Wednesday, August 20, 2014

abstract horror

“Your reports must be much more carefully detailed to be of any use to us. Your experiences must be cataloged...with painstaking accuracy.”
I said it before and I’ll say it again country simple: The Reader will frequently find the same thing transcribed in the same words. This is not carelessness nor is it for The Obsession With The Sound Of Own Words Dept... It indicates space-time juxtaposition...a folding in and back (the universe is curved, whispers a long dead genius)...point of intersection - PAY ATTENTION PLEASE! - point of intersection between levels of proficiency where parallel borders meet...
Tijuana: Easy to get in and hard to get out... ominous addictions on all levels stand at the controls, the yammering rentboy indigence intercepts a fleeing queen’s rush towards the Big Brother frontier, the INS warrant waits in San Diego...
Depression hits full force, haven’t gotten out of bed all day. What is important when nothing is important? Grey pictures on a grey screen, fading slower and slower (Was this before or is it now?) ...Centro: rich yellows and blues in the streets like deep stone canyons, blue doors, yellow lights...little cantinas where sad old Mexican drunks sniff pensively ...Tapas and futbol scores on the wall...
The town is an intricate decomposing concrete/wood construct. In some places six stories high overhanging the street, propped with beams and pillars and bent telephone poles to form porticoes where the inhabitants can keep out of the swarm of baying fat tourists who crowd the disintegrated concrete...
“Hey meester, you wanna see what’s in my shop?”
“You want some pussy?”
Clandestine, snarling pimps flow beneath blistering humming neon sipping horchata under the obsidian eyes of placas, lean against outcroppings of rusted steel and crumbling masonry, speak in silent, rigid gestures, frescoes of elusive decadence, flat, two dimensional, more over telepathic...plaintive boy-cries drift through the night...“Saul. Pepe. Juan Carlos. Donde vas?” Stale patter of commerce: “A ver Maburro!” (Look here, Marlboro!) “You want juicy pussy, Meester?” “Mexican straw hats?” “Leather bullwhip?” (The best Mexican hats are not made in Mexico.) A hideous mouth blows smoke rings into the night...“Fuck me, Meester, soy muy caliente...”
The humid night invades the city in great rank hustler infested parks where rats infected with putrescent disease romp through ruined kiosks, the stone Emancipator, tired horse and tired rider...stone generals resemble frozen lunatics who advocate liberty under the ever-glaring eye of the withered Zonky, two old Mayan pedophiles, fine as an ivory chessman, convene on an anthropomorphic limestone seat, sipping limonada... scrutinizing the rent boys slinking past, hawking their asses…
The smooth brown crotch of a pimp swells and rots with syphilis, nacos blink in the sun, preteen boys sit in long rows under shaded galleries reading manga comics - they do not move their legs as people walk by...
There is something here the casual tourist never sees nor finds, dirty undershorts thrown over a disintegrating concrete balcony, blistering iron roofs where nondescriptive florae in grimy plastic containers grow on perilous terraces, federale in a black uniform and black glasses, the dull life-sick hate congested in his eyes like scorpion poison... Smell of el Mar and the mud flats, sewage and drying marijuana... There are sinister hoochie houses in Centro stocked with doped-up whores, purposeful agents of disease - the doormen, expert pickpockets like all in the area, can lift the generalissimo’s wallet with a macho goose and stomp a drunken faggot into the asphalt...
A young man named Juan Carlos moved in next to my room, asphyxiating me with futbol scores...thin and sickly and continually fidgeting with candles and religious icons of that condescending bitch Guadalupe, goes on and on about his novia and lack of funds to support her...A cockroach crawls slowly up the blue chipped paint wall...I look out my window to the hotel across the street. A dark-skinned whore of Aztec descent with floppy breasts and discolored teeth stood in the door and asked for a cigarette from a scrawny young man...She steps in and takes off her pink slip and stands naked...the young man drops his ragged pants - erection swinging free - and lies down on the dirty bed, smoking a Delicado, hard and waiting...
Cut to the Plaza...Spilling out in abstruse cavorting and sudden static outbursts of violence, a young man leapt to his feet brandishing a rusty machete and spinning around, scream...No me toca, maricones!...His eyes light up, flicker and go out...he collapses and shits his pants with fear, the police surround him and stomp him to dust. Tourists are warned theft and murder are epidemic in Tijuana and usually go unpunished...there are entire areas, blah blah blah ...tourists amble about with the shadow of paranoid madness in their eyes...
Stroll through The Park for borrowed flesh. An old queen consumed in frustrating passion, fidgets on an iron wrought bench. Two young men saunter past him shirtless in the summer heat, arms around each other’s necks and corrugated abdomens, the image seducing his fading flesh to entertain young buttocks and thighs, loose balls and spurting cocks. A boy turns, snarls at him and spits, “What are you staring at, ugly faggot?” Their boy naiveté violently slashes across his sagging face and drooping torso. Inside he screams, outside an enigmatic mask of dark glasses and ashen face… 

Monday, August 18, 2014

support gay writes

Until the age of twenty-five, I held a particular revulsion for writing, the pretense of retaining my thoughts and feelings down onto a piece of paper. Occasionally I would devise a few sentences and stop, overcome with loathing and horror. At the present time, writing appears to me as an absolute necessity and, at the same time, I have a feeling my talent is lost and I can accomplish nothing. A sensitivity comparable to the body’s knowledge of disease, which the mind vainly attempts to evade and deny.
This feeling of paranoia and apprehension is always with me now. I had the same feeling the day my American boyfriend and I separated; and once when I was a child. I looked out into the hall with such an impression of fear and despair washing over me, that for no outward reason I burst into tears. I was looking into the future then. I recognized this feeling and what I witnessed had not been realized. I can only wait for it to happen. Is it some ghastly occurrence of the long gone ex-boyfriend utterly breaking my heart, or simply the deterioration and failure and finality of loneliness, a dead-end setup where there is no one I can contact? Am I simply a crazy old bore in a cantina somewhere with my abhorrent stories? I don’t know. Nonetheless, I feel trapped and doomed. 

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Saturday, August 16, 2014

post script

He walked into the bar, slightly to the left of the door, passing through a couple of tables, not quite touching the floor. The guy (for lack of a better term) was handsome if you looked at him dead on, but if you turned your head just to the left, if you squinted just right, you could see he had all the wrong angles. Things didn’t line up the way they should, and geometry was something he elected to ignore.
He sat next to me at the bar. They always did.
His name was Eduardo. A full decade had passed since our last encounter. Time had not been kind. His boyish looks had melted into sadness. He sported a ponch. His eyes, once emitting sparks of insane artistic madness, are now dull and dead in a face lined with a fine layer of glistening sweat.
Common to all my past acquaintances in Juarez in lieu of the raping by the drug cartel wars, he was beaten. Down trodden and left with little hope. As we sat and shared a caguama amid stilted dialog, he confessed his woes and which depressed me even more. He was the last of the old crew. My friends of when I lived here so many years ago. I want to leave. I have to leave. This city and all its painful memories are a dead museum.

Monday, August 11, 2014

whispers in the dark

I meandered down the garish arabesque neon of Juárez Avenue. Not a soul. Drunken corpse lies in someone else’s overcoat, shiny over the dirt. Mexican cowboy a foot away converses to Durango via cellular. Taxi drivers don’t even bother me. The wind blows harder. Trash and dirt swirls in eddies across the street up into the blank dark. Dirt in my eyes. Fucking desert! I curse as I cross a street in front of Tequila Derby - weekend be-bop joint for teenage revilers and high school hipsters - look down the alley. Taxi? Asked meekly. He acknowledges I require nothing. I stop and purchase a pack of Lucky Strikes from an indigenous Mexican Indian huddled in a cove of crumbling masonry, small television emitting black and white images of The Simpsons in Espanola. We chat on the weather. Nasty. Muy feo.
Two queens saunter by and give me the eye as I pass café 656. I stride up to the corner and cut down a street, hands in jacket pockets, cigarette hanging from mouth in a real James Dean fashion, you dig, giving the fags their B-movie production. Down a silent street. Lampposts emit yellow glows...intermittent areas dark and foreboding with shadow-like phantoms fluctuating within the gloom. Black dog drags something grisly and wet in its maw. It whines and stops. Scratch. Scratch. Picks the black wet thing up again and trots off down the dark street lined with brick and adobe houses. Was it meat?
I light another cigarette and amble to the corner, the wind is howling fierce. I stand under the lamp and listen to the buzzing of the condenser. I think of Saul. I think of Hector. I think of all the myriad things I had done the previous years.
I wish I never had left Tijuana.

Sunday, August 10, 2014

summer vignette

Twilight approached the corners of the city, darkness reached out for the tops of the skyline. We sat drinking forties out of paper bags in a park atop the biggest hill we could find. Neither of us lived here but it is hard not to feel yourself become part of all this commotion when you are sinking into the damp grass and watching the city preparing itself for a late night out. You wanted to rest your head on my shoulder, I could tell, but you didn’t. I wanted to run my fingers through your hair. I don’t think you were able to tell. The small freckles on your summer skin began to fade away as the neon kicked in down in the distance. We finished our drinks and found the trashcan. You nudged me as we walked away, a playful smile on your face. I was electricity. You said we should grab something to eat. I was so happy.

Friday, August 08, 2014

Wednesday, August 06, 2014

When nothing matters, your emotions run cold and the astute loneliness inside becomes so unbearable, what do you do when the only thought that burns in your mind is to lay down onto the simmering concrete sidewalk and stop breathing? 

Sunday, August 03, 2014

languid resolutions

Hector traps the cylinder between his pout. Gently gripping the filter the way you would hold a lover’s earlobe between your teeth, applying just enough pressure to communicate your desire. The flame of the lighter teases the end of the cigarette to life, like the tip of a quivering tongue, tracing the lines of a lover’s lips to stimulate a hungry response. He inhales sharply, with a sexy little hiss. Smoke fills his lungs, like tiny whimpers of pleasure echoing into the sensual cavern of his wicked mouth. He arches his back slightly and tilts his head to one side, exposing the muscular curve of his vulnerable throat; exhale...he smokes slowly. Each time he tilts his head back to exhale, his mouth stays parted in a small O shape, like he’s frozen in a moment of orgasmic passion.
My hands tighten to fists. I gnash my teeth and dig my nails into the flesh of my palms. It’s all I can do to stop myself from pouncing on him… and licking the residue of nicotine from his lips and fingertips.
Like the carcinogens slowly swirling through the room, my passing days with him are both intoxicating and delightful. He becomes my habit.

When I slid most of my cock out I could feel the breeze of the ceiling fan blowing on it, cool from the drip he coats me with. Then back in, deep, and finally warm again. He clings to my neck and I kept one hand on his hip and one under his ass, spreading him open. I pushed up and into him while he presses down and into me and this is us - fucking, sweating, kissing, all tensing muscle and slight corner-smiles. Hector takes my earlobe between his lips when he squirms in orgasm, and when it’s my turn he rolls onto his back and places my cock to his mouth. With me on my knees over him, he jerks me off until the thick white bursts out my head and flops onto his face and waiting tongue. He swallows my cum and my cock and I fuck his face for a moment while the rest seeps out. I fall back spent and we lay there looking at the ceiling fan, trying to make it spin backwards with our minds.

Buenas dias.” He says.
“Good morning.” I blink groggily up to him.
I feel you. I see you. I taste you. Through the hollow stillness I reach out my hand and gently press my fingers against yours. Elysium greets us with the old familiar smell of swirling white asphodel. The wind tickles the trees and scatters the playful leaves. I open my eyes and look down at my arms. In this waking dream the skin is smooth, no scars. In this waking dream there are no scars. For now, no more blue tomorrows.

Monday, July 28, 2014

There Are No Friends Anymore

I had known him for eight years. At first, a preteen who prowled the Plaza at night looking for kicks, loose change, or drug money. He ran with a pack of huffers - their upper lips in a continual state of glow from the residue of paint thinner. Crinkled, brown paper bags and small spray paint cans bulging the front pockets of their tattered jeans. Like Wild Boys they hooted and hollered through the Plaza flirting with old vampires who fawned over their energetic youth. He would badger me for my address or plead to take him home 'to watch movies' with huge, doe-like eyes. Too young, I refuse.
Years later, he is a responsible twenty-something. We randomly meet one evening in the Plaza as he is returning from work. Name badge on red string dangling from his neck. Again, with the same look, he asks where I lived. During the passing months, he visits almost every day after work for a bite to eat, watch a movie (on a particular Sunday, he sits through all six Star Wars films), watches porn, gets a blow job. Tu mamar rico.
Unlike virtually every other guy I met, he never once asked for any money. During that time, every night some fool would be banging on my door requesting pesos or attempted to rob me. Not him. Not once.
Fate pulls us apart again. For ten years, I go mad, transient, become a published writer. On a personal level in the attempt to make friends, I met one let down after another which results in myself become a self-loathing recluse. He flounders and ends up in prison for seven years narcotic trafficking. He's released, gets married, has a baby settles into a hetro-centric cocoon.
I return to the desert city and we are reacquainted. But, he had become what fate had ordained. The first day in my house, he hits me up for 450 pesos ($30). I hand it over without fail to show how much respect I had for him. I will pay you back when I get paid tomorrow. That was two months ago. The act of not paying me back was not what hurt. The finalization that he valued our friendship was less than thirty dollars.
That has been an occurrence of late. People I had thought of as friends - friends in the way that we hang out, talk, share common interests and actually enjoy the time spent without ulterior motives or monetary gain - had all...ALL fell to ruin.
This is the aspect that drives me to leave, once and for all and to never...never...look back.

Saturday, July 26, 2014


Dark and well past midnight. A muted crimson from the cigarette illuminated his copper colored-skin in the half light. Quiet. We could hear each other breath. In the near distance, down by the obscure, long shadows off the empty street, the sound of four gunshots. Somewhere a dog barked. Under the blankets, we drew nearer, the warmth of his smooth skin, the softness of his hair, the pleasant smell of his torso. It stimulated me - smoothed me out.
   I felt unreservedly calm as we entwined. Arm around my shoulder, head on his chest, I looked up, regarding the outline of his attractive features in the crimson glow of the cigarette’s cinders. Hooked nose, thick pouty lips, thick eyelashes, ebony hair hanging limply over forehead.
   Outside the blankets, the room was ink black and cold with clothes thrown about the tiled floor. The smell of sweat and semen wafted in the stillness mixed with cigarette vapors - but, inside the blankets it was warm and still and serenísimo. Not a word exchanged, yet the feeling was there - a fellaheen feeling of togetherness as I had not felt since...
   He put the cigarette out in the silver tray on the table next to the bed. He embraced tighter, drawing me near, and a small kiss on my forehead. Slowly and surely, I heard his slight breathing as he fell asleep. I lay there and stared into blackness, out in the still night a lonesome train horn moaned - my hand gently slid up and down his thin side coinciding with his slow, steady breathing.
   Eventually, I succumbed to sleep, too - dreaming of Argonauts in fiery ships...

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Pounding Out One Atrocity After Another

With all that’s been happening in my sappy, uneventful yet somehow complain-able life lately, I’ve been writing often. Frequently, I sit at my computer and let my feelings flow from wherever I feel them to the tips of my fingers, bouncing back and forth between cold keys…and no matter what I write and no matter how much time and thought or effort I put into each tap on each key and every entry as a whole, it’s wrong.
   It’s all wrong. It’s frustrating. Most writers, they go crazy. They have a masterpiece, one mind blowing novel which does well, usually after they pass, which is a problem in and of itself, but this masterpiece, it empties them. After people buy it and read it and engulf themselves in the art that is this person’s past seven or eight years of writing, the author himself is hollow. They write away all their feelings. No matter what the story’s about, they put too much of themselves in it. They spend every waking second in the effort to improve it and fix it and ultimately go absolutely basket shit crazy. That is not something I desire on myself.
   And yet, it is the path I have chosen. The crazy, mad, sweaty writer glaring at his laptop screen like a psycho typing out raw, peeled prose of filth, poverty, and degradation. Hours spent – no, days spent - holed up in my dank room pounding out one atrocity after another. And you know what? I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

No One I Love

The dank smell of unwashed penis and bleach assailed my nostrils. Three seats over, a gray old queen sat tapping his foot – lined face an apprehensive mask of sadness fretting over his lost youth - watching in the gloom the ballet of sex throughout the adult theater. On screen, a drugged-out Italian bitch was sucking cock twelve feet long - so it seemed.
Alex, he said his name was, sat next to me motionless as statuary. Skinny, hawk like face with black goatee, red cap turned backwards - transfixed on the flickering images dubbed in Italian with Spanish subtitles. I glanced over to him: shadowy silhouette outlined against green wall streaked in black goo and splattered in other abstract liquids, now dried and flaking. Long moment of silence.
“Let’s get out of here.” He finally stated.
Out into the chilled night broken sidewalk under our feet apparently going nowhere in particular. He pulled his coat tighter around his lanky frame and I lit a cigarette standing on the corners of the world under that navy sky - dash across street dodging kamikaze taxis and waving away Indians with hands outstretched forever. No word passed both of us - I unpretentiously followed him.
He stopped under a rusted corrugated awning, white florescent light seared my eyes - pedestrian traffic bumped into us - Alex turned and mumbled, “You wanna coffee?”
Mambo be-bop jazz wailed from the speakers as we sat in the café observing the people dash outside. We talked of various subjects from science fiction to the fall of Communism - he was quite literary. Well read - knew of books I had never had the chance to read.
He took a long drag off of his cigarette; blew it into the air above his head, “So, tell me of this book of yours - what is it?”
“It’s a horror story.” I stated flatly.
“No, it’s a heart breaking romance.”
“Okay.” He smiled cynically.
“Actually, it’s a travel book.”
“Now, wait a minute –“
“It’s a medical report on dealing with schizophrenia and depression.”
He smiled, “How many fucking books is it?”
I sipped my coffee, “It’s a mess. Like me.”
We found ourselves strolling down Revu congested with hipsters in hip-hop rags and sad beat whores clomping in plastic see-through pumps and sad brown eyes looking up up up forever to Guadalupe - the Christmas Tree towered above us dwarfed only by the slash of the Millennium Arch.
Somewhere down in Coahuila the rattle of machine gun fire, screams, a siren wails - typical night. We turn a corner past the fag bar where they spill out onto the pavement screeching and shrilling as only fags can - Alex walks with hands in coat pocket. Me - I am here just for kicks. Down a dark street, lamp post out and furtive shadows lurk in the cracks. Alex cops some weed from ratty old fuck in coat dirty - shiny over the dirt - and we retire to Alex’s one room flat.
Sagging bed, dresser loaded with folded clothes, a small radio wailing fucking ranchero. We sat on the bed - our conversation animated and Alex was a good roller, though - fat he makes ‘em. Watched in lustful silence as his thin tongue glided over the paper. We lit up and both fell into laughing jags. Passed a beer battle back and forth, too.
Shaking cold hands, we said our goodbyes on the corner. A gray dog covered in soot and mange trotted past and Alex disappeared into the chilly fog laden night - his tall, lanky body dematerialized into mist. A pain stabbed my heart as it did every time I saw a guy I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world. I lit a cigarette and hailed a taxi - sitting in the back, yellow lights flashing across my face, I took a deep breath and thought, My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them.

Monday, July 21, 2014

Word in Motion

Working furiously. Without distractions or any type of social life. Holed up days at a time in my sordid little one-room flat in a Mexican slum typing without end. Three hundred and fifty-six pages so far and it is depressing the fuck out of me. Not bad as in writing or style, but the stories and incidents are excavated from my personal life. Nothing is more thrilling than living and then re-living your life’s greatest failures. I am writing this in the most raw, eye-peeled way I can. If the world is shit - and it is - I want to reveal it in a hi-def close up.

Saturday, July 19, 2014

They’re all thieves

6:37am. Young, cholo type tweeker bops into the café acting as tweekers do. Basic urban hip hop gear draped over a stocky, toned frame. He swaggers with that macho walk that heats me pants every time. Fiddles incessantly with 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, flabby 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 a horrible world out there, he needs to prepare. Tweeker bursts out, flashes me a wonderful smile with that macho handsome Latino face.
   “Don’t want no problems, chief”, He says to the snooty queen in passing.
   Tweeker ping pongs around the largely empty café plucking up bits of discarded 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 annotations into my little notebook. I have drafted two or three more chapters to be incorporated into current novel. Much needed and am pleased with 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. However, I am sure when revealed it will be both beautiful and strange.
   Two hours pass and I write. Think. Contemplate. Young cholo tweeker bursts back into the café, 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).
   “Certainly.” I manage a smile.
   Clandestinely, he removes his charred glass stem pipe from his backpack and enters the mensroom, confiding, “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.

Friday, July 18, 2014

Scribbles in the Margin of my Days

I find myself in Chuco Town - flat on my bloody, sore ass and see a shrink who deliberated after I exposed my tales of woe regarding the last five years of my life, came to the conclusion I should be locked up and the key tossed away, no rampaging roaming queens aloud in my district, girlfriend. I digress: the now is happening and the yen of returning to San Diego and all points south have been tempting my wondering baby blue eye.
   I have been suffering from insomnia for the last 48 hours with these fucking thoughts: I want to return to Tijuana, but I don’t want to go, I want to stay in Juárez City but I don’t want to stay. The lure of drugs and corruption seduce my being on both sides and both decisions have their good points and their bad points which of course sucks like a fairy in a bath old ugly fairy. So I went to the local psychiatric center and deliberated to my shrink and Dr. Windom took notes and scribbled little scribbles never looking at me you understand on account I’m soooo feelthy. The diagnosis being to put me back on mind-fuck medication and I told him he can stuff it up his wrinkled snatch and stormed out because more or less (generally more) I like myself. Oft cited, if I died tomorrow, I’d die happy, harboring no regrets. I will transcribe these events - my purpose in writing it as “shitting out my educated Southern California background once and for all.” It’s a matter of catharsis, where I will continue to voice the most horrible of manias.
   This stream-of-consciousness spewing is apparently an attempt to liberate myself from the social and familial conditioning which controls me, that hems me in, that ultimately drives me - in desperation or rebellion - to self-limiting and self-destructive choices. Even so, I am evading the issue. I can’t make up my mind what to do. Juárez City substantially offers the same as Tijuana without the high-paced stress but the pay rate in El Paso is below poverty level and I am a faggito who has high standards, bitch, I won’t get fucked behind any old dumpster.
   I talked to my shrink (“Urgent warning…one of the nastiest cases ever entered this clinic.”) and wailed I feel so lost I can’t think. There is only a big fat blank as far as my future is concerned. That is to say, Dear Reader, I wish I could be like you and go to work regularly and pay rent regularly and have a big screen television and a PS3 and an electric can opener and a mustang convertible with all the trimmings and go to prim and proper little dinner parties with polite laughter at stupid jokes made by simpering fairies but I can’t and the fucking problem is that I don’t know why. I know what I do is not normal, I mean the blog which I spill forth is not fiction, how could anybody make that shit up continuously for fourteen years? I was there, I seen, smelled, and touched everything which transpired so I know it’s real, so fuck you faithless philistines anyways ever tell ya the time I was in Tijuana I once saw a seventeen year old Mexican Indian boy Azteca who shoot golf balls out his ass, and the fairies told me he was quite the nimble minx in bed...ahem, I perused other blogs and I wondered am I the only one in the world who travels and has a sex life (I miss you so much Saul “muthafukuh pounds ass like a pornstar!”) and enjoys everything this big blue marble has to offer? A mad man of one in a condemnatory society mired in political correctness? Ah yes, but therein lies the problem...

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

1984 1/2

This great nation was at one time an upstanding role model for other countries of the world. A Golden Era in which it prided itself in peace and the prosperity of its people. That was until a handful of radical assholes got lucky and attacked a major city in the great nation which in turn gave cause for all types of schizophrenic retards to step forward and instill outrageous laws against (never any laws for) its own people.
Diplomat: “As of right now, in lieu of war, this nation is under martial law.”
A senator sat bloated off the sadness and discontent of the poor, picks up a phone receiver in his office: “Where the fuck is the Chief of the Department of Defense? Get his ass down here! I want, by tomorrow morning, posters plastered on every corner and bus bench in this country! ‘For your protection! Terrorism is everywhere!’ And have him design a kid friendly mascot to go with it so no fucktard housewife in Burntstump, Arkansas beef about shit like freedom of speech or personal liberties. Hell, if I know…make it a goddamn koala or platypus!”
What the government did not want anyone to ever realize was that the generation born between 1980-1995 actually outnumbered the Baby Boomers. They knew that if that particular generation ever turned their eyes toward political reform, they could change the world. And so, with insidious subtly, the powers that be kept them glutted on bland television programs and uninspiring music. They designed higher education to be outrageously overpriced and practically unobtainable and fed the masses shiny brain candy. They took away inspiring music and replaced it with vapid Top Ten pop stations. They cut off art and supplanted it with endless reality shows to plug into, trusting the generation would sit quietly as they ran the world.
The senator leaned back in his chair, wistfully glancing out his window at a serene view of Washington, D.C., “And thank God it worked…”

Monday, July 14, 2014

Procrastination Destination

Am I editing or am I re-writing? Most of my afternoon and well into the night was spent typing, and retyping a novel that I began with fervor four months ago before finishing a poorly constructed first draft and promptly ignoring the story for a full two weeks. In the grand scheme of things this is kind of okay. I’m not being paid to write about international art thieves, I haven’t been given a truckload of money and a swiftly approaching deadline, or a third thing - so I should be able to take as much time off from my personal life as I like. Except when I do I feel like shit. But I can’t stop taking breaks! I love it! I rewarded myself for retouching the first three paragraphs of my story with playing video games and writing this blog post. Here’s the kicker…

Saturday, July 12, 2014

Post Script.

Soft jazz music plays from somewhere near outside. “Jesus Christ, people are up at 4am?”, I whispered to myself. I wondered what demons were visiting these motherfuckers. So many alone people trying their best not to find each other. Alone multiplied by many alone doesn’t really result to anything good. “Ha! I’m a fucking mathematician now”, I thought jokingly while lighting my last cigarette. Sex makes me puff cigarettes like I’m waiting for WWII bombs to fall. What a waste of my only best friend for now. Cigarette sticks and fuck—they’re the only good things left in my world. And alcohol. I almost forgot about the booze.

Friday, July 11, 2014

Fucking Double Standards!

The double standards in sex confuse me. When a woman gets a vibrator, it’s seen as a healthy expression of her sexuality. But, when a guy orders a 240 volt fuck-master pro 5000 blowup doll with 6 speed pulsating pussy, elasticized anus and a non-drip semen collecting tray with optional built-in realistic orgasm scream surround-sound speaker system, he’s called a pervert. Why?

Thursday, July 10, 2014

Orale was the Answer.

Visited my friend Saul. He lives in the Old Colonias. Walking through the north-west side of Tijuana, that area promotes anything in the way of absolute poverty and filth. The sidewalks are debris strewn and cracked, despairing, beat individuals shit in the street, rummage and then consume scraps from vast mounds of garbage, entrepreneurs encompass every corner cooking up hideous, stinking jumbles of food which they peddle to passerby. Old men blink in the sun, female prostitutes look furtive and miserable, and slouched on a red stool under a rusted awning of a burrito stand, the dark brown crotch of the sleeping pimp swells with syphilis.
As evening fell, Saul and I both were bored and I came up with the brainstorm of visiting every bar we could and at each cantina down one shot of tequila and move on to the next. We became adequately faded - Saul and I stumbled down Calle Coahuila, home to many squalid dives and whorehouses.
Ambivalent transvestite hookers drift under yellow street lamps, eyes luminescent with methamphetamine, they lean against outcroppings of crumbling red brick walls, talk in silent, catatonic gestures, frescoes of elusive depravity, flat two dimensional howls drift into the night: Orale…Joselito! Carlos!”
Stagnant patter of commerce: “See the show! Naked lady!”
“Nice girl, meester?”
A hideous soiled mouth blows smoke rings into the night, “Wanna fuck me, baby?”
Saul and I jet into the bar Kin-kle, a tacky queer joint with a mangy, over stuffed bullhead above red metal double swinging doors where guys would show you their erections for a beer. In the dark alcove booths, drunk and horny, Saul and I made out under the vigilant eye of a waiter with a hard on. Patrons passed us with indifference as I masturbated Saul to an unscrupulous climax under the red covered table, his lanky body entwined with mine.
“The fundamentals of it all, it ain’t right.” Sniffs the envious old expat sitting alone and indignant at the bar. He ejects his resentment like a thick fog.
“Why dontcha mind your own business for once?” I slur, wiping the glistening residue of Saul’s discharge off my thumb with the red table cloth.
Later that evening, Saul and I committed crimes against nature in Hotel Coliseo. Finding myself lying on my stomach with Saul on top thrusting into me, boy did I get the better end of the deal - slapslapslap - lean arms wrapped around my torso and neck. My back is bitten passionately. My face pressed against the dingy pillow - I feel Saul’s hot breath against my left ear as he gets closer to his climax. Closed my eyes and with clenched teeth, felt hot semen squirt up into me. Afterwards we shared a joint, our shoulders touching under the covers as ominous shadows slowly crawled across stark, depressing walls.
Saul mumbled, “I gotta go, guero.”
I watched as he wordlessly covered his smooth brown frame with well-worn clothes. I dressed, listening to the whore earning her rent down the hall.
Down at the corner, Saul hits me up for 100 pesos. I slap the note into his hand and both of us saying laters, Saul went to do whatever Saul had to do.
Walking up from that cesspool of Coahuila - Zona Norte, (the Red Light District, ignorant asshole, keep focused) - I turn the corner into the Plaza accosted by screaming queers on all sides - and, man, were they out in force that night - when a truckload of Tijuana fuzz gang fucks me.
Encircled by menacing, black uniformed stormtroopers, a pint-sized fat one asked where was I going and before I could answer, barks for my identification.
Tall, smooth cop explained in English - now get this: “We had a report of a white American who fits your description buying drugs here in the Plaza.”
“My description?”
“Si, light hair, glasses, black clothes. May I have permission to search your person?”
Why not? You’re hot. So, up against the adobe wall and goosed - asked if I ever take drugs.
“We are just doing our job, senor - we are here to protect el turistas such as yourself.” Says hot cop, giving me his One Adam 12 production as he empties my pockets, placing my articles on the filthy concrete. Opens wallet fat with peso notes all the colors of the rainbow.
Can kiss that wad goodbye, I thought.
However, the troopers took nary centavo one and let me be with a cuidado and roared off in their Keystone Cops paddy wagon.
Casually lit a cigarette and walked into the darkness teeming with the perverse and sexual predators, the thump thump of the queer bars rattling in my skull. Cute Aztec Indian lad smiles with palm out for the soft touch. I drop a fist full of coins into his calloused hand. Always been a sucker for a pretty face.
Stopped in a cantina and downed two quick beers - nasty hooker cooch eying me and I give her the leave me the fuck alone glance back.
Old Mexican drunk with thick black mustache and deranged look in his bleary eyes snaps, “Leave! You don’t belong here!”
“Man, you don’t even know me. What did I do to you?”
“I just don’t like you.” The old drunk snarls and explodes into a mosaic of glitter and confetti. “Ugly American!” He screams before being sucked into the darkness of a toilet stall glory hole.

Tuesday, July 08, 2014

He's a Whore

He walked down the motel hallway and the lights above him flickered as he passed. His lanky, black hair kind of bounced with his steps - it’s bobbed short and parted down the middle, he looked like a runway supermodel - but this young man was a whore. The torn, faded jeans screamed it, the cheap, wrinkled t-shirt commanded it, the cum in his hair bragged about it. He won’t hesitate, he’ll fuck you and leave and he could do it all without talking, so he’s popular. The shadows in the hall mixed with the shadows around his eyes and when he stops in front of me all I could see is white. He looked in and I looked out and we meet somewhere in the middle. I let him into my room and the hallway went dark, the lights in my room spark out. He stopped a few feet in and turned around, red eyes glowing in the black, he curled a finger at me and I step inside.
(When everything is dead it gets quiet. Quiet enough to hear muscles move or blood rush. Quiet enough to hear penetration at its deepest point- where flesh touches flesh and you could hear the body send off electricity full of excitement. And if you’re fucking a beast you could hear him purr beneath you, bent in front of you, vulnerable for you in the utter black that is around you. A beast from fire will lay for you with smoke and char as you succumb to the demon that wants your cum.)
After all, we are all lonely inside.

-excerpt from novel in progress borrowed flesh

Thursday, July 03, 2014

One Disenchanted Evening.

The air was as dry as the desert it blew across. I sat on a borrowed chair outside my red brick Mexican slum dwelling waiting. Hungry. Thirsty. Broke. Disenchanted in my decision on returning to this hell hole.
A fiery sun bathes the crumbling neighborhood - dirty children play barefoot in the broken street, a block away a sooty train howls towards the border, various music and futbol games issue from the surrounding warrens - and I sit here and I wait.
An insurmountable sadness overwhelms me as the age old question washes over my reeling brain: What am I going to do? What next?
My plan - for whatever that may be - is to hole up here for a year living with fundamental basics and save as much as I can to relocate to Cambodia. That is if I can dodge Big Brother in lieu of receiving checks for a year. If that is attained, I can move to Cambodia and dig that teaching gig.
A year is a long wait. But, I must do this. I have to do this. I am thrilled - at the same time fearful - at the aspects of relocating halfway around the globe for further adventures and most importantly writing fodder.
Of course this is simply a stepping stone to a more vastly lucrative (and equally screwball) objective. If all the Internet crap is true, then I within a period of five to ten years, I could attain enough to open a small Bed & Breakfast or perhaps a cafe to retire in a certain amount of comfort.
Long, strange days are ahead to be sure. I simply have to keep my wits about me...and my health. And that is failing as rapidly as my mind.

Wednesday, June 25, 2014


It was morning, like any other, in that I was strewn across my floor, sleeping off my hangover. There came a point in these benders where anything other than the fetal position on a wood floor felt like the spinning teacups on speed. I stared across my room at my digital alarm clock. The numbers were always hard to decipher from this angle. It was either 11, 1 or 7, and even though only two of those answers were acceptable, all of them were entirely possible.
It was in this deja vu of waking up in a panic for the millionth time, that it really hit me. Before the sore back and shooting pain behind my left eye would sink in, I would think; this is the last time. This time is different.
I planned to drink a liter of water, hit the gym and forget this ever happened. But that always never happened. It was simply a sweet reverie I would sing before settling onto the couch, taking a fistful of Motrin and queuing up Netflix. The only place I would go on this day was the corner store for my daily dose of Gatorade. It had become the only thing I could ever guarantee a weekly occurrence of.
It wasn’t ever different. It had never been before and I slowly began to realize that it was never going to be. It was always the same.
Different was the only idea which excited me anymore because it was still an idea. It was far away. It was a dream nestled in a cloud, different was anything I wanted it to be without the suffering of sacrifice or the sober bleakness of reality. Everything thus far to be experienced was so easy to sum up with my small minded fantasies and fears. Everything was something special before I was bored of it. I contemplated extensively regarding how long something special could really last for a guy like me. The entire reason I would find my special something was because I was out searching for it, despondent with my boring nothings.
And so it was made simple in that moment.
Do the right thing, feel smug and be bored or douse myself in gasoline, light the town on fire and shame myself for weeks after the dust had settled.

Monday, June 23, 2014

Loveless and Expired

There is nothing left here. Only the traces of a lost soul. I feel as if the walls are enclosing, like my mind, forever shrinking unto itself. The days gone by and I live as shallowly as the rest of the world. Wandering in a lost city of broken dreams and fractured nightmares. The coffee in the morning tastes stale and the flowers by the window are now a gray yellow. Music is dull and ambitions are dying. Photos are no longer pretty and old post-it notes have lost their humor.
My feet drag me everywhere and nowhere, unwilling to arrive to a happier place. Conversations feel distant and meaningless. Nightmares have become my fantasies. The things which I once loved the most have lost their splendor. I am simply a shell now, counting down the days until my most deserved demise. I’m an outline of my former self, loveless and expired. I am haunted.

Sunday, June 22, 2014

Rest in Peace

We lost a person who was for us a hope, an example, a star into the darkness of the world. A simple person who tried to do the best for that one day we will not be victims of prejudice. Today, we lost a brother, a partner, a friend. And our star has gone to heaven for shining. Forever.

Saturday, June 21, 2014


The movie’s sound effects muddled out as I drifted closer and closer toward the magnetized abyss of sleep, slipping deeper and deeper into his arms. Beneath his shirt were the soft palpitations of his heart and the smell of heaven. I felt him shift his body a little and lay his head on top of mine. “I love you,” he murmured softly. His tone inflection did not suggest a mandatory return. He was not expecting a response. It sounded like a dawning truth not meant for me to hear yet. Pure statement and resolve. I could feel my chest melt and turn at the same time. The undeniable, daunting feeling was mutual.

Friday, June 20, 2014

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

He Sounds Weird

He smashed his cigarette out onto the cracked pavement with the toe of his shoe. Thin, aquiline features seemed pale and ghastly under the throbbing blue and white light of an overhead marquee. He peered at me as I entered the bar. His eyes ascertained a lazy gaze of crimson in them. Was he tired or inebriated? Undoubtedly 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 tending 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 glanced around the bar – lost derelicts, antiquated hookers, furtive 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 broad mouth. As I watched, I got a better look at him. He was tall, thin, and wore the expression 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 large red star on the chest, loose fitted jeans, and black leather work shoes. His light brown hair was buzz cut and stood out dark against 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 fished 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’m 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 when the bar was kept very dark and cool from the insidiously dry, one hundred degree weather outside. Even with the sun gone for the day and it being a full moon, the climate was uncomfortably hot. I snatched a paper napkin from a stack on the counter and wiped across my forehead.
   “It’s too fucking hot here.” I expressed 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 begging to get fucked.
   Yeah, I was feeling it. I wanted to conquer someone. I was stateside now and did not require to placate some Mexican macho fuck who kept his sphincter clenched the entire time while we had sex. I decided 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 and 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, metal piss trough and one toilet stall in which the boy stood. Fine, I’ll take a piss while I’m in here. As I stood at the urinal, for a moment it was silent, then I heard a light rhythmic clanging of a belt buckle and the muted raspy sound 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. He then walked out from the stall and stood in the middle of the restroom with jeans unbuttoned. 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 crassest tone, “Yeah, man, I want my cock sucked.”
  I casually walked over to him and placed his erect penis in my hand. I read the callous warts lining the shaft like braille. I jerked my hand away. I looked up at his despairing face and said, “Not today, man. Don’t feel the need.”
   “You don’t want it?” He asked. I saw in his eyes that his affliction disgusted me. Obviously, I wasn’t the first to recoil from his advances today.
   “No.” I left him standing frustrated in that empty bathroom.
   Later, I stumbled out of the bar into the dank alley which smelled like rotted garbage and festering urine. The night was halfway over. While I was in the tavern, it must had rained. The uneven bricks of the back alley were glistening in a translucent reflection. I retrieved a cigarette out of my pocket with intoxicated, numb fingers, lit up. I leaned my head back and blew great plumes of smoke up into a dark and cloudy sky. The volumous clouds parted here and there so the stars could look down and judge me.
   “Fuck you.” I mutter and almost fall. I held onto a lamp post covered in flyers to support myself. The beers and tequila shots were taking their toll. I was truly screwed. Truly damned.
   “Hey.” A voice out of the darkness hissed. “You spare a smoke?”
   Goddammit, I don’t want to be bothered. I want to get home. First, I gotta piss.
   I didn’t answer the phantom and wobbled over to the filthy dumpster, whipped out my junk, and relieved myself. Cigarette precariously dangling from numb lips, I zipped up and half-assed a scan for police patrols. On one end of the alley, a group of loud frat boys stumbled by gregariously as they often are.
   “Can I bum a smoke off of you?” The voice asked again.
   I gazed over to a dark corner filled with shadows and dread. He slithered out of the inky blackness in grungy clothes and frayed sneakers. His blond hair was disheveled and he was sniffling. The boy was on something. It was his eyes. His eyes gleamed in the half-light, burning with sadness and despair and evil as hell addiction.
   “What?” I croaked.
   I felt like Fagin all hunched over and bitter and shitty.
   “” He asked slow and drawn out as if speaking to a retard. Funny thing, he was.
   I mumbled ‘Oh yeah’ or something like that and handed him one. He took it in slender fingers, dirt under the nails. He was slight of build and I wondered the last time he ate.
   “So, what are you looking for?” He asked coyly.
   Ah yes, the general question of every male prostitute in every alley of the world.
   “Death.” I grunted.
   “Oh don’t say that. Life is good. It is wonderful and full of great times.” He smiled broadly.
   I blearily gazed at him and saw him in a new light. Here standing in front of me was a beautiful, homeless youth and in lieu of all his hardships he currently endured, he remained positive. I was like that once. Before being beaten down by lovers and friends and trust and mishap decisions and misguided circumstance. Before my mind went and became toxic and corrosive in embittered self-loathing.
   “Are you hungry?” I asked, pointing towards the 24 hour cafe open on the opposite end of the alley. “I need to get some food in me to suck up this alcohol.”
   “As a matter of fact, I am hungry.” He stated, smiling. “Been drinking, huh? You drink a lot?”
   “It’s all I have left and even that proclivity is becoming a bore.” I said as I began stomping down the alley; nonchalantly dodging pools of iridescent, oily water.
   We cut into the shop. Ordered food and strong coffee. Took a booth at the wall. The place was empty excluding a lonely hobo with a panting dog and a deranged homosexual on a laptop. My guest and I both sat for some time not speaking.
   “I’m James.” He finally stated.
   I introduced myself the best I could, with the exception I was so drunk and depressed instead of coming across cordial, my words and tone came out loathsome and obscene. I drank my coffee in silence until our sandwiches arrived. The boy ate in gusto.
   “Haven’t eaten in a while?” I asked as I watched him devour his meal.
   “Not good anyway.” He managed between chomps of pre-processed flesh.
   Outside the rain began and late night revelers dashed under awnings and into doorways. I observed James. Rentboy to be sure. Then again, I think it was forced in way of certain living arrangements. Or perhaps he was simply a sex addict. A lot of them are. They won’t admit it. But, they are.
   “I was thrown out of this place today.” I divulged, glancing around the coffee shop.
   “The cafe? Why?”
   “There were a couple of heroin addicts I was chatting with in research of a new book. Because I was in association and, basically because the barista is an imperialistic bitch, I was asked to never come back.”
   “And, yet here you are.” He laughed. “Wait. New novel? You’re a published writer?”
   “Yes.” I croaked. “A curse.”
   “Wow!” James gushed. “I never met a real writer! What do you write?”
   “Garbage.” I grunted.
   “Oh...come on. It can’t be that bad.”
   I sighed. Took a sip of coffee, poked at my sandwich. “You have a place to stay, James? It’s raining outside and it’s late. I need to get some sleep.”
   “Actually, I was couch surfing with some friends over on 4th. A bunch of fucked up tweekers. The bitch who runs the house and I got into an argument. So, as of right now...the rain is my blanket.” He extended an open palm towards the street.
   I looked off into the darkness beyond the grime streaked pane window. The intermittent flash of summer lightning. The glow of yellow lamps igniting sheets of cascading rain. I took a cigarette from my pocket, offered it to James. Removed one for myself, lit both.
   “You can stay at my place if you wish.” I stated. “No monkey business. Unless you are up to monkey business.” I raised a fay eyebrow, took a drag.
   James leaned over the small table and asked in hushed tones, “Are you gay?”
   I continued to look out the window, slouched against the wall in the booth, “Aren’t we all?”
   We finished our meal and then found ourselves briskly walking over incandescent pools and dribbling rain to my apartment a few blocks away. I opened the door and invited him in. He took in the place, like a good hustler, making certain there were no sinister weapons or weird sex gadgets. I noticed in his face he was relieved the place was somewhat bare - bed, bookshelf, table, a couple of chairs, clothes neatly hung in an open closet. Nothing to hide.
   He turned to me, “You mind if I take a shower? It’s been a few days.”
   I said sure and gathered him a clean towel and an unused bar of soap. I lay on the edge of the bed, smoking a damp cigarette, watching the shadows move across the ceiling from passing cars outside and listening to Miles Davis on the radio. Through my experiences in Mexico, as long as he was in my house, I wasn’t going to let him out of my sight. I could use a shower, too. On the contrary, I believed as soon as I walked out of the bathroom, anything of value I had would had been long gone.
   James walked out of the bathroom with a green towel wrapped around his scrawny torso.
   “Let me see if I can find some pajama bottoms for you.” I offered.
   “Don’t bother.” He quipped. “I like to sleep in the nude.”
   Convenient. I offered him a beer from the small fridge and we chatted a bit as he lay under the thin blanket. He said something of getting enough money for a bus ticket to return to Las Vegas. He had family there. I didn’t bother questioning why he didn’t hit his family up for the fare. After I finished my beer, I peeled off my damp clothes and slid under the blanket. He was shivering and so was I. Wordlessly, he snuggled next to me, briefly muttering that my body was warm. His torso was so boney. In the half-light of the room, he turned towards me and slid his arm across my chest, his erection thumping against my hip.
   “I want to feel you inside of me.” He breathed into my ear.
   We began kissing. The taste of saliva mixed with coffee, beer, and ham swirled in our mouths. James kissed my chest, playing with my erect nipples, making his way down to my own erection. Like a champ, he sucked my dick like something I needed in a long time. It felt as if I was in heaven. He definitely was a professional. I got to the point I couldn’t take it anymore and rolled the blond onto his stomach. I parted his cheeks and rimmed him for a good twenty minutes. He squirmed and gasped as I loosened him up. I flipped James over onto his back, placing his feet up onto my shoulders. Spitting into my palm, I lubed the head of my penis up and slowly pushed it in. He clung to me like a baby monkey as I rapidly rutted and lunged into him. His ass muscles tightened and grasped as I thrust - literally sucking my cock into him. I couldn’t hold back any longer. I yanked out and sprayed him with my semen. A second after, as he masturbated wildly, unloading his pent up frustrations onto his self. It was a work of art. I snatched my cell phone and snapped a pic before he could hide his face.
   “Hey!” James laughed. “You should ask before doing that!”
   “It’s for the archives. Dr. Windom needs it for my reports.”
   “Dr. Windom?”
   “Ford Windom. PhD. Never actually passed the bar exam. Faked various psychoanalyst credentials with Photoshop. He once committed a friend to an asylum because he laughed at his eyebrows. Another nearly overdosed on a prescription from the good doctor when he swapped the patients lithium with Viagra. He called my parents and told them I was a sexual deviant with a bad case of crabs. Crazy fuck needs to be arrested.”
   “He sounds weird.” James chuckled.
   “You have no idea.” I plopped next to him, placing my phone onto the end table. “How about first thing tomorrow morning, we head over to Greyhound and get you that ticket to Vegas?”
   “For reals?!” He beamed, lying next to me, propped up on his elbow. “You’ll do that?”
   “And more.” I said esoterically. “Now, let’s get some sleep.”
   The last thing I noticed before I dozed off was the clock reading 4:34am. Covered in semen and sweat, we both fell into a contented deep sleep...