I had wised up a bit

I had wised up a bit and happily and regretfully, and with much restraint, cut Oscar from my life, once again.

People want to piss me off - play with my emotions. That is one act I would not tolerate from anyone. Fine, you want to swindle me for beer or food - but don’t fuck with what is left of my heart.

For the last few months, this Oscar character had played me like a harp from Hell and usually when I listened to my gut and followed my instincts - however fucked up they may be - I never deterred from my decision. He seemed like a nice guy - but the stench of deception clung to him like dried semen on the jacket of a pedophile.

I had no idea where he stood. The guy was always wishy-washy over what was going on in our friendship.

“I’m straight!”, he would thunder, all the while beating his chest.

Yet, he continued to visit me, sit and talk about work and money.  And, as a matter of fact, he would instigate the sexual liaisons, not I. Well, mostly.

However, and this is where it gets wacky - I truly began to harbor an attraction -  a strong, direct, emotional feeling for him and in a tender and romantic soliloquy one evening, I had to explain myself, yet again.

Under a baneful moon, I breathed, “Oscar, you are special, you know that? I think I am beginning to open up to you, to actually fall in love. You make me laugh, you’re fun to be around, and you ain’t to shabby in the sack. Be with me, Oscar, be with me and I will make your life - our life - so much better.”

In which, he blankly responded with nothing. Sat there in silence.

He claimed to be straight - and I mean, straight straight. And yet, he screwed my emotions by screwing my ass at his convenience.

I am far too set in my ways to change, now. I am not the cooing, sniveling pansy of yore - oh no, Dear Reader. I have been burned by far too many so called straights in the past. I want what all fags want and the bottom line to that is love. Simple love.

However, that privilege seemed unattainable. Especially down here in ol' Mexico. The motives of such characters are always - always - ulterior.

Either it being money or clothes or drugs, the time you shell out for these fucks are never for your enjoyment, but solely theirs. And what and how much they can get out of it.

Sigh.

The last couple of nights had been visiting straight bars and me flipping the beer bill whilst Oscar and his cronies cruised for broads and drank up my wallet.

Certainly, the evening usually ended with Oscar banging the bajeebus out of me – but, it was all so empty. Worse than a one night stand, because I was the one harboring romantic feelings for the boy. And he realized this, all the while beating his chest claiming his heterosexuality.

The previous night, Oscar and I sat in a cantina that was splashed in gaudy cowboy motif. Worn, wooden wagon wheels and barrels for tables, bent, dark floorboards, walls covered in oil paintings of the Old West - Mexican style. The place was empty, save for us and a silent, bloated drunk.

Oscar and I sat silent, uttering a few jokes to each other, yet I was certain he wished he was somewhere else. The bartender was a big-boobed mamacita with thick, black eye shadow. The more intoxicated Oscar became, the more she flirted. And, when Oscar began flirting with the fair sex, I became invisible.

“Let’s go.” I snarled, wanting to get Oscar away from that offending skank.

They smiled goodbye to each other and we walked out into the neighborhood’s night.

We staggered down the middle of the street to spare ourselves an attack by roving dogs or the occasional gangster. Oscar began to slow his walk.

“Where you want to go next?” He asked.

“Let’s go to my place - we can drink and watch movies.” I suggested.

I really just wanted to take my aggression out on him, sexually.

He stopped in the middle of the street, glanced drunkenly back at the neon of the bar two blocks away and said, “You want to invite that girl? She is hot and I wouldn’t mind fucking her.”

I went livid, “No, I don’t want to invite her! You asshole! I have shown you nothing but kindness and respect since we met and all you do is use, use, use! I’m tired of it! You have to make a choice - right now - it’s living like you do, a common street hustler or with me? I can’t tolerate both any longer!”

He stood in the fluorescent shadow of the humming street lamp, looking down and said nothing. I lit a cigarette.

“I’m going to go talk with her, I think I gotta chance with her.” He said, calmly.

“Fuck!” I screamed in frustrated rage, causing dogs to bark, and I think in the distance a baby began to cry. “You know, we have nothing in common. All you see with me is a dollar bill with feet! Why don’t you grow a pair and be a man for once by supporting yourself?!”

“Luis…please…I explained to you…” He began, hands out, palms up.

“Goodbye, you asshole! Don’t fucking bother me anymore!” I sneered.

With that, I stormed down the street and left Oscar standing in pools of shadows.

I felt nothing except slight sadness - not for losing him as a friend, but that it had to be the way it was.

Son cosas de la vida...

going bar to bar

Showered - dressed, and liked the way I looked. Walked over to the corner; got a pack of smokes and bought a bite to eat at a hamburger stand employed by a handsome Indian named Ignacio, wondering what I could get from that? Cuter than shite, he was.

Strolled to the Plaza las Armas in front of the main cathedral to relax and think. However, there was a rip-roarin’, bible thumpin’ show going on, so God wouldn’t have it.

Sat there anyway and did the best I could. It was a nice, warm evening and the stars twinkled in a dark-navy, clear sky. The moon was big and orange, like a grapefruit hanging in that sky.

First goofball I ran into was my good bud Erik, he was making the rounds – going bar to bar – looking for his friends, but was out of luck.

“Hola, guero, been here long?” Erik asked jovially.

“Not really.” I said. “Trying to tolerate the Wrath of God over there.”

Erik glanced at the raucous church group and smirked. The devoted that they had acquired, clapped and sung along amid the tinny screeching of the bull-horn.

“Yes, they are here every weekend. You have a problem with God?” He asked.

“Not yet.” I stated as I lit another cigarette.

A group of young guys passed joking and laughing. Three skinny queens gesticulating and giggling.

“I’m looking for this one guy that I had met a couple of nights ago at Nebraska bar, but he seems not to be out drinking, yet.” Erik said, watching with lust as the boys passed.

“I’m sure he’ll show up.” I assured him.

Erik sighed and then looked at me smiling, “Hey, I’ll catch up with you later. I’m going to see if I can catch this guy.”

“Okay.” I said as I shook his hand. “I’ll be here.”

With that, Erik shot off across the bustling plaza.

Eventually, and thank God - the Holy Rollers with the bull horns left and the Plaza quieted down as I sat there sipping my manzana fresca when Saneen - a bespectacled, nervous and twitchy queen - walked up and said his howdy’s and gushed at how much he wanted to talk to me.

“Oh, I’m so glad I ran into you!” He chirped.

“Yeah?” I croaked, puffing on that smoke. “About what?”

“I understand that you are a writer?” He asked.

“Some people think so.” I joked.

“Well, I have written this essay about my trip to Paris and I…” His cellphone beeped.

I sat and watched a homeless man dig through the trash that cascaded over a bin as Saneen blabbered rapidly in Spanish. He eventually snapped the phone shut.

“Oh, guero, I have to zip over quick to ProNaf and meet a friend.” Saneen bleated with a high-pitched lisp. “Can we have coffee tomorrow at Café Central, say at nine?”

“Okay…sure.” I agreed as my cigarette dangled from my lips.

Shaking my hand, the fag swished off into the busy pedestrian night.

I sat there scoping the scene – a little, shabby dwarf of a woman dragged ratty luggage past (wheels long gone) begging for coins – old and ancient cowboy crooned (ivory colored, ten-gallon hat and a dusty scowl under white, bushy mustache) to a patient, yet appalled cholo (handsome and queer) a few benches down – police prowled, making random checks of identifications…

I decided to stroll over to Bar Nebraska to look for Erik and before I entered the door, someone called at me from the shadows.

“Guero! Hey, Luis!”

I squinted to see who it was. I had to look hard before I recognized him as Javier - a neighbor who would visit occasionally for beer and conversation. I hadn’t seen him in weeks.

He was painfully thin, face sunken in, eyes all pupils, clothes filthy – he had deteriorated into a full-fledged junky. My heart sank – this was the same Javier that not three months ago, I had to explain what crystal meth was.

I stood and stared at his ravaged visage, snarled, “Are you taking drugs? Look at your face!”

“No!” He said. “No, I’m not, man - I promise!”

Come on, who did he think he was kidding?

I didn’t say a word and entered Bar Nebraska to look for Erik. The small joint was crawling with Old Navy and Abercrombie and Fitch clones - Mexican style. My eyes scanned through the gloom, passing across forty faces of such plastic fakeness, all made the worst by the strobbing, red neon.

Someone tugged at my shirt sleeve – half expecting to see the grinning visage of Erik, I was instead met with the raw gaze of Javier, who obviously had followed me in.

“What has happened to your face?” I asked, glaring at him in the dim light.

“Nothing.” Javier pleaded. “Buy me a beer.”

“No.” Was my answer and I left him standing ragged in the middle of all that dazzling, faggy poshness. Goodbye, Javier.

Hit the streets depressed even more after that. Returned to the Plaza and sat and chain smoked Lucky Strike after Lucky Strike – non-filtered, you dig?

Erik appeared out of nowhere, took one look at me and grimaced.

“What’s the matter, man? You look sad.” He stated.

I paused – I was sad. Not because of the event before with Javier. My thoughts flowed with the memories about Oscar. Erik sat next to me on the concrete bench.

“It’s that obvious, huh?” I stated. “Oh, Erik – I got it bad. I have been seeing this boy named Oscar. I am so in love with him. I try and try to persuade this guy to feel the same about me. But, all he seems to see me as is a dollar bill with feet. I love him; however, I can’t stand him at the same time.”

“Where did you guys meet?” Erik asked.

I sighed. “In the street. I met him in the street.”

“He’s a hustler?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. He likes women, though.” I said.

“Oh, honey!” Erik wailed dramatically. “There you have it. You can’t change that type of macho. He will always go with the women before he goes with a guy. You understand the word machismo?”

I nodded yes.

“He has his friends and family to think about.” Erik continued. “He has to save face – no way will he truly have a relationship with you. What you need to do is drop him and find you a nice gay boy.”

“But, it’s his masculinity that appeals to me. I can’t have a relationship with a fucking fairy!” I spat the word ‘fairy’ out like poison.

“That’s what you might need.” Erik said.

“What I need is a drink.” I stated as I stood up. “C’mon, let’s go.”

We walked around the corner to Bar Buen Tiempo: for me a cerveza Sol and him an agua mineral – Erik doesn’t drink, dig?

Depression was lifted somewhat when I was scoped out by two handsome guys and that’s what was needed to lift my spirits.

Erik and I drank in silence – I sat morosely pining over the thoughts on Oscar. I wanted him to be with me at that moment.

Erik sighed the word aborrito – boring for you stupid assholes that don’t speak Spanish – and we were out the door and off through the Old Market to Caletilla, that bar of bars.

As ever, the hole in the wall cantina was packed with bloated drag queens, bulldykes, junkies, pimps, homo-thieves, prostitutes, and whatever. I loved the place. Always kept it funky fresh.

Erik and I made our way toward the back where we met our friends and the beer began to flow.

Sitting by the mensroom entrance like a flamboyant, Aztec goddess, was my hairdresser friend, Isidro. With him was another short, squat fag also named Isidro. Since they had the same first name, they often were referred to as the twins - even though they looked nothing alike. Silly fags.

Isidro - the tall one - brought with him a scrawny, little twink that looked as if he was twelve years old – he claimed to be eighteen – named Manuel.

“Manuela!” Mexislang for masturbation, Erik whispered jokingly into my ear.

The kid clung to me like a wart. I, of course, assured my group of friends that I had no intention to do anything unsavory with the kid, he was too young. Gotta keep face with these bitches – know what I mean? Even though I would had thrown little Manuel on the floor and banged him doggy-style on the spot – he was that cute.

After the bar closed, my group of bitches and I walked over to Freegay to boogie down – I was relieved to hear that Manuel could not enter because he did not have an I.D. Made me all jittery having him around, you know – felt all kind of nasty the way he looked at me – I ain’t no child molester.

Fucking Lolita. I thought.

Isidro was nice enough to pay for all four of us to enter and we climbed the stairs of stained, red carpet and entered the disco. Finding a dark corner in this cavernous hall, we became pretty ripped. Danced – drank – hit on by flirtatious guys – ran into old friends.

They had hired a new waiter – his name being Manuel (There was a pattern brewing that night, I just knew it!) and as the waiter served us our drinks, he would make flirtatious remarks at me.

After the fifth or sixth round of alcohol, Manuel handed me my drink and caressed my fingers as he passed the bottle to me.

I was in stupid, drunk gringo mode at that time. I smiled and looked over his muscular frame that his waiter uniform was accenting. He had short, cropped hair, black and slicked back, a thick moustache and square jaw.

I slurred something to the effect, “Ya know, after ya get off work, you should come to my apartment for a night’s romp.”

He puffed up and flexed, all the while stating, “Sure. But, my going rate is sixty dollars. You gonna pay me, Americano?”

I laughed, “Get lost!”

He did.

Dancing was followed by a transvestite show, then a strip show. Out of literarily nowhere, that little waif Manuel that I’d met back at the previous bar popped up out of the gloom. As I gave him the cold shoulder, he was being cruised by every old, fat pedophile in the building – figures! Evil, old vampires.

Erik and I joined the never ending parade that continually looped the dance floor - a chance to check out the checkers.

“What’s your name? Muy nice!” One guy with a shaved head smiled, grabbing my sleeve as he passed. Wished I took him up on it.

Around two thirty, the disco closed, and we five drunkenly exited and stumbled to the corner hamburger stand and gobbled down a few.

I was approached by a rather good looking cowboy in a white hat, all legs and white jeans so tight you could see his circumcision.

“Hola.” I slurred, wobbling.

“Hola.” He smiled.

The cowboy moved closer to talk. That’s when I leaned over and threw up off the curb. Real classy, me. It didn’t impress the vaquero that much, either.

Saying adios to Manuel and the Isidios, Erik walked me to my house. I flipped a Lucky Strike to the cowboy and said I would see him later or some sloppish remark. He smiled and turned away.

On a side street near my apartment, took a piss next to a van to the gigglings of an old hag.

I glared at her, then smiled, saying in English, “What’s so fucking funny?”

As Erik and I walked up to my door, a car pulled over with two, young Mexican guys inside.

The passenger asked me, “Do you speak English?”

I blurredly focused on them as I leaned over the passenger window. I had to admit, they both weren’t bad looking.

“Fluently.” I slurred.

“We are kinda lost...which way back to El Paso?”

I leaned down to the passenger window, “Well, you drive that way two blocks and take a right on calle Ignacio Mejia, then a left at Avenida Juárez…”

“Quieres mamar? (Want a blowjob?)” The passenger blurted.

“No.” I said, not missing a beat. “You take Juárez Avenue to the bridge then to El Paso.”

“You don’t wanna fuck me?” He asked meekly.

“Look, yer drunk, I’m drunk...and I gotta go to work in three hours. Go home and get some sleep.”

The car pulled off. I said good night to Erik and crashed on my couch.

Why Was it Like This?

Damn in such a funk of late. So numb inside - avoided contact with everyone. I was simply waiting to leave - even then, I felt no surge of excitement over that.

I lay sweating in my bed all day - only to pull myself out to walk to the corner bakery to buy some bread. I was completely broke - surviving on bread and water.

Went back to my room and lay there thinking about nothing in particular for hours on end. Around one a.m. or there abouts - walked back to the 24hr bakery and bought some sweet bread and a small milk with my last 12 pesos.

Why was it like this? How had all enjoyment of the fundamentals of life been crushed out of me? I wanted nothing. Nothing, but to be left alone with my own thoughts. And they were even mired in bleak resentment of past events. I saw my future - those filthy, haggard old men pushing a shopping cart down the street with all sanity and lust for life gone out of them - I believed that would be one day my fate.

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.