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...

Monday, June 16, 2014

Friday, June 13, 2014

Fingers in the Dark

I sit at the table. He across from me smiles shyly and sips from his drink. The sound of an empty glass is a trumpet of despair in my ears. The dishes cluttering the table are all empty, each one scraped clean. Yet still we sit, staring.
It’s obvious. There was no longer any pretense. No rolls to coat with butter. No last noodle to chase with a fork. No last drop of chocolate to wipe from a plate. Nothing remains but the melting ice in the last of our drinks, and that for only so much longer. And yet we sit, staring.
“I don’t want to go.” I say. Pathetic. You can’t just say that.
“We could go somewhere else.” He now appears just as disappointed.
“I don’t think I could eat any more anyway.” An awkward chuckle. I shouldn’t have said that… “Uh… I think there’s a park nearby.” I have no idea really but how far could one be?
“Yes!” A smile. “I mean…” A shy glance to the side “Sure.” Looking again at my eyes. No, into my eyes, into my soul. Another smile.
The flutters in my chest lift me to my feet. Do I help him from her chair? What do I do? I stand, arms by my side as he grabs his cellphone and joins me. The flutters which had not ever actually paused the entire dinner, redouble their intensity. The bill had long since been paid. And paid again upon ordering a second desert.
Willing my hand not to sweat, I place a palm on his shoulder as I walk with him out of the restaurant. We wander aimlessly on the streets for only a few minutes before stopping to simply stare into each other’s eyes. We never found a park.

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Problems in Paradise

I stood under the shade of a tree in front of my slum dwelling. The dusty, sagging tree did it's best to provide shade however it failed miserably. I glanced down the street - crumbling flats of multicolors tenements lined a simmering concrete which lost the war of time.
At first, I thought it was an old man shuffling with his daughter. He wore a straw fedora, blue checked shirt, jeans over a scrawny form. As he and the girl neared, the man called out, "Hola, coma esta?'
I had to do a mental double take. It was Oscar strolling home with his daughter. A wave of both exhilaration and anger enveloped me. On Oscar's last visit we had an argument:
"I'm not like that anymore. You making a joto out of me." He bleated on that ill night. Too much alcohol had long converted his brown eyes crimson.
I wasn't going to take any of his Macho Mexican bullshit and snapped, "Did you not confess that you haven't had 'sexual relations' with your wife in over six months? That you couldn't stand being in the same room as her. The nagging, the condescension? You know why, Oscar? Because you are gay yet you fall into this latino mythos that every man south of the border needs to attain some type of normal relation with a woman so as not to incur the suspicions and wrath of friends and family. You realize that is utter bullshit! You are gay, man! Accept it!"
He stood up and strode to the restroom, he hollered back as he took a piss, "You are wrong! I am not like that!"
"When we first met years ago," I continued, lighting a smoke and blowing huge plumes toward the stained ceiling. "It was you who approached me. It was you who pressed me into bringing you home. It was you and only you who made an effort to visit my house everyday to get your rocks off! I never forced you into doing anything you did not want to and now with me back and you married, you are confused. You are split right down the middle on the way your life is and the way it should be."
He quickly walked out of the bathroom and in anger chucked his empty beer bottle at me. It missed my head and smashed against the wall behind. "No!" He roared. "I am no pinche puto!" His red eyes were shrink wrapped in tears. Before I could retaliate from his physical onslaught, he stormed out the front door and down the dark street.
I gulped another swig of my beer and simply shook my head. I wasn't angry, more sad than anything. What an emotional torment he must be going through. And with my surprise appearance back into his heterosexual relation with his wife, I really must of thrown a wrench into his machinery.
So, where was I? Ah yes...Oscar approached me in the heat and asked if everything was okay.
"Everything with me is fine. It's you who I am worried about." I stated.
He shot me a glance of anger and then glanced at his daughter. He mumbled that he had more shopping to do and perhaps will be over later in the evening for drinks. I looked him dead in his eyes and stated with utmost sincerity, "My door is always open for you, old friend. You take care of your family first, I will be here waiting."
As I watched him and his daughter shuffle down the cracked street, I hope he understood my meaning...

Sunday, June 08, 2014

The Battle.

This morning, I took a stand against the full-scale incursion of the dust bunny horde. For too long, I stood idly by as they amassed their forces along the outskirts of my room. For too long, I shrugged and ignored their ever-encroaching encampments.
But no longer.
I grabbed my ancient weapon of suction and rose up against my grimy foe. I laid waste to their fortifications and battlements. Their cries of anguish were lost to my weapon’s whine until, at long last, I looked out over a dust-free expanse and breathed in the clean air.
The surfaces of my room show no evidence of this morning’s carnage and though there were some allied casualties, the day was ours. We will remember the fallen and drink toasts in their honor. It was a hard-fought battle and the war will wage on long after the sweet taste of today’s victory fades.
I will be ready.

Saturday, June 07, 2014

Novel Writing

Came into acquaintance with several young hipster train jumpers loitering down at a local coffee house near the tracks. I wanted to size up some local citizens, get real, and write. Along a tattered, wooden counter were a sprinkle of prostitutes displaying itchy scabs and violet scars of purposeful addictions, convicts sat hunched spitting nervous furtive glances, and drab hobos sat dunking pound cake emitting a bouquet of sour feet and unwashed genitals which permeated the dusty, high ceiling room. Faded Sante Fe art hung on paint peeled walls. Good taste in music. Johnny Cash.
   I meet this one cat, Billy he says – sandy blond hair, skin crimson and toughened and wrinkled from years of exposure from the elements, not an old guy...but handsome in his early thirties. Whiff of locker rooms and flop houses. I found him in the mensroom shooting up with an old, flabby Indian and asked “Wanna bang?”
   He stands next to the grimy sink and casually offers the syringe to me in long, dirty fingers.
   “Naw. Cut that crap eons ago.”
   Pinpoints sparkle in his eyes and he slumps against the wall, shoulder slowly descending against white grimy tile, t-shirt clinging to a skinny torso. Dragged down by the pull of junk. The Indian, toothless old woman smile, takes the spike and jabs it into brown, rigid flesh. The Indian, he is down for the count. I stood there with the cooler system clacking in a foul smelling bathroom, slowly toking my joint as I watched Billy and the Indian go on the nod pervaded with dreamful nostalgia.
   Ted, tall and could be a model with raven hair and jagged looks, enters in swishing of long black trench coat and searches through Billy’s pockets for the stash.
   He looks up towards me with steel blue eyes, “That greedy fucker shot it all?”
   I shrug, watching a large cockroach skitter across a drain pipe. Beer got warm and strictly from boredom I return to the bar. Savage Charlie, a man of the grossest dimensions, sidles up to me and puts down the faggot patter. Compliments. Free booze.
   “I gots lots of cash.” He grins with a cherub smile.
   Lose 150lbs. and we’ll talk. Silence between us after that. Song changes. Sunday Morning, by Pat Boone. What asshole played that? Oh,
   An Indian from the Rez enters the fray. Tall and lean and a face so smooth and pure. Jet black hair and warm brown eyes. Torn black jeans and black t-shirt with a white wolf emblazoned on it. Goes by the moniker Lester. Guess you can’t win them all. Still striking and lovely at the same time for a guy of twenty one.
   “You new here?” He asks, ordering his Bud Lite.
   I drank Corona. I go into my spiel and we jibber-jabber of Mexico, the Rez (Indian reservation, for you uneducated.), and the glories of marijuana.
   “You like good weed? I got some back at the Rez. We can take my car.”
    I see where this is leading.
   Flop into his brown Hyundai, rattling fender and coughing muffler, we shoot south to Injun territory. He lives with his uncle and little brother in a disintegrating trailer surrounded by dirt and dusty cactus and old rusted cars. Out back of the blue and white mobile home, we sit next to a shed on crates and scrap and smoke the sweetest herb I had ever enjoyed.
   Discussing literature and the decline of Western Civilization, the sun set crimson behind jagged mountains in a glorious blast of fury. As the stars twinkle in a dark navy Tucson sky, Lester steals a kiss and it doesn’t go farther than that. We talk more and giggle and joke and toke. Chatter concerning science fiction and homosexuality. He discloses he likes white boys and if I would like to “do it”.
   In the shed, fumble, kiss, casually masturbate. Blowing Lester, penis was short and circumcised, he quickly ejaculates in great hot spurts and timidly apologizes. Don’t worry, handsome, I smile. Long ride back to town, we share a hamburger and fries I buy from a roadside stall. Just Breathe croons Melissa Etheridge from the car stereo, and I do.

- excerpt from novel in process Borrowed Flesh, chapter three Pigs in the weeds