle, "Hey! You mind if I can have some beer?”

However, four caguamas later, and getting a pretty good buzz on, Alejandro’s cheery demeanor changed sour when I decided to cut his free beer off.

“That’s it, man.” I tottered. “I’m tapped out. You want to buy the next round?”

“What do mean, you’re tapped out? Buy another beer for me.” He said.

I lit a cigarette, watching the bloated lesbian as she tended the bar and then turned to Alejandro, “I mean, c’mon, man…don’t be a fucking mooch. Buy, one - I’ve been flippin’ the bill all afternoon.”

“You know what, gringo - fuck you.” He left in a huff.

I watched him storm out and ordered another beer.

The sun gone, I stood outside the bar smoking a cigarette under the sheltering moon and waited for a few of my friends to hopefully stagger by.

The motley pedestrians stumbled past - shifty thieves, clomping transvestites, hookers sagging in spandex, smelly tramps, mange covered dogs.

Music of all types blasted out of the rows of neon flashing cantinas and dance halls. The smell of seared meat and rotting garbage mingled with belching bus fumes.

As I finished my cigarette, Erik and tall Isidro staggered up out of the haze.

Smiling, I said, “It’s about time! I was about to go home.”

“Callete, puta!” Isidro barked. “Get your ass back inside and let’s drink!”

Entering the bar again, and after Isidro bought a round, a cute shorty came up and started on the mooch.

“I wonder if you can do me a favor?” He meekly asked.

I wisecracked, “Uh-oh. Those are dangerous words, handsome.”

“I’m thirsty and I’d like a beer.”

“Well, gee” I began, as I pointed at the bar with bottle in hand, “There’s a whole bar in front of you…why don’t you just order one.”

“That’s the thing.” He smiled. “I haven’t any money.”

“Why would you come to a bar without any money? You are assuming a lot there, kiddo.”

“I understand.” He said, acting a little wounded. “Could you buy me a beer?”

With that, I got onto a bitch roll: “Look, I have been buying people beer for two days straight now. As a matter of fact, I have been living in your country for almost ten years and once, just once, I’d like the tables turned and someone to buy me a drink…just once.” I accented this, holding a finger up to his blank, docile face. “But, that doesn’t look like it’s gonna happen, does it? Nope - because as we all well know, Americans are so fucking rich - we got money blowing outta our asses and can buy any and everything, right? I mean, the way you mooches approach me fifty times a day, you’d think I got millions of dollars in the bank. Yeah, I’m so fucking rich…that’s why I live in a Mexican slum and not in a swanky penthouse Stateside.”

“So, can I have a beer?”

“Fuck off! Go bum someone else…or is it only Americans you bother with your financial woes?”

It must have hit home, because when I turned from my friends, the little fucker was drinking with an old, tired American queen.

My buzz gone, I bid my friends goodnight and left.

Squeezing my way past groping hookers and stumbling drunks, I stopped for a hamburger at a corner stand.

Under garish neon, I sat on a stool in front of the stand, chomping on my burger, when a scrawny, lizard-like cholo slithered up behind me and put his hand on my back, smiling, “Hey, guero, could you buy me one hamburger?”

Sigh.

“No!” I stomped home.

A nation of mooches. All that it is.

Tralala

Work crawled as work will and work did. When the whistle blew, I yabba-dabba-dooed to the border, stopping at Panguini’s in El Paso for a quick spaghetti and meatball dinner.

After crossing the border into Mexico, I had some time; thought I’d take a catnap before I hit the Bar Buen Tiempo.

Buen Tiempo was a small dive that was located around the corner from the cathedral - calm joint sometimes. The bar was a great wooden affair that circled the center of the room - on some nights; it was so full of fags that standing was the only option.

From an ancient jukebox, the Banda music would warble amid the chatter and clinking and the smoke of a hundred fairies. Old men, rentboys, fags, and the curious stood around in a comfortable atmosphere. A far throw from the crazy dives in Tijuana and a million miles from gay bars stateside.

I had the idea of spending the evening with two new friends that I had met recently - Erik and Isidro.

Erik was an acquaintance of mine from the bars - a stocky, cowboy type from Zacatecas.

On weekends, we had a system of meeting each other in Plaza las Armas, chatting, waiting for other friends to arrive, and then hitting the cantinas. A nice guy, always worried about his weight. I did not think he was fat. Fags had always suffered from that strange, paranoid mania.

Isidro I had met through Erik. A tall, lanky queen that worked in a beauty salon. Always wore tight, black clothing and hair teased into a gravity defying coif. Catty and vindictive, yet, was funny when he was funny.

They had invited me to meet them at Bar Buen Tiempo at eight.

Silly me woke up around ten-thirty. I jumped in the shower, shaved, donned my best and ran out the door.

I bolted across Plaza las Armas in the cold, blustering wind to Bar Buen Tempo and nada, the two were nowhere to be found. Crap.

I resigned to the fact that I was going solo tonight and chose to haunt a disco called Freegay on Avenida Mariscal - the scummy strip where all the hoochie houses and drug barons lay. Notorious and somewhat dangerous for the unwise.

Freegay was the only gay disco on that broken boulevard. Paid the ten pesos and fifty centavos at the door and climbed the soiled, red carpet up, up to the entrance, up the flight of a grand, warped wooden staircase where you were herded into a que to purchase a caguama by sulking lesbians.

In the vast, dim interior, the shifty wait staff catered to hard convict cholos, gangsters, thieves, drugged out transvestites, and killer bull dykes. It carried the distinctive mix of both seedy and furtive. My kind of place.

The joint was a little crowded, always dark and smoky, and not an empty table. Young hipsters in their hip-hop gear, cholos in their khaki baggies, trannies in their dazzle-glitter, and dykes in their mullets glided about in a nonstop ballet.

I stomped over towards the restroom entrance (always a good spot to stand) and sat my bottle on a table that appeared empty. Well, there was a box of beer on it. I suspected it was being used by the wait staff for storage.

Soon found out that it was occupied; because a towering, lanky and handsome cholo stood up and politely asked me to move my bottle off of his box so as he could get himself a beer.

Every time he said something to me, he would press those full lips and pencil mustache against my ear and that made my heart race every time. And, I think he purposely knew it. Pretty damn suave.

My new friend introduced me to his companions: firstly, his younger brother, Alfredo - drop dead grrjss ran in their freaking family (though in that teenage cholo gangster attire, he’d looked as if he would kill you on the spot. Tattoos and all) - some tall, skinny dude in a cowboy outfit; kept referring to him as Texarkana. He never caught on; guess the pun was lost in translation. And lastly, a wretchedly horrid transvestite with pimples and scrawny physique that contently sat in the dark as prim and as regal as possible.

The guy who did the intros called himself Salvador and was actually very reserved. We all talked and they asked questions about where I was from, where I lived, how I liked Mexico. The normal routine I get when I meet folks here.

Alfredo, my seducer’s younger brother, began flirting with a girl he had acquired and while making out with her, asked Salvador for some pesos to buy her a rose.

Salvador purchased a couple of white roses, one for her and one for me. Aw. He received a kiss on that square jaw for that one.

The music switched to a crazy mambo and it was exciting to watch Alfredo and Salvador dance to it together at the table. And, could they mambo. I gotta learn the mambo! I could be such a clueless gringo sometimes.

Anyways, things went smooth, Salvador was putting the moves on me, complementing my baby blues, towering over me with his tall self, and eventually asking me to dance when some reggeaton started blaring. I obliged. We hit the floor and danced so nasty.

During my flailing, our foreheads touched, then our noses, our lips, then our tongues - I was actually feeling it and so was he - until a random, fucking fat transvestite pulled us apart and began yelling at Salvador and bitch slapped him right there on the dance floor.

Then - are you ready, Dear Reader - she turned to me and smacked me! My fist automatically flew up and popped her in the teeth. I mean, I ain’t no passive fairy, folks.

The bitch went flying and skidded akimbo across the dance floor. She sprung up like a sequined jack-in-the-box and I readied myself for a full on fag smack-down rumble.

But, she only held her bleeding mouth, “Oye! Oye! Porque me pegaste? Soy un mujer!” (Ow! Ow! Why did you hit me? I’m a woman!)

I pointed at her and roared in psychopathic hatred, “You fucking hippopotamus! You are a fucking man in a clown suit! A man! And, you’ll be treated like one!”

I would like to make a side note right now that I am not a drama queen. Okay?

Back to the story in progress: So, Salvador walked over to this simpering thing - obviously his novia - and cradled the tranny in his arms, dabbing her lip with his handkerchief. He glared at me as if I just strangled his newborn child and I realized it was time to cut.

I lit a Lucky Strike and walked to the bar and ordered another caguama. My cheek still tingling, I nuzzled into a dark corner and fumed, when I was lucky enough to be approached by Tralala clomping out of the murk.

Allow me to take a moment to describe this creature in gold lame.

If you were standing with Liza Minnelli next to a fountain and suddenly grabbed her by the throat, holding her head under water for thirty minutes, what came up gasping for air would be this mess of a transvestite, Tralala. Poor heroin addicted Tralala. Fun for a few kicks, I suppose.

As we stood talking of what just happened, the overhead lights snapped on and the club closed. Amid disappointed moans and cat call whistles from the drunken and excited club goers - several overly-dramatic trannies covered their melting, glistening faces from the blinding, white light - we all were herded out of the disco and down the stairs by the thuggish security.

Outside amid the dispersing crowd, I kept my eye out for Salvador and his group. They did pass, but completely ignored me. As I was about to say goodnight, Tralala introduced me to her friend Carlos, who at that moment walked out of the club. Wow. Shorty, but cute.

I thumbed to a chicken restaurant across the street that was open 24 hours, offered, “Hey, you guys want to go for a cup of coffee or something to eat? I’m, buying.”

“Sure.” Carlos smiled and Tralala said something that sounded like a belch.

Carlos and I walked across to the restaurant laughing and talking as Tralala followed us, pulling her stained panties out of her ass.

After some small talk of jokes and gay innuendo, Carlos made his intentions quite clear, as did I, looking into those big, brown eyes.

“Luck has it; I live only four blocks away.” I smiled, coyly.

Carlos and I left Tralala tottering on that corner in front of the restaurant as the sidewalk rushed beneath our feet.

Keys jingled, opening the door. Clothes were flung off. Fingers slid over smooth skin, both pale white and Mexican brown. Tongues licked and sucked, teeth bit. Carlos pushed me up against my credenza. And, spitting into his palm, lubed up his short, thick penis - Ahhhh! - with quick, hard thrusts he lunged into me, talking real dirty in Spanish, and that drove me even more over the edge.

Carlos flung me down onto the couch, threw my feet up over his shoulders and stabbed it in. Pile driving into me, until he yanked it out and with hot spurts, shot his semen across my stomach and chest. We kissed and then showered.

“So, what are you going to do now?” I asked as he toweled me off.

“It’s late. I’m going home. I have to work early tomorrow.”

I debated offering him money, then thought against it.

Carlos got dressed, at the door said thank you, and hailed a taxi home.

I put on Go with the Flow by Queens of the Stone Age and smoked a joint before I fell asleep.