Umbrella.

I saw him crying in the rain and many people didn’t give it a second thought. I could distinguish his tears from the raindrops as he kept his face toward the sky. He simply let the rain crash against his face as if he was releasing all that was inside him. Releasing his hurt, his pain and frustration.
I didn’t stare too long or hesitate to act. I just walked over and put my arm around him. I didn’t have an umbrella to offer. So we walked off together without any words continuing to let the rain cleanse him of his sorrow.

It's a Sin To Tell a Lie.

I can pen the most lurid descriptions of things. Setting the reader right in the middle of that shit. So, to speak and frankly as I had stated many times before, I wouldn't have it any other way. Yet, when I am sitting in and having a fucking touchy-feely moment with a state trained shrink and he asks to describe how I feel inside, I am at a loss for words.

Now, don't get me wrong. I try. I really do. Yet, they come out as a juxtaposition of indecipherable crap which usually ends with me smiling and stating, "I'm okay."

I am not okay. For years, inside has been a swirling turmoil of hate, shame, regret, confusion, loss, and self-loathing wrapped in a thick layer of utter sadness. There. That does it. In a nutshell. I know, I know..."Well, that is how every one feels once in a while. You simply have to deal with it." Well, first of all, fuck you and secondly, it isn't once in a while - it is continuous. Nonstop. Unrelenting. Consuming. I am trying to get you to understand with simple one word examples, but someone of your calibre will never understand. I mean, how could you? How could you grasp the constant coldness inside? The vacuum of feelings? The continuous wanting of ending this mortal coil?

Well, anyway, I will remain here in Tucson for a few more months saving my pennies and then continue on to Puerto Rico in September as planned. If I can hang on that long....

Always Classy, Me.

So, I'm walking outside the coffee shop when I notice this fucking twink staring at me from his perch along the benches on the side of the cafe. I've seen that look before in a horny dog. Oh, well, what can I say, it was hot out that morning. A simmering 108 and it only being ten in the morning.

Anyway, I approached said kid and actually the thing that I liked about his hipster ass was his t-shirt. So:

ME: Excuse me, do you mind if I take your picture?

HIM: Sure. I don't mind.

(SNAP)

HIM: You some kind of photographer or something?

ME: No. I'm a writer.

HIM: Really? What do you write.

ME: Unpublishable garbage, apparently.

HIM: Oh...they can't be that bad.

ME: I'm currently writing a novel about a gay homeless person and his romance with a heroin addict. Or at least that was how it started.

HIM: How it started?

ME: Books take on a life of their own. They twist and turn in the middle of the night like an interesting sex act but in the end you are rarely surprised by the outcome. You are generally left with a feeling of uncomfortable shame.

HIM: Well...uh..hey! You have a nice day.

I am left out front puffing on my cigarette staring at the sun...

Paul Sees a Shrink.

Doctor Guzman sat across from Paul - harrumphing and mumbling like a Bolshevik with marbles in a greasy halitosis stained mouth. Paul had a psychoanalysis exam with the onsite nut ward at the shelter, but he couldn’t get word one across with that quack. Every single time he asked Paul a question, the good doctor would interrupt an answer by digging through a drawer of his cluttered desk to produce a random pamphlet on arcane mental treatments. “Yes, yes dis you may find interestink...”

   This man is insane, Paul thought.

   As with other shelters, any client who confessed having acute depression or the slightest inkling of suicidal thoughts were ordered to see one of their state trained doctors. Paul rationed this time around perhaps he was a little touched and decided that it may be in his own interest to seek help concerning his unique proclivities.

   “Your terminal homelessness and manic-depressive induced mood swings are the product of a terrible loss in your life.” The doctor warbled. He leaned over his desk and leered at Paul with tiny, clasped hands. “Can you recall any event which may have triggered these obsessions?”

   Paul thought. He sat pensive and couldn’t recall any direct or single occurrence. There were too many.

   “No.” He finally said. “Not off the top of my head. I’m just depressed a lot. Whenever I get tired of where ever I am living, I pack up my gear and wander somewhere else.”

   “Yet,” The doctor beamed. “The problem always resurfaces, yes?”

   “Yeah. No matter where I go, there it is.”

   “Do you have fleeting thoughts of low self-worth? Do you ever think of harming yourself?”

   “You mean suicide?” Paul asked. “Oh, all the time. I mean, why not? This world is shit. Only a mad man would care to continue in such a hostile existence.”

   It shocked Paul into an awareness to utter those feelings aloud. He deeply felt that way for a long time, but to speak it…

   The doctor pursed his fat lips, “That is not healthy, my young friend. Life is good. Life is exciting. Life is as wonderful as you make it.”

   “Then I’m fucked.” Paul sighed. And the insidious part was Paul actually believed it.

   Holy shit, Paul thought. I really do need help.

   Towards the end of the session, a surly nurse - grinning moronically, glaring menacingly - produced a small plastic cup with gray horse pill coupled with a tiny red one - pushing it in Paul’s face.

   “Look.” Paul chuckled nervously - eyes ping ponging back and forth between the two. “I don’t wanna take these and wake up in some asylum.”

   “No - no. I am your doctor - you can trust me.” He stated flatly without emotion - face unreadable as a cold poker player - a fine layer of grease lacquered his black hair like a helmet. He resembled a predatory sea creature.

   Down the hatch. Shortly afterwards, Paul was issued an entire pharmaceutical of pills - mood stabilizers and anti-psychotics and was scheduled a follow up two weeks later. Walking out, Paul felt no better - if anything, more upset that he had wasted three hours with that croaker.

   Once back at the shelter, Paul passed out from the effects of the dope only to be awoken from the obnoxious pestering and raucous chatter of the morons who lived there. He stumbled around in a slurring hostile blur - pissed that the fucker of a croaker over drugged him.

   Never going back to that asshole again.

   Days later, Paul sat on a bench out on the back patio without moving for seven hours straight. He attempted to think how he began the day, but his mind was in a thick fog and he didn’t attain the abilities nowadays to do anything, much less think. Everything had been burned out...he sluggishly faltered. Five days had passed since he began to administer the prescribed medication from the psychiatrist...So, he remembered five days ago...

   Paul awoke with a start of fear, gasping for air, about an hour before the lights snapped on in the dorm. He lay there thinking of the nightmare he had until the lights blinked on at 5:30. A grating voice boomed over the hacking and farting of the waking men.

   “Good morning, gentlemen of Santa Teresa. For the guests and clients who slept in the dayroom and the chapel, please strip your mats and place them in the bin provided in the dorm. breakfast will be at 6:00 a.m...”

   And so on and on it went. Paul’s lithe torso felt as if he had been beaten with a rubber club and his eyes were crusty and tingling with pain. He reached next to his bunk and grabbed an old plastic water bottle and guzzled the liquid greedily. It hurt going down. Seizing his pajama pants from the end of the bed, he preferred to sleep in his boxers and t-shirt, Paul placed his feet into plastic shower shoes and clopped through the wooden maze to the men’s bathroom. It was already crowded. Stale clothes, dirty backpacks, white-tiled floor smeared with water, mud, and shit. The odor was enough to make an ambulance attendant puke. The filthy mirrors over the sink were positioned so as to force once to watch some old, dirty bum squatting on the toilet. Loud sound of grunting and farting produced toxic steaming shit. Ker-plop.

   Paul shuffled down the hall towards the main office, not hearing the various “Good Mornings” chirped at him from the natives. Today he began his medications as prescribed by Dr. Guzman. One Welbutrin XL in the morning taken with six Seroquel followed by a Depakote chaser, beautiful little darlings. He plopped them into his mouth, washing them down at the chrome water fountain that was losing the battle against algae and grime.

   Then the call for breakfast. Burnt, gray oatmeal. Paul attempted to eat it, but the drugs began to take hold. His speech was slurred; his body seemed to be made of hardening plastic. He couldn’t concentrate...like being drunk, but not being drunk. A couple of friends and Steven sat at his table.

   Steven looked worried, “What’s wrong?”

   It took Paul five minutes to say, I began my medication today.”

   After chewing on some horrid, stale toast, Paul returned to his bunk. Head spinning, legs twitching, terrible cotton mouth.

   He fell into a deep, deep sleep.

   Paul awoke up with the fear of suffocation. He swung his legs out and sat at his bunk. Staring slack jawed at the dusty, brown tile on the floor. It took him twenty minutes to get up the energy to rise and walk.

   What fucking time is it? He thought, swirling a dry tongue around a sticky and gooey mouth. 3:53 p.m. Okay. Need to take a shower.

   He entered the shower, white tiles covered in orange and green and black fungus. It smelled like bleach and shit. Letting the hot water flow over his torso, Paul stood there swaying. Time dragged.

   Dressing, he walk as if in a dream through the dayroom, always a chess game and television blaring a football game, and towards outdoors. The sun burned his eyes and Paul donned his cheap sunglasses which he had purchased downtown for three dollars. The long, wooden bench was quite full. Old and worn smooth from the rub of a million hobo asses; warped from the elements, it now seats the heroes of the underworld and forgotten. Paul sat among those fools, smoking his last cigarette, staring. The sky was a big, bright San Diego blue and gave everything a shimmering hue. A swarm of flies, the quantity of biblical proportions, danced and fucked on the row of tramps. Paul sat as immobile as an iguana in the sun, staring at nothing, thinking about nothing. The sun swung across the cloudless sky and time dragged.

   A large, white truck arrived with donations. “Attention men in the shelter! We need a few volunteers to help unload these donations. If we don’t get any help, the television in the day room will be shut off!” The Voice blared from a loudspeaker. The mission received all kinds of great donations, but the homeless never saw it. Good food was donated, yet the kitchen served crap...where does it all go? Two or three brown-nosers rushed to help, Paul sat and let his cigarette smolder down to his fingers. Time dragged.

   “Well, you look thoroughly medicated.” Quipped someone at Paul beyond his gray screen.

   Three, four hours passed and Paul got up to take his afternoon meds. One more Seroquel.  Another Depakote. Plunked a pill into his mouth and downed it with water from that foul fountain. Even the water tasted rancid. The hallway began to spin and he returned to the bench and listened down into himself. It was time for dinner and not really hungry, Paul poked through the unsavory stew and settled on a bruised apple.

   Outside the sun was going down and the sky was so clean you could count the stars. The loudspeaker, that Voice of Big Brother bulldozed through the tranquility. “Attention in the mission! It is time for Chapel services. Everyone is encouraged to attend! The television will be shut off all night if we do not get a big turnout!” The television is apparently shut off.

   Various men stomp out of the dayroom into the fresh air and grumble, “Damn! There’s a football game on!”

   “We can’t watch it ‘cause they havin’ church.”

   Paul looked up, slurred, “Yeah, God don’t like football.”

   Time dragged. A dog rolled around in the dry grass. The flies swarmed and clustered. Up the hill, the interstate was breathing. Across the skyline, the yellow lights began to flicker in the white skyscrapers. Steven returned from a day at Labor Ready, that temp work joint. He held Paul’s head in his dirty hands and peered into the Nothing.

   “Man, they got you fucked up.” He mumbled.

   Paul wanted to hold him, but it was too much an effort to move.

   “Help me to my bunk”, Paul asked. Like an invalid, Paul clung to Steven’s muscles as he is escorted inside.

   “Better to see you strung out on fucking junk than this shit, dude.” Steven whispered as he lay Paul onto his cot. “I hate seeing you like this. There is nothing in there.” He puts gentle hands over Paul’s eyes.

   “Don’t worry, buddy.” Paul smiled. “I’m cutting this shit out as of today. Better to be insane than a fucking zombie.”

   Within seconds, Paul was asleep.

   Growls and guttural screeches from the tyrannical lesbo cafeteria lady/man during breakfast shocked the hobos into focus. Flinging goo onto greasy trays and making harsh comments to all.

   “This ain’t no restaurant!” She bellowed from a scowling, round face. “Eat and get out! No socializing! I ain’t got time to wait around for you slackers!”

   Soft mumblings from the grime covered tables, men huddled over their trays spooning in the slop. Paul sipped his tepid coffee in depressed resentment. Cold. And cold in a way that was deep down inside. Feeling a sour mood.

   Breakfast consisted of a thin, pink stew with chunks of something in it that made it look a lot like vomit. There was a puddle of the mess on the table and Paul swirled his spoon in it while listening to snatches of dialog drift across the room. Paul languidly munched on a bruised banana.

   “What are you doing today?” Steven asked. He sat across from Paul, shoveling spoonfulls of the pink mess into his mouth.

   “I’m doing it.” Paul uttered.

   “Well, I got an interview at a Turkish café this afternoon.” Steven beamed. “I’m going to ace that. Just you wait, buddy, I’ll be back in Hawaii in no time.”

   Paul sipped his coffee, grimaced at the taste, “Good luck with that, Steven. I really hope you get it.”

   Paul decided to drag himself out into the morning mist and spent the morning languidly strolling around downtown and occasionally applied for a job. He filled out applications at two hotels for a clerk position and as an attendant at the movie theater that he and Steven trespassed through.

   He simply wasn’t feeling it. The depression was hitting him hard. He stopped taking the medication prescribed to him and spent most of his time aimlessly roaming around in a frump. He accepted that his life was pointless. That he was to spend it alone and in sad solitude. With that finality, it made the depression worse. He simply wanted to be alone. Alone and think.

   Paul made his way to a small park and sat under the shade of a tree. He watched a gay couple frolic in the grass. Two, young men laughing and cuddling on a blanket. Paul became angry. He knew he’d never have that intimacy with anyone. He thought of his own personality. What was there to love? What was there left to care about? Paul wished he was dead. To end this never ending loneliness and sadness. He sat and watched the couple lay immobile, entwined, stealing kisses under gathering storm clouds. Paul sighed, rose, and walked around the marina.

   Afterwards, he jumped the blue line back to Santa Teresa’s and that sun beating down all hot and nasty. Pigeons dived and swooped around the station spreading their vermin.

   I hate nature, Paul thought. If you stand still long enough in it, something will shit on you.

   Paul was crossing the station platform when someone boomed out his name and the echo reverberated, scaring the crap out of six pigeons and a bag lady. Literally. The lady shit right onto the cement a thick, stagnant caramel colored discharge. A small child began to cry.

   It was Steven calling out to Paul.

   “Hey, Paul!” He hollered again as he rapidly strolled up. “Damn, man. I didn’t get that job, man. Said I needed more experience or some stupid shit. That fucking sucks!”

   “Okay.” Was all Paul said with a casual shrug. He didn’t care.

   The two friends walked through the throng of paralyzed phantoms towards the shelter. A block from the trolley station, an elderly, black hag was straining to push her cart down the broken sidewalk. Dressed in tattered clothes covered in shit and a prunish head topped by a ratty, blond wig, she sneezed and her dentures flew out of her mouth and onto the dusty ground next to the sidewalk. She bent over with a huff and snatched them up. After washing them off with a cup of stale coffee, the deranged looking hag placed them back into her diseased, festering hole.

   Paul looked at Steven and stated flatly, “I can die now. I have finally seen it all.”

   “Yeah.” Steven laughed, “We call her Freakshow.”

   Paul lit a bummed cigarette and moved on. They entered the patio of the shelter. Paul looked around; not listening to what his blonde friend was going on about. Paul thought as he gazed around at the sordid and grimy denizens, A heavy air of depression hangs over this place like a thick, smelly funk. I have been here too long. The bum kicks piling up far past my tolerance level. I want to move out; my patience is wearing really thin. No one here I want to associate with. I had a very low opinion of homeless folk before entering this place and it has gotten worse.

- excerpt from hobosexual, work in progress

The Sexual Revolution Is Dead. And We Lost.

"In the gay culture of the new millennium, everyone vainly attempts to come across as so pure, so politically correct. They have adopted the same self-loathing Victorian attributes which has plagued heterosexuals for decades. That is why most gay men find themselves ultimately bitter and alone. I hate purity, I hate virtue. I want everyone to be corrupt to the bones. That is in itself the most raw form of rebellion."

- me, 2013 Tucson

I'm Afraid of Americans

Settled into my new digs. A small apartment complex on the outskirts of downtown Tucson where the suburbs flirt with skid row. Not too shabby. Just the right mix of bohemians, fags, and outright weirdos. The apartment is small - as many apartments are stateside. Never ever again will we get what we pay for. Those days are over, youngster, be happy with what you got. Point is, I never am.

Anyways, the flat is a small, clean one bedroom. Everything works. Came furnished. The bed is fine and I have a comfortable desk to write on. Central air is a plus, being 108 outside, the chilled air is a God send. So long I have lived in 3rd world country's, it is kind of nice to drink water straight from the tap again without it tasting like sewage water.

I am on the first floor and my door opens to a shade dappled patio with several picnic tables lined together where the other tenants congregate on warm nights to chat or relieve boredom when the Reality Shows on TV have lost their intsa-appeal. However, they are a snide, arrogant group. Being Americans, it's apt.

One hugely, obese fucker who I will refer to as 'Bitch Tits' stopped me on my first day as I was taking trash out to the dumpster.

"Hey, you just move in?" Bitch Tits blubbered.

"Yeah. This morning." I croaked.

"It's okay here. Just don't get wrapped up in other tenants shit. All they do is complain about everything." Then Bitch Tits went into a thirty minute rant on how he hates everything. I left that titan still droning on under the tree.

I attempted to make my self known. Several tenants were sitting out on the patio one evening and I thought I'd chat with them. There was the hidden queen, Johnathan a youngish Latino in medical scrubs who claimed to work at a pet clinic. He was the positive one. A haggish lady and her equally demented mother lived on the second floor. When I stated that i did not work, but was a writer, the mother snarled, "That ain't no way of makin' a livin'! You gotta toil! Sweat for what ya get!" I'd sit there casually smoking my cigarette as the mother continued on how she hated - completely loathed - anyone who didn't do manual labor.

There was a sprinkling of elderly Hispanic men who mumbled to each other in Spanish. Occasional, a couple of emaciated tweekers would scurry out of their lairs, rapidly smoke on rollies, and then dart back into their apartments. Though these people communicated with each other, their dialog was so arrogant and distant from one another. You could see the venomous hate spitting out with each word. Their eyes suspiciously darting, faces in a constant scowl. A far cry from the warm camaraderie issued from meeting absolute strangers when I was South of the Border. No wonder the world wants us wiped off the face of the Earth.

Later that same evening, around one a.m., I took a break from writing and walked out onto the patio to have a smoke and look at the stars. Out of no where, a dumpy haggish woman appeared from the second story row of flats and plopped down next to me.

"You just move in, huh?" She hissed.

"Yes."

Long silence.

"I'm so bored. I'm looking for me a man on this night." She wheezed.

No! I thought. This ugly hag is not putting the moves on me!

"I need something to do..." She cooed all the while leering at me.

"Well," I began, "My expectations are already pretty low. But, even I have my limits."

"No." She blubbered. "I ain't interested in any of the losers that live here! Haha! I need a responsible man."

Good save, witch. "He'll come around, I'm sure." I said squishing my cigarette out with my shoe before returning back to the safety of my flat.

Well, I am here until whatever I decide to do kicks in, so I'll roll with it. I'm not saying I'm going to like it, but I'm good at putting up a front. No matter how hard and continuous these yanquis try to chisel away on it...

Coffee Shop Blues

6:37am. Young, cholo type tweeker bops into the cafe acting like tweekers do. Standard urban Hip hop gear draped over a stocky, toned frame. He swaggers with that macho walk that heats me pants every time. Fiddles constantly with the various tubes and containers on the condiment table. He uses the mensroom to go smooth himself out. Turns baseball cap backwards before entering. Before lighting up. Before sucking that glass pipe dry. Old queen sashays in with tea-cup chihuahua on a leash. Bangs on the bathroom door because the tweeker is taking too damn long. Fuck, man, let him take his medicine. It's horrible world out there, he needs to prepare. Tweeker bursts out, gives me a wonderful smile with that macho handsome Latino face, "Don't want no problems, chief." He says to the snooty old queen in passing. Tweeker ping pongs around the largely empty cafe picking up bits of paper, straightening chairs, swaying to the jazzy-jazz warbling over the speakers before dashing out into the post dawn nothing of the still sleeping city.

I scribble more notes into my little notebook. I have drafted two or three more chapters to be incorporated into Hobosexual. Much needed and I like what I wrote. Romantic dealings and heartbreak let downs on a homeless level. Yeah, gay hobos need lovin' too.

I order my second large mug of house coffee, check my facebook - boring - check my tumblr - funny - check my e-mail - ghastly. I am biding time. Waiting to make my next move. What that move is at this point is a complete mystery. But, I am sure when revealed it will be both beautiful and strange.

Two hours pass and I write. Think. Contemplate. Young tweeker bursts back into the cafe walks up to my booth and places his bag in the adjoining chair. "You gonna be here a bit?" He asks.

"Yes, for another thirty minutes or so." I croak.

"Can you watch my stuff while I'm in the bathroom" (He pronounces it baffroom).

"Sure." I manage a smile.

Clandestinely, he removes his glass stem pipe from his backpack and enters the mensroom, saying, "I don't trust the people who work here. They're all thieves." He enters the mensroom and locks it before I have time to answer.

The clock on the wall ticks. I write. The sun curves up in the sky. The city slowly wakes.

Been thinking a lot about suicide lately. Weird, huh?

Esoteric Adventures and a Gay Monkey

Attained an apartment here in Tucson. Small and quiet. Reasonable rent. All utilities paid. A good thing too on account that it has already been reaching 108 degrees the last few days. The air conditioning is a God send.

I sit here in this downtown cafe - Shot In The Dark it's called - listening to some sort of warbling hipster shit over the speakers, large, clear glass beer mug of coffee in front of me. The cafe is quaint - row of old booths from the 50's along one wall, scattering of tables, freestyle art splashed across the black painted walls. There are three others here - all staring catatonic into their laptop screens. Just like me.

After paying rent this morning and getting the keys, me and my good pal that street hustler extraordinaire Kyle dashed around downtown in said heat buying the basic necessities for the month. Oh, is Kyle living with me? No. But am happy when he visits. We broke the bed in before he left back to his ratty digs. Splattered his semen all over him and myself in orgasmic convulsions after I blessed him with a much needed blow job. Never thought I'd be interested in a blond. Oh well...

Now that I have said apartment - with writing table in a nook and all - I can now focus on working on two extra chapters I have concocted to include in Hobosexual. I think the extra material will work nicely. Though the publishers are hounding me hard core to finish the damn thing and move on. I will...I promise...

What I really should do is write a full report on Tucson. haven't yet. Haven't really felt like it, so stop asking. I will tomorrow...maybe...

Truth of the matter is, I'm even too tired to write this. Suffice to say, I will remain in Tucson until September or November and then head on over to Puerto Rico.

Oh, one last item of interests - ran into an old friend named Caleb from El Paso who moved here a while ago - wondered why he disappeared back in the Sun City.  Outrageously handsome thin lad of twenty-two and absolutely insane. He expressed interest in collaborating on a novel of his wacky exploits with me. He dictates and I write. Already thought of a title: Adventures in Dumpster Diving. Title explains it all.

Good night.

Word Hoard 2013

"Get your shit together" was the comment left by some asshole on a social network. And what shit is that, Mr. Man? As the Internet meme goes You don't know me. You don't know my life. I only reveal ten percent on that fucking page. The rest is fucking and madness soaked in shame. Shame that I try to hide. But is utterly impossible in this day and age of Big Brother always watching always listening. For four years - four years after twenty of aimlessly wandering hither and yon - I lived like you motherfuckers wanted. And it drove me mad. What came of it? Depression and five published novels depicting the coldness within. Old hobo hacks up blood and phlegm as I attempt to relate this journey, but he don't care. No one cares. And to tell you the truth neither do I. Except maybe a sole doctor who is nuttier than squirrel shit as it is. "Get the fuck out of Dodge!", he commands. So I do. I wanted to retire in Puerto Rico but I go the other way to Tucson with a brief stop in Mexico for some ass and booze. Gotta calm the nerves, you understand. And nothing is more calming than a cock up your ass, right. So, I fall in Tucson and get really fucked. Not by a boy this time, but from my old arch enemy Fate. Fucking bitch. Always out to get me. So, staying true to form, I swallow my pride and live amongst the homeless population scribbling out notes for another novel no one will ever read and am awarded another hand in becoming stable and responsible like you. Ugh. makes me want to vomit just thinking about it. But, I have an ulterior motive. Fate wasn't looking...shh! Don't say anything, don't look. That nosey bitch is just waiting for an excuse to fuck with me...what i am going to do is stay in this housing program designed for a bunch of retards following the American Dream. I will nod. I will smile. I will jump when told. All the while I will save my money and use it to jet off to the Isle of Enchantment. Fuck all you naysayers. I do what I want, go were I want. You are powerless to stop me. Old queen squeals hatred at me already here because I befriended his boy. I don't care. He is only to wile away the days. His only purpose is to fill a hole, you understand. hehehe. Oh, but I forget, you don't understand. What's your fucking problem, anyway? You stupid or something? It's very logical what I am doing. Why is it crazy? So, as I was saying, biding my time, trudging around in one hundred degree weather past construction workers and tweekers and crack heads and howling fat bitches spitting out black babies like a baseball machine. I even turned the fag off in me. various street hustlers prowl around me like aroused Tom Cats but I have no time for their diseases and bullshit. I have a plan! A plan I will not deviate from this go around. Ha! If i know me at all - which I don't - I'll most likely wind up in a ditch somewhere babbling to a cactus about the finer points of the beat generation. At least I'll get my free donuts and coffee handed out every morning by the grinning preacher. Swell fella. Speaking of changing the subject, I am up for an evaluation soon by the prestigious Dr. Ahmed Taylor. based on the real wingdingers I have encountered on the street since my arrival to this burg, I am certain he will deem me sane and it's back to the sweat shops I go. Vacation over. Time to go home. And all I got to show for it was a stupid t-shirt - bedbugs and all. "Hey, ya got any spice?" The teenage girl croaks as the sun is raising it's lazy ass over the horizon. It seems everyone is a junkie nowadays. But do you blame them? Do you? I don't. It's a mad world and a sad one at that. To keep me grounded I meet a young blond fella, short but with a big and willing cock. The only problem is he never shuts up. Talks worse than those women folk. Sulky, too. I guess I don't like him, either. Bothersome little shit. But, I like his long Irish cock, so that's something right? A real ceiling squirter that one. He states that I give the best head he ever had. he should. I've seen a photograph of the fat bitch he is dating. Or sort of dating. She's in Oklahoma now taking truck driving classes. Going to be a man hating bull dyke before the training is done. So he better learn the way of the queer and quick if he's going to get anywhere in life. Well, the good thing is I finally do move into my apartment on the 3rd of June. Old derelicts and crazy ass fat men swarm around the smoking tables of the patio bumming cigarettes from bums and bitching that they have it so bad. I've seen poverty! I've lived utter disillusion! Don't whine to me, you fucking pampered American. You don't know pain and sorrow. Not the real thing, anyway. Just a faded cut out of it. The conversations of this downtown joint I reside in at the moment is a real bore. They all talk of the same thing: Jail and dope, dope and jail. Shut the fuck up already! There is an entire world out there - go see it! But they won't. They - or us - excuse me - are too fat, lazy, and ignorant to step out of our comfort zones. Shit. Ain't that something. What a sad thing not to experience all the wonders of life. To be content with just your cellphone, ipad, and a pack of rollies. Why won't a goddamn asteroid just go ahead and smash into this planet already and end all this suffering? Nah, too easy. Can't always have it your way, I reckon. So, I sit and I wait - sipping delicious coffee served in a big ass beer mug at the 24 hr coffee shop I found and continue posting stale jokes and gags on facebook because those arrogant assholes don't care about nothing else. Really should delete that thing, I have grown beyond bored with it. It's all part of the programmed control system set up by this wonderful Police State that we are mired in. Ho-hum. I know when the revolution finally does arrive, I'll be one of the first lined up against the wall and shot. A man can have dreams, can't he? Old dog sniffs through a pile of garbage and shit as his master lays on the grimy sidewalk. People stroll buy and do not notice. Too busy text messaging and checking status updates. That person is me. I am somewhat out of the loop - I am one of those colorless phantoms you see shuffling down the street toting back pack, duffel bag, trash bag or pushing a shopping cart. It is the only way you can be truly free in this country. Unfortunately, I have a shackle. An old ball and chain. It is preventing me from departing this great nation once and for all. Well, not really stopping me - we have that one thing in common. Fear of change. I have the fear in me, I will admit. It has kept my hand for the past four years. Kept me from really doing what I want. A train moans in the distance and I just want to jump on it. But, the day of the free hobo is extinct. Sorry Jack K., you did it all for nothing. So, my present assignment is to wait. Wait until the time is right. Then I will make my move. Until that time, just bare with me.

Then again, I could just be talking crazy... 

NAKeD LuNCh

The late, great Dennis Hopper performs select passages from William S. Burroughs' seminal novel, where the physical world is melded with mind-blowingly surrealistic reveries and instances of slyly dark humor. Watching this made me squeal like a terminal junkie, like watching a million faggoty-ass boys jack off all at once in public toilets of the world, their orgasms bursting across the night sky like fireworks. Understand? Of course you don't. You squares never fucking will.

Hustler White

He smashed his cigarette out onto the pavement with the toe of his shoe. Thin, aquiline features seemed pale and ghastly under that strobing blue and white light of an over head marquee. He looked at me as I entered the bar. His eyes had that lazy gaze of crimson in them. Was he tired or inebriated? Probably both. American hustlers have to work long hours to make ends meet.

I sat at the bar and ordered a beer. The pleasant old hag behind the counter stated that they did not serve Sol, "Only Coors. On tap."

For two dollars in a sixteen ounce glass, why not? The shit still tasted like a homeless man's piss. I looked around the bar - derelicts, old hookers, junkies. As I stared at my reflection in the mirror across from me, the kid at the front door slid onto a stool next to me. In the reflection, his image was sliced in half by the parting of the mirror plates. One pane was slightly higher than the other. the reflection was somewhat off putting. One good, the other bad.

The aging bartender placed a styrofoam bowl of popcorn between us. With thin, tattooed covered hands he scooped up a fistful and shoved them into a wide mouth. As I watched, I got a better look at him. He was tall, thin, and wore that look of annoyed petulance common to all Americans. It was a look designed to project aloof coolness to whomever cared to meet that gaze, but instead it simply reflected on how sad, beat, and completely bitchy a person could be. His torso was draped over by a green t-shirt with a red star on the chest, loose fitting jeans, and black leather work shoes. His light brown hair was buzz cut and stood out dark from pale skin. His eyes....his eyes, though blood shot, were a light blue when they were blue. He held a face of a young boy, smooth and clean, who seemed to be perpetually pouting.

I turned to him as he shoveled another handful of popcorn into his mouth.

"You hungry?" I asked jokingly.He smiled through discolored teeth that he was or to that effect. I offered him a beer.

"Sure, man. Thanks." He said sniffing. "You spare a smoke?"

I pulled a cigarette from my pocket and he went to stand outside again and smoked. I sat sipping my beer. When he returned, he drank a gulp and then asked, "You live around here?"

"I rent a room up on Oracle." I explained. "I am waiting for my housing vouchers to clear so I can get an apartment."

"Up on Oracle?" He repeated. "You rent a hotel room? Isn't that fucking expensive?"

I said nothing and took a gulp of beer.

"What do you do?" He asked.

"I'm a writer."

"A writer? Really? What do you write?"

"Garbage apparently."

He laughed, I chuckled and ordered another round. It was that time of early evening that the bar was kept very dark and cool from the insidious, dry one hundred degree weather outside. Even with the sun gone for the day and it being a full moon, it was hot. I can't seem to get used to these temperatures. I snatched a paper napkin off of a stack on the counter and wiped across my forehead.

"It's too fucking hot here." I said to no one in particular.

"Shit! It ain't even June yet." Stated an old man with a huge, cascading beard at the end of the bar. "Wait till yer ass gets stuck outside during August. Fuckin' shit's hot, then!" It was Buddy, the bar regular. Word has it he has been frequenting the joint since 1967. I simply smiled at him and turned back to the kid.

As I was about to speak, he slid off of his stool and walked to the mensroom. His jeans were pulled down and hung off a pair of bulbous cheeks hidden under gray boxers. As I watched him disappear into the pissoir, I thought, That's an ass just begging to get fucked.

Yeah, I was feeling it. I wanted to conquer someone. I was stateside now and did not have to placate some Mexican macho fuck who kept his sphincter clenched the entire time while we had sex. When the hustler returned from the restroom, I was going to casually pop the question to come back to my place. So, I waited...and waited...and waited. What the fuck? He fall in? I thought. I paid for two more beers then casually walked into the mensroom. Nice set up. Red light, dim. The crumbling walls were a mass of scrawled graffiti. There was a long piss trough and a toilet stall in which the boy stood. Fine, I'll take a piss while I was in here. As I stood at the urinal, for a moment it was silent, then I heard the rhythmic clanging of a belt buckle and the light raspy noise of skin sliding against skin. He was jacking off. I was already slightly inebriated, so what the fuck I thought and said, "You need help over there?"

Momentarily he was silent. Then he walked out from the stall and stood in the middle of the bathroom. His jeans were unbuttoned and one hand hung limply at his side as the other held his pants up. Pointing out and up from the hole in his boxers was a long, circumcised erection. His face was tense and determined as he spoke in the most crassest tone, "Yeah, man, I want my cock sucked."

I smirked and said, "Not here. Let's go to my hotel room."

Back out in the bar, we quickly downed our beers and headed by city bus in that insidious heat up to my rented room. He remained quiet on the bus, not saying a word. Even as we walked up to the hotel and entered, he said nothing. A professional. Not paid to talk, but to perform.

Opening the door to my room, we entered. I switched on the light, he looked around. Messed bed, open suitcase, clothes flung around, over filled ashtray.

"Take off your clothes." I said.

As he slid his t-shirt off and revealed a smooth white torso, he asked nonchalantly, "He, man, you think you can loan me twenty-dollars? I got this bill..."

You got this addiction, most likely, I thought, but I said, "I don't see a problem with that. However, depending on how nice you are, you could be loaned more."

He casually folded his jeans and placed them on the chair, did the same with the shirt. He lay his long body across the bed and smiled. "Nice, huh? I'll see what I can do."

I stood over him and reached down to his flaccid penis. After a couple of strokes, he was fully hard. I leaned over and began blowing him. He rhythmically gyrated his hips, sighed, even grunted a couple of times.

"Get undressed." He whispered.

I did. He lay me down onto the wadded blankets and began to suck my cock. Damn, he was good. "Slow down." I said. "That mouth...oh shit, you gonna make me cum fast." He popped up, slowly massaging my chest with one hand and slowly stroking my wet cock with the other, he repeated, "Nice, huh? I'll show you what I can do." With him on top, we began to sixty-nine. He sucked like a champ as I blew his cock, licked his balls and tongued his hairless asshole. He began to pump his cock down my throat, slowly at first then with a faster rhythm. He really got into it. I didn't mind because his penis wasn't that long. I thought he might have something else in mind, I mean, I really wanted to fuck him. I was about to suggest that as he lay straddling my head and thrusting, but before I knew it, his cock became very rigid and then suddenly began emptying semen down my throat.

He fell next to me, gasping, "Sorry, man...oh fuck sorry. That shit was too good. Didn't think I was gonna bust one so quick." Semen dangled from a string from the wet head of his dick to the sheet, creating a damp pool. "Damn." He smiled, "You suck cock way too good."

I looked down at my glistening erection, "Well, we ain't done yet."

"Oh fuck, you're right." He stated as he slithered up and took my cock in my mouth. He sucked and bobbed so good and I was so comfortable, I forgot about fucking that ass. Soon, my head jerked back as a wave of orgasm washed over me and I ejaculated into the boy's mouth. He dutifully leaned over the bed and spat the matter onto the carpet between the mattress and the wall.

"Hey!" I said jokingly.

"Sorry." He chuckled as he rolled off the bed and reached for his clothes. I also got up and dressed. We both put on our clothes without saying a word. I pulled out my wallet and removed three twenties. He took them, smiled.

"Well, uh, see you later." And he was out the door. I waited a minute before leaving and walking over to the corner Jack in the Box for a hamburger and soda...

No Where Near the End.

I can’t bear this deafening silence anymore. Its calmness seeps through my pores, it’s hurting me. Like the thorns of a wild rose, so sharp and precise, it can cut through skin with ease. The sound of silence, boggles my mind with thoughts of the past, it’s unfathomable. The wind, the wind that blows everything in sight, it makes movements I can’t comprehend. It’s weird and creepy, it compliments the solitude that is present everywhere. The thunderclaps, that sound of raging heavens, like a gunshot, not too far away, it’s frightening. It is really scary in here, I want to break free, if only I’m actually imprisoned.

But, after all the harshness, why am I feeling contentment deep within this secluded fortress? Why is it that somehow, this solitary confinement soothes my mind? Is this my body adapting? Well, probably because sometimes, being left alone makes you realize things. And yes, maybe in that momentary solitude, you may begin to love that idea of you being unaccompanied. Till, reality hits you with a large palm straight to your cerebral cortex; It’s sad to be alone, you may deny that fact, you may act like I can handle this, I’m strong enough, but there’s this one thing human beings can’t do and will never do because they just can’t — to walk this Earth with all their moments awake, alone.

Happy Memorial Day!

Strong and peaceful, wise and brave,

Fighting the fight for the whole world to save,

We the people will ceaselessly strive

To keep our great revolution alive!

Unfurl the banners! Look at the screen!

Never before has such glory been seen!

Oceania! Oceania! Oceania, tis for thee!

Every deed, every thought, tis for thee!

Every deed, every thought, tis for thee!

Every deed, every thought, tis for thee!

Damp Cigarettes

I’ve pissed away all good judgment.

He came at me, carelessly swaggering, exhaling smoke like butterflies.

I whispered to myself, “Beauty always catches on fire,” and with that, our minds became damp, and I wanted to inhale him like the cigarette of my dreams.

I whispered upon fire,

that beauty always catches me.

They Call Him Shy.

Life is cruel. Yet, once in a while you meet someone who is kind and that makes it all better.

Early morning in Tucson. I sat in the park adjacent to the library puffing on a borrowed cigarette. The bums and tramps and haggish alcoholics were out in full force. They waited like I waited. Every morning exactly at 8:30am, an Asian man arrives and doles out fresh donuts and delicious hot coffee free and gratis. Really...it is worth the wait.

As I sat watching that freak show, a shadow came across me. Looking up, it was a ruggedly handsome, blond boy. His tight, boxer physique was silhouetted by the glaring and yellow early morning sun.

"Hey, homie, you spare a cigarette?" He asked in a course voice dripping with a hard urban accent.

I stated that I did not but offered him a couple of puffs off of my own. I sat up straight to get a better look at him. He was young, late twenties, but I saw the worry lines and mysterious addictions have aged his face. A face that I was certain was once boyish and fresh. His stocky frame was a mass of prison and street tattoos. Blue eyes emitted warmth and compassion from an otherwise sad and grimacing face.

He grabbed the cigarette and took a couple of puffs, said thank you, and handed it back.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"They call me Shy." He croaked.

"Shy? Really? Is that what it says on your birth certificate?"

He laughed, "No. It's Kyle."

Kyle. How Anglo. It has been so fucking long since I heard a name that wasn't Gomez, or Rodriquez, or Lopez, or didn't end in a goddamn 'ez'. I commented on his name and he stated that he was full Irish. He pulled up a right sleeve and brandished an amateurish tattoo stating the fact that he was Irish. Well, there was a green clover embroidered in there somewhere. From his mannerisms he screamed of musty truck stop bathrooms and cheap, bed-bug infested flop houses, and dingy, back-alley grottoes. He was a poster boy for a legion of American male youths who were raised in the system and knew of nothing else. A hustler and a thief, a rentboy, and a breaker of old queens hearts. I really liked him from that moment on.

We hit it off quite well. Spent the entire day yapping and joking and confiding each others secrets. We spoke of my writing, his recent break up with a girl, my past trips to Mexico, his boxing classes, my love of travel, his passion for poetry, my homosexuality...Oops. Wait. Did I just tell him that? I did. Why not. Get it out in the open.

He confessed with a straight face, like a little boy who knew he had done something wrong, but at the same time wanted to come across apathetic about it, "That's cool. I don't care. I had dudes suck my dick before."

As we ate lunch at a sidewalk cafe, he mentioned that he had no place to stay. As a fact, he strongly needed to take a bus out to a nearby Indian Reservation to retrieve his personal items.

"What were you doing on an Indian reservation?" I asked.

He took a deep breath and stated that he was shacking up with "some old gay guy". Yet, the old queen was horribly jealous. He - as many shitty faggots do - went out of his way to break up Kyle and his girlfriend so as to have Kyle all to himself, slowly feeding off his youth like a spider in a trap. Through an intricate web of lies and deception, the old queen did succeed. Kyle left after the fact that he couldn't put up with any more of the old queens shit and continuously demanding sexual acts.

I agreed to go with him to the reservation. After I paid for lunch, we hopped on a city bus and traveled the 9 miles out of town. I sat silently watching the shrubs and pipe organ cactus pass until we entered the San Xavier Reservation. Departing the bus we clomped the mile to this old queens trailer. Two white boys out in the middle of an Indian reservation...no, nothing suspicious about that. Several Native Americans did give us a scowling look, other than that we both walked unmolested and unscalped.

The trailer sat in a yard congested with dying bushes and discarded junk. As we approached the door, that crazy bitch flung open the screen and tossed Kyle's bag at him. The blue duffel landing loudly at his feet.

"I told you I don't want your mooching ass around here no more! You goddamn gay-for-pay son of a bitch!" His scrawny, bird-like face turned towards me. His pony-tail tossed like a serpent. "And who is that? Your new cum dumpster?! That bitch gonna take care of you now?"

I stood there silent as the dried up, old queen ranted. Kyle grabbed his bag and mumbled, "Let's go. Fuck this faggot." We walked away as the old queen howled obscenities under that unrelenting Arizona sun.

As we waited for the bus, I inquired, "Well, Kyle. I stay at a hotel for the moment. My apartment through housing won't be available until the 3rd of next month, but you're welcome to crash at my place."

Of course he accepted. Once back at my room, he unpacked and asked if he could take a shower. I lay on the bed, smoking a cigarette, watching some damn stupid talk show as plumes of steam issued from the bathroom while Kyle showered.

As I smashed the stub of my cigarette out into the ashtray, I heard Kyle turn the water off and dry himself. He then walked out of the bathroom completely naked and stood at the foot of the bed.

I lit another smoke and grinned, "Well..."

"I want to show my appreciation of you letting me stay here." He said in the most masculine of looks.

I gazed at his torso. The tattoos. The hairless body. The blond trail leading from his belly button to a flaccid, circumcised penis. Those muscular legs. Those abs. All were burned into my retina in a flashbulb of certainty.

After we both came from sixty-nining with one another, he said it was too hot in the room. I laughed and quipped it was his fault. Kyle mentioned that he suddenly became inspired to write some verse and asked if I didn't mind joining him out by the hotel's pool. We dressed, sat and drank sodas as Kyle scribbled class conscious pornographic prose into his ratty book.

I sat smoking a cigarette and thought, this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship...

An Afternoon in The Park

Old queen sat cross-legged on the concrete bench cackling and guffawing under one hundred degree weather. She smoked her final cigarette and continued to confess her ailments: hepatitis, tuberculosis, schizophrenic sexual habits and anything else that would make you seem interested. She would flip her long ponytail streaked with gray and husk through a toothless mouth about being a hairdresser in Hollywood before it all fell to shit.

I explained that the mental clinic in which I spent the last three hours stated that they would literally bend over backwards in helping me get an apartment. She giggled and smoothed out a wrinkle in her cargo shorts.

"Call me Rodney! Everyone does!" She would coo at any swaggering ex-con who happened to saunter by and hit her up for a smoke.

She blew cigarette smoke and halitosis into my sweating, sun-tanned face, "Oh, dearie, thank you, oh thank you, for letting me read that book of yours! Oh dearest, how I related to every paragraph you wrote."

I had loaned Rodney a proof copy of Hobosexual and wanted to gage her/his reaction. Never thought it would cause her to react in such an over-dramatic emotional manner. Her rheumy eyes leered over the torso of young Kyle, the blonde skater slash street hood who had befriended me a few days prior. He stood next to me with hip out, puffing on a borrowed rollie, thick tattooed hand rubbing across his exposed stomach. His white Irish Catholic skin glowed in the mid afternoon sun.

"I'll be getting me apartment through housing tomorrow." Rodney drooled. "Why don't you and your friend come over for lunch?"

"Sure." I agreed. I wanted to see the place anyway because it would be the same complex I would be renting in. Kyle scratched his balls as a chunky girl with jiggling boobs lumbered by.

As Rodney and Kyle went into a heated discussion of the pro's and con's of the fair sex, I recalled how fast events had occurred this past week. I had accomplished all that I had set out to do and had attained benefits of my labor quicker than I had expected. So, at the moment, I think I will remain in Tucson for a while. Weather is pleasant and the people are nice. A 100% turn from that wasteland of El Paso. I really am glad I made that final decision to leave.

"I'm thirsty. Let's go to the store and get something to drink." I offered Kyle. Rodney declined on account he was yapping with a young Mexican cholo who had recently been released from prison and decided to be a "kind ear."

Kyle and I dashed across the street talking of horror movies - he stuck on Saw, The Ring, Paranormal Activity and me on I Spit On Your Grave, The Devil's Rejects, and Salo - we entered the liquor store and the joint was empty. Unnerving, like in a horror show. Eventually, this tiny, gray haired old lady hobbles out from a hidden room and greets us.

"I'm getting a water. Get whatever you want." I said to Kyle.

"Hmmm...I don't know what I want..."

"Ohhh, I know what I want." Husked the old granny checking out my friend.

We both laughed and said, "Whaaaat?"

"A hamburger from Wendy's, that would hit the spot, don't you boys agree?" She quickly added.

"Nice save." I mumbled.

I purchased the beverages and Kyle and I returned to the park. Rodney sat alone still on that bench, tan skinned shrink wrapped over crumbling bones. She looked like a mummy. I mentioned that, she didn't think it was funny.

A truck pulled up and a kind Korean family emerged and began handing out bag lunches to the homeless. Like pigeons, the tramps flocked towards them - some running, grasping hands extended, stomachs loudly rumbling. The father Korean doled out the bag with a "God bless you" to each one as a shabby, beat drunk pissed on a religious statue behind them.

I slowly nodded my head as I witnessed this frenzy and inwardly smirked, I may be insane. But, at least my life is never dull...

That Which Is Below

Cigarette smoke swirls up to a white washed ceiling as lights from passing cars create moving patterns of phantoms. Phantoms who laugh at us.

It’s 2:30 AM and you ask me why you’re so scared all the time. And I look at you and you remind me of an Indian headdress. You’re not scared, sweetheart. Your fears ride the wind but the feathers stay.

It’s 2:32 AM and you command I write about you. There is India ink on the nightstand and a safety pin on your pillowcase and I spend the next eight minutes marking you with the proximate vocabulary of how I want you.

It’s 2:40 AM and you can’t sleep. We’ve spent the last three hours crushing the sleeping pills into ash and we’ve blown it into soda bottles of strawberry cola but you say it still tastes of resigned escapism.

It’s 2:41 AM and time is a bag of bones that drags itself over cracked asphalt. It takes too long even though we’re not waiting for anything - but we’re the liars in room 618 because you’re waiting for the forest and I’m waiting for you to get out of it.

It’s 3:00 AM and I’m reading. You grab my hands and trace the folds in my fingers where the rhymes hide. I’ve been trying to put it on hold, telling you I’ve lost them.

It’s 3:17 and it’s just another night threatening to tear at the seams to reveal a morning I can’t will into being easier for you.

Neither of us have had much luck with relationships. For years he’s been on-again, off-again with the same shitbag, the same abusive scum. I would kill just to be “on” with anybody at all. Two lonely losers lost in a night of unrelenting sadness and paranoia. At least for now, we have each other…

It's Different This Time

…"It’s different this time."

Loneliness crushed his cigarette beneath his black boot and stared at the evening sky. It was still drizzling and the night had turned cold. I could see his breath when he sighed. "Have you ever stopped thinking that you are never enough? Have you completely exterminated the thought that you don’t deserve to be loved? Have you ever felt beautiful? More importantly, my good friend, when I started talking, did you ever stop thinking that you will lose again?”

I took a long drag of my cigarette, tossed it over the bridge, and watched it falter in the wind before disappearing in the river. I looked Loneliness in the face and saw the hint of a smirk. That damn smirk. I opened my mouth to present an argument. I had none.

"Don’t struggle anymore," said Loneliness, laying a firm hand on my exhausted shoulder, on my disenchanted and disintegrating soul. "Just give in. You know you eventually will. Why fight such an innocuous inevitability?"

Bath House Blues

I haven't been to a bath house in quite a while. I felt not only a little ashamed but also self conscious of my white, pale body. As I walked through the dingy corridors searching for a cubicle to get undressed and set my stuff, the few patrons in the building were so brown and fit. Or at least, that was how I saw them.

I located a small room near the back. It had a cot which was falling apart. The yellowish foam was bursting out of the ripped seams. Several hooks on a white-tiled wall which was covered in lewd graffiti in a language I didn't really understand. The light was not from the sole fixture up near the mildew encased ceiling, but from the row of glass bricks which ran above the cot. The entire room smelled of damp clothes, bleach, and sweat.

I undressed, folded my clothes, placed them on my shoes, and slid them under the cot. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I wandered out into the dark halls. Several of the doors to other cubicles were open revealing empty, sad darkness. No one was hardly there at this time of the day. Just us creepy creeps, I reckon.

As I turned a corner in the dank maze, I caught glimpse of a naked man lounging on his bed. He didn't seem old - maybe in his mid-thirties - languidly stroking his flaccid penis. His skin was smooth and copper colored - the way I prefer. Our eyes met and he smiled. More like grinned. The face lined up into a ghastly mask of twisted evil. Like the face of a tortured man. I continued walking, ignoring what I saw.

Casually strolling through the dingy, moist halls - above me mighty pipes hissed and gurgled - I made my way to the steam room. Dark and lurid. Barely discernible through the mist, I noticed two phantoms sitting on the tiled bench, gazing vapidly into space. Not moving, afraid to call attention to one another. It made me depressed. I sat alone on the other side off the room, removed my towel and relaxed. The door flung open and a young man in his early twenties walked in. Tall, handsome and with a scrawny physique. He plops down near me on my side and casually begins to fondle his drooping testicles. Then a flood of pudgy, grey haired vampires entered, flocking around him to devour their prey. I sighed, wrapped myself in my wet towel and strolled over towards the secondary sauna. That one didn't use steam so as you could at least see from one side to the next.

I sat alone for a bit. An obese man wandered in, lay on the bench opposite me and fell asleep. I sat thinking why I was here. It has passed the point where I do not even enjoy the contact of other people. For me it is bliss simply to be alone. Why? I kept asking myself why. How did I become this way in such a short time? I thought about how I wanted to just go away, far away from people and never to be bothered again.

At that moment, a short guy came in and sat a few feet away. He must've worked out, because his squat frame was in shape and he sported several tribal tattoos. I liked his hair. Shaved on the side and back, faded into short spikes on the top and black as the blackest night. We sat a few moments, I could hear him breath it was so quiet.

"Tan caliente?" He mumbled.

His timid voice shocked me out of my pensive revelry. Was I horny? Not as such. I just wanted to relax and think.

"Poco." I grinned. "Y tu?"

His thick hand reached over and landed on my right thigh, slowly slithering up until it wrapped around my penis. He casually stroked it. I couldn't get hard, but he slid over, bent down and placed my dick in his mouth. My hand caressed his broad, muscular back. I began to get paranoid at not being able to get an erection. He began to suck with gusto. That did it. My cock shot straight up. I reached down under his towel and messaged his foreskin over his engorged head. My fingers sticky from his precum. This guy was sucking and sucking good. I began to get so hot, sweat was beading down my face. Shit! It was good! Never had I'd been blown like that. After a few minutes, I stood up and splattered semen onto the wet tiled floor. I looked down at him, smiled. He sighed happily then got up and walked out.

I returned to my cubicle and lay down. Wow. I really wasn't feeling it. I wanted to go but I actually enjoyed lying there. Alone. With the door closed. An hour must've passed as I lay there swimming in depressed thoughts of loneliness battling with the want of solitude. I felt truly ugly. And not just in the physical sense, but emotional. Silently I screamed at how much I wanted to simply die. To end this mortal coil...all this angst, and paranoia, and doubt, and tension. I wondered if anyone had died in a bath house by suicide? How could I do it? Being the only white ass in the joint, death by gang rape, I mused.

Fuck! I shot up, wrapped the towel around me and headed back to the steam room. I sat in the murk and as I glanced to my left, I noticed some old, fat guy fucking that young man, his long feet rhythmically bouncing above the fat guy's shoulders, toes curled. Several ancient queens formed a semi-circle around them, tugging at their withering genitals as they watched the show. I sighed and stared down at the semen splotched floor. This shit is sad. There was a time when I sought out the bad in life, the over the top, the unseen, the outcast. Now I am becoming prudent. Detesting it. Or maybe not.

I felt a hand slither down my spine. Looking up, a skinny guy in his mid-twenties with classical good looks was smiling down on me in the mist. Wordlessly, he sat next to me, leaned in and began kissing me. As his tongue brushed my teeth, I thought how many cocks have been inside that mouth today. Millions? I reached down and fondled his short penis under his towel. He began to breath harder. He gently grabbed the back of my head and guided it towards his waiting crotch. Why not? I thought. I gave him the best I could which I guess worked because within minutes he was squirting semen across my tongue. I spat the matter onto the floor and as I was getting up to leave, he pulled me down next to him and said in broken English, "Hold me for a while...please."

We sat there not uttering a word embraced in a bath house surrounded by perverts and sex fiends and cockjunkies of all shapes and sizes and my eyes began swelling in tears and my heart sank as I came to the unmentionable conclusion that the way I was feeling - all that self loathing and doubt - I wasn't the only one. I wasn't the sole specter walking this world who was too afraid to reach out and touch someone in the paranoia of being rejected and hurt. To be simply held by another from someone who actually wanted to reciprocate.

We both remained entwined with one another, our breathing calming us, each others heart beats ticking away, counting down when this moment of wondrous, beautiful togetherness would end. He eventually stood and walk away. Not saying a word.

I remained silently on the bench surrounded by the gulps and slurps of random, broken lust.

I don't want to be alone...