Monday, September 29, 2014
Young and handsome Sergio works the night shift as a trash collector in Lisbon, Portugal. He can't force himself to connect with his pretty female co-worker Fatima, who displays an avid interest in him, so instead Sergio roams the city with the trash company's pet dog. Eventually Sergio becomes fascinated with a sleek motorcycle, and then also its owner, João - a young man totally indifferent to Sergio. The frustrated trash collector's surfacing sexual desires unleash his darkest impulses, sending him down a dangerous path of violence, depravity and degradation.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Ten years ago on this day, this blog titled borrowed flesh was willed into existence. What began as an experiment to put down in an electronic journal of what was happening during those strange days of living in Tijuana, Mexico continued as a document of wayward traveling, loveless romance, and spiraling madness. I sincerely wish to thank from the bottom of my heart to all you readers who experienced these happy times and hardships with me during the past decade. Again...thank you!
Friday, September 26, 2014
I just spent forty-eight hours locked up in a federale jail in Juarez.
Three days ago, my neighbor woke me rapping at my door and asked if I could run across the border and fetch her three cartons of cigarettes. I didn't mind, it was an easy trip, I had nothing planned that morning, and plus she has innumerable times assisted me when the need arose. It was the same kind, elderly woman who had shown me the apartment in which I now reside. Why not?
I took the three-hundred pesos she handed me and made my way to the border only stopping to transfer the currency to dollars. Walked over the bridge to the duty free shop a couple of blocks away. Purchased the cigarettes - they were on sale, three cartons for $16.50 - and quickly made my way back to Juarez.
Crossing the Stanton Street bridge, the Mexican customs have an x-ray machine in which you place your bagged goods to be scanned. I have done this countless times and twice before with purchased cigarettes without incident. However, this time the female custom agent snatched my bag off the conveyor belt and asked if the bag was mine. I said yes. She ordered me to follow her to the customs shed, punched in some numbers on a computer screen and then demanded 1147.00 pesos ($120 American) for the entry tax.
I asked why and stated that I had done this several times before and was never asked for any tax. I added that I lived in Mexico and was the cigarettes were for personal use and not for sale. She didn't seem concerned and continued to badger me for the pesos. She asked for my passport and then was approached by her supervisor who then both went into a stream of how was I to pay for the tax. I explained that my bank card did not work outside the States (thanking God that I did have my bank enforce that after witnessing Tijuana cops drain a tourists bank account at an ATM) when the fact occurred that I had no way of paying, they escorted me to a truck and whisked me off to their main offices a few miles away.
There, I was processed and booked with embezzling contraband across the border. I was then taken to another truck, escorted by three, machine-gun toting para-military guards to lock up. Visions of being driven out into the desert, shot, and left for dead swam in my confused mind. Within two hours of crossing the bridge, I was behind bars.
My Spanish is limited. However, the more times I explained 'I didn't understand' the faster they spoke. In my cell, I was visited by several people who babbled quickly and had me sign reams of paperwork. I could had been signing a confession to murdering all those missing women over the years and I wouldn't had known.
As I lay on the cold concrete slab that served as a bed in the tiny cell, I stared out through the bars with only one thought burning in my brain: How long was my sentence? I received several convoluted replies from 48hrs, to three months, to being relocated to a prison in Veracruz for several years. Ok. I simply shrugged and accepted my fate with silent abandon. I had no one to call and the friends I did have in Juarez I did not know their cell numbers since everything was spoken through facebook.
I do have to admit concerning my own account: the federale officers were extremely cordial. Not the brutal, malicious overtly macho assholes seen in movies or told through American lore. One young one was actually a writer and we spoke often on the subject when he entered the cellblock to deliver food or to check up on me and the four other prisoners.
That evening, I was photographed and fingerprinted. Their fingerprinting was so archaic: the officer slavered my hands in black dye, printed everything, then smeared Vaseline all over them to remove the dye. It didn't work.
Again, I asked several times in my feeble Spanish how long was my sentence? blahblahblahblah, senor. Sigh. I did catch that I would be speaking with members of the American Consulate the following day and that raised my hopes a bit.
After a cold night of fitfull sleep on freezing concrete, I was awoken by my fellow writer/federale guard and escorted to a small room with bars separating me from a young woman. It was the representative of the American Consul. She explained that I would only be serving 48hrs or less. However, the fee for the "Municipal Police" will be between me and the judge. I asked how the police were involved and she stated that she did not know. Okay.
I was escorted back to my cell were I spent most of the time thinking or dozing in and out of stupor sleep.
The following day, my federale friend stated that I would be leaving that morning. "That's good news." I muttered. However, there was another ignorant American in another cell yelling obscenities and causing all sorts of problems. That was when I saw the federales become their stereotypes. I don't know what they did in that cell, but I heard a lot off muffled screaming and thumping. Later, the American (since now we were the only two left in the cell block) confided that he was caught on Mexican soil driving a stolen car into Mexico.
"The American Embassy will come and expedite me, right?" He asked, fear in his voice.
"I don't think so. You committed the crime here. So, you are pretty much at the whim of the Mexican judicial system."
He was silent after that. A while later, I was escorted out of my cell, signed paperwork, and led outside. Free! Free, at last! Nope. I was then taken across the street and locked into a barred room with piles of confiscated shoes. Yeah, don't ask...
This timid character comes to the door and introduces himself as my lawyer. He then explains that his fee is $500 American and I needed to cough that up, him going down the list of friends and family members I needed to contact to help pay the fee. I looked at him and said, "You obviously don't know my friends or family."
Since he obviously wasn't getting dime one, the judge showed up and said I was free to go - after more paper signing and finger printing.The judge escorted me outside and said, "I did a back ground check. Here in Mexico, you're record is clean. Up until now. It would be in your best interest if we do not meet again." With that, we shook hands and I was let out.
Does this wayward account of woe end there? Nope. Halfway down the street, my "lawyer" comes bounding up to me and asks how am I to pay his fee? I again stated I didn't have five hundred (I did, safe in my bank) but fearing this fucker was going to arrest me again, I commented that my neighbor might help. (After all, they were her cigarettes!) So, taking a city bus - not a car, a bus! - to my neighbors (he nor any other official know my exact house. I gave multiple addresses) My neighbor, after much crying and hugging - she really does care about me - told the lawyer basically to fuck off. And he did. He left after the fact I stated I get paid the following Friday in which he said he'd return.
I guess I'll be leaving Juarez next Thursday when my royalty check clears my bank. Ho-hum...
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Sunday, September 21, 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 breathe. In the near distance, down amid 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, 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 - 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, placing 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.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
He only smoked on Sundays, snaking through the crowded pew his mother swore to follow Christ upon and slipping out the thick oak doors into the unsoiled air as the choir sang We’re Marching to Zion. His grandmother used to tell him smoking was the devil’s habit; he preferred to breathe Old Gold’s scent while the church was still fresh with prayers. His prayers for her were frequent and forgotten. On her deathbed he ransacked heaven’s storehouses for an ounce of Samson’s strength but the devil is named Delilah. Her funeral was full of black suits and formality; he willed himself not to start a brushfire from the lighter in his pocket. When the preacher spoke about the fragility of man he imagined being a cliff diver, chasing pavement like a dog chases cars on a crowded street.
Friday, September 19, 2014
4:32am. Ciudad Juarez. The lonesome night train is whistling. Making its way to nowhere yet somewhere. It calls out through the night, touching the ears of all the lonely hearts. Beckoning for them to arrive at the station in the dead of night. Because it is there that souls are brought together. Looking for another to hold, looking for another to walk with. Looking for someone to take their hand and take the jump. Looking for something that is new. For something to remember. And it can see the smiles that are mischievous and the smiles that are nervous but the glint of excitement is there in their eyes…. It is the call of the lonesome night train and it calls for me.
Monday, September 15, 2014
I originally went to drink one beer. To calm my nerves from the very audacity of my obnoxious neighbors. Without warning, my pinche vecinos decided to throw an impromptu block party for their squealing brats. The straw that broke the camel's back was they flopped a huge-ass inflatable jumpy castle right outside my front door. Instead of bitterly tolerating these shenanigans, I dressed and walked over to that dive bar Buen Tiempo and sat it out the only way I could...by getting fucking plastered.
The bar was relatively empty for a late Sunday afternoon, so I at first sat in relative comfort sipping that bitter ale. Then HE walked in. All smiles and handshakes and hugs with the regulars and plopped on a stool right next to me. He stated his name was Alejandro and that he worked one of the shoe shine stands around the corner. Indeed, he did have black grime under his clipped nails.
He was charming to say the least. Introducing me to several of his workmates. Jokes and pleasantries. A couple games of billiards. Then the alcohol kicked in. One caguama turned into five each and we were both well on our way to hitting the floor. He confided that he was bisexual and somehow attained a wife and two kids. Meh, whatever was my response and the beer flowed...
Grabbing his impressive crotch, he blurted, "Let's go get a hotel!"
Why not? I mused and we found ourselves darting a block a way to a cheap fifty peso a night joint. I paid the stinkbomb at the reception and we strode down the long, gloomy halls reeking of mildew and unwashed vagina.
Once in the room - a mattress on the dusty floor and end table were the only furnishings - clothes were flung about and we found ourselves wrapped in several positions. Afterwards, catching our breathes, we lay in the gloom of the squalid room.
"You nice, guero...you seeing anyone?" He asked.
"No." I lit a cigarette. "I'm actually on my way to the West Coast in a few weeks. So. I'm not interested in finding anyone."
"Don't go." He snuggled closer, "I like you, though."
I flicked a cockroach off my big toe and said, "I like you, too, but plans have been made. I am definitely leaving."
After that it was anti-climatic. We parted on the corner with a shaking of hands. I have written a few times before, why is it when I am about to bail to somewhere else, my engines revving and raring to go - that I meet some schmuck who is actually attracted to me? Life is neither fare or compromising...so it goes...
Thursday, September 11, 2014
My smile drops. "So we’re only having coffee today?" We were supposed to fuck. See, ours is a motel relationship. Once a week, two months and counting.
"I thought I told you."
"No you didn’t. You said to meet at 5," I say. I have not seen him in two weeks. "I thought you just wanted to meet earlier."
"I thought you understood."
"Well, you weren't clear."
He frowns, remains quiet.
"What time do you have to leave?"
"Not now." He says it like a consolation. I want to clobber him. "The dinner’s at seven."
"But we just got here." It is already 6.
He takes a sip from the steaming mug of coffee next to him. He had been drinking with a friend until a couple of hours ago. His eyes are still dazed.
Silence grapples me as I try to wrap my head around a clear misunderstanding. There are barriers to tread in this "arrangement". Language, culture, age, preference. His English needs work. I’m new in Juarez. He’s ten years younger. I’m the first man he’s ever slept with.
He struggles. "Are you free on Monday morning?"
A compromise. But it reaches my ears as a begrudging favor. There is no remorse in his face.
We don’t fuck when we meet for breakfast. Which means it’s another worthless and painful time of being near him without being able to touch him, hold him, kiss.
See, ours is a motel relationship. He picks me up, we check in, we cum, we cuddle.
"You should've told me you could only meet for a little while," I say, trying to scrap 70% of blame from my tone. But considering the size of my frustration, there’s still enough accusation to catch.
We remain quiet for five minutes. It stretches like an age.
"Are you disappointed?"
Fuck you. "A little." I look at the street before me, behind him. It is rush hour. "I thought you had marked time for me." It is painful to say that.
"This is our time." He sounds angry. "I still met you."
I don’t back down. "You know that’s not what I mean when I say ‘time’. Don’t pretend that you don’t know."
Ours is a motel relationship. Without the fucking, there is no point.
"I’m sorry," he says. "This wasn’t my plan. I knew about the family dinner this morning only."
"Then you should’ve told me hours before. I would’ve understood. I would’ve still met you, but I would know what to expect. You knew I wanted to be with you."
"You mean sex?" he teases.
"Yes, sex." I try not to smile, despite the fucknut of a pain that is humping my chest.
I want to make him understand how this feels to me. But he’s drunk. He’s not going to remember this.
"Let’s just go."
"I’ll take you."
"I can walk." My house is five minutes away on foot, but two u-turns on his moto (no one uses the word motorcycle here). "Besides, you’re drunk. That means your motorbike is a coffin."
"Everyone drives drunk in J-town."
I laugh. "That’s fresh."
He smiles. The idiot thinks my laughter was genuine.
I let him drive me home anyway. He tries to cheer me up. "I’ll see you on Monday or Tuesday morning, okay?" he promises, starting with that shit again. It does not give me solace or reassurance. I feel desolate.
What does that mean anyway?
"You know, it’s okay if you don’t want to see me anymore." I roll my eyes at the nonchalant way I said it and the fact that I had just said that. In so many levels, I have become a douche. "Just tell me." Get it over with so I don’t have to mull over this bullshit.
"Don’t think that."
We reach my apartment. I don’t say goodbye or look back. He drives off.
What I hate is that he doesn’t care. My feelings mean nothing to him.
Ours is a motel relationship.
In my bedroom, I cry.
Tuesday, September 09, 2014
He was always eating small sugar cookies with a coffee at the cafe on Ave. Juarez at odd hours of the night. And he always seemed tired as hell — with smeared war paint for dark circles and a voice which sounded like a perpetual yawn when he placed his order.
At least once a week, he would be there, flipping through a black notebook in the corner of the cafe, his eyelids bobbing up and down sleepily. I thought sometimes about starting up a conversation with him, romanticizing the idea of two regulars developing a friendship, but it wasn’t as though Hopper had painted us into Nighthawks or anything.
Besides, the only thing I would have had to say to him would be to ask why he didn’t just go home and go to sleep.
Monday, September 08, 2014
I went in search for a ham sandwich. They call them lonches (pronounced launch-ez) down ol' Mexico way. Not really the same as ham sandwiches stateside, but they are tasty. After walking all over centro, never did locate one, so I settled for two burritos and a soda instead.
I made my way to Park Independencia - now called Park Benito Juarez, really...they should make up their fucking minds...to sit in the shade and enjoy my settled-for meal. As with all benches in this city, every one with any shade was taken up by the legion of loafers who are waiting. Waiting for jobs, permits, visas, money orders or simply passing time to return to their bitter, hateful wives.
Next to the monument of a long dead president, I lucked out and sat on one end of a concrete slab while the other end was occupied by a young, skinny lad reading the local paper. I mumbled buenes tardes, but he had headphones on and so I simply settled down to eat.
Halfway through my burrito, the young man uttered in perfect English, "Sure is hot today, huh?"
Slightly startled by his English - it is a habit of pride in Cuidad Juarez that if you speak English or not, Spanish is preferred - I stated it was indeed warm or something to that effect. This prompted the guy - Ivan, he said his name was - to go into a forty-five minute soliloquy concerning his personal woes and tragedies. He had been recently deported from El Paso. His ID and papers were stolen. He couldn't attain work (he purchased his meals with the money he made from washing cars) and he was shacked up with a jealous and vindictive "girlfriend". I sat patiently for the mooch card to be played, yet he never asked for money.
I looked him over as he spoke. Not bad looking, in a scruffy kind of way. I wanted to help this guy. Well, I always did mean to repaint my apartment but had been too lazy recently to do it myself, so I offered the job to Ivan with handsome pay. $100 to do the entire place. He lit up and agreed.
"Let's go to your place and I can check out what needs to be done." He stated.
So, we walked over the crumbling sidewalks and past the dusty, farting buses to my trap a few short blocks away. He scanned the place and mentioned that it could be repainted...and new tiles in the bathroom wouldn't hurt, either.
He flopped on the ragged couch, "Got any beer?"
"No. But, there is a market around the block, we can get some there and bring it back." I offered.
I bought three caguamas and we returned to my flat and drank in the stifling desert heat. I have a box fan, but it was useless. Feeling the alcohol, Ivan sprawled his lanky form the length of the couch and continued his woeful rant about his current life. I sat on the dusty floor with my back propped against the foot of the couch, smoking, listening.
Then the inevitable: "Hey, man...you think you can loan me six hundred pesos (roughly fifty dollars)? I am so backed up on rent...I haven't paid the landlady in two months and I think she's about to kick me out."
Damn, I thought. It had to come to this. I turned to him to reject the question, but he lay there rubbing his stomach with his hand. His nipple was exposed and I leaned over and began sucking and licking it.
"Woah, dude! What the fuck?!" He sat up. "What the hell are you doing?"
I chuckled sorry or some stupid thing and he lay back down with a look of shock on his face. "That was weird...you gay or something?"
I didn't answer. I simply smiled as I noticed his molested nipple was still poking up through his t-shirt. "Your nipple's still hard."
"I never had anyone do that. I mean, I sucked bitches tits before, but never mine done."
I lit a cigarette and returned to my previous sitting position on the tiled floor. "Sorry, man...I thought you needed the money."
There was a long, uncomfortable silence as we sat there and drank and smoked. I heard him shift positions when next he was kissing the back of my neck, "I kinda liked it." I van whispered.
Eventually, we found our way to my bed. Clothes were thrown around the room. He lay naked on top of my nude body kissing me passionately as we riddled each others necks and pecs with hickeys. Passion mounted. Both dripping sweat from the heat. I stroked his dick as it grew hard in my hand. Laying him back, I began kissing down his stomach until I reached Ivan's black, shiny pubic hair when I heard, "I don't like getting my dick sucked."
"What?" I asked as I held his throbbing organ inches from my face.
"Seriously, I...I don't like it."
"Oh?" I said. "You're the one."
"The one what?" He smiled.
"The only man on the planet that doesn't like getting his dick sucked."
I looked up at him and saw that he meant it. "Okay." I shrugged. I rolled off the bed and began to get dressed.
"Are you upset?" He asked, pulling on his briefs.
"No. Not at all." And I actually wasn't. If he don't like it, he don't like it. I wasn't going to force the issue.
He slid on his jeans and sneered, "You don't have to be a dick about it."
I stopped dressing and asked, "In what way am I being a dick about it?"
Seriously, what is with these people? I do not and never will force anyone to do what they don't want. And I sure as hell will not placate their already screwed up ego.
"Just forget it." He retorted.
"See?! There! You're being a dick, again."
"Maybe you should leave." I calmly stated.
He stood up, began walking to the door, "Can you still loan me those pesos?"
I glared at him, tight lipped, "Now I know you need to leave."
He muttered something derogatory in Spanish under his breath and exited with a slam of the screen door. I sat at my desk, logged onto my laptop and began editing my current novel. I paused and thought of how I loathe the fact that I am so alone. The current life I was leading in abstract boredom and the secrete desire I held for emotional contact. To have someone to love and love me back. Not these heartless skirmishes ending in empty orgasms, but a true respectful relationship. I began typing, thinking, One day...one day. Or maybe not...
Sunday, September 07, 2014
Sunday morning. 8:30am. Awoken by my neighbor to notify me that he will be shutting the buildings water off "for a while" as he is installing some new fixtures in his bathroom. The neighbor on the other side next to me is up also bright and early. She rents the tiny studio with her four kids. All children are 5yrs old and less. She spends the next hour screaming and slapping at them. I guess she isn't under the impression that every sound can penetrate these thin, adobe walls. My front door is open (I am waiting for the first mentioned neighbor to give me the okay on the water so I can shower or at least make coffee), the neighbor across the street, a fat gimp with a mauled hand is blasting his stereo. The same obnoxious, twangy ranchero musuc you hear at closing time at millions of cantinas throughout the city. With my door open, I am forced to hear this music. Oh, he just walked out his door holding a mug half-filled with beer...tossing garbage from his place out into the street.
My patience has ended with this place. The romanticism of living south of the border has died. I have seriously been scouting other cities to relocate to. El Paso? It's cheap, but holds too many distasteful memories. Tijuana? Same as current situation but maxxed up 100%. I've been looking over info online concerning Boulder, Colorado or Seattle, Washington. What do I want? A relatively peaceful place to call home while I write. That is all I really care for nowadays. Not like I was in earlier entries of this blog, I have mellowed out substantially.
I have been setting my eye on Tijuana, though. Seriously pondering it. Renting a place on the beach so as not to endure the 24hr madhouse of downtown. I do have some good friends who still reside there (and a couple who I do not wish to see), but overall, it sounds promising. Who knows? I'll make my decision at the end of this month. And whatever I do decide, it can't be any worse than the predicament I put myself into here. Or could it?
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Monday, August 25, 2014
2014 was one of those years that started out like “THIS IS GOING TO BE GREAT!” and it's halfway through and we have a war going on, a deadly disease has been spread, countless shootings have happened, racism is alive, more people have been leaving living things inside of hot cars, gays have become more PC than their homophobic counterparts to one another, and Robin Williams is fucking dead.
The story so far:
A man admittedly followed and killed an innocent teenager, and was declared not guilty.
States are passing laws allowing guns in public schools.
Women are losing their reproductive rights at an increasingly alarming rate.
Riots are tearing through the streets in cities all over the world.
College tuition keeps rising, sending a generation into debt as soon as they are entering the adult world.
Education funds keep getting slashed.
Privacy no longer exists.
Corporations now have the same rights as people, and the funds to actually protect them.
Through loopholes, many U.S. Corporations pay a lower tax rate than middle class families.
States are now passing more voter ID laws and similar laws that only affect the lower class.
The corporate giant, Monsanto, has pretty much purchased and bribed its way into every grocery product on the shelf, resulting in food becoming less and less like, well, food. There are reasons Cancer rates are getting worse.
Likewise, Monsanto is making sure small American farmers are ran out of business. Also, their constant pesticide use is killing bees and other insects, causing dire environmental issues.
The mass media is more concerned with pop culture and trends, than the real issues the world is facing.
Human population is ever growing, and at rapid rates. It can’t just continue this way.
We have put so much trash in giant landfills all over our world and in our oceans. We are killing our planet.
It’s a mess and I do not foresee an improvement during the remainder of my years…
Thursday, August 21, 2014
“Yo muy caliente, guero. You make me very hot.” He rubbed his forehead against mine, smiled broadly. “Te amo.”
His body was warm like an animal and I felt a soft tingle in my stomach and I say, “I love you, too.”
We remove our clothes. There was a musk smell from his drooping, brown nuts. He brought out a little tin of Vaseline he carried in his hip pocket because he confided how he used to fuck tourists for money and in habit he had always carried it. I took the tin and rubbed Vaseline on his cock feeling it jump in my hand like a frog, he stood there teeth bared, gasping...“Vuelvete y aganchete, guero”...I turned around and bent over, hands braced on knees and let myself go limp inside as he slides it in. I could see out through a little dusty window the junk filled, back yard and the setting sun on the tiled roofs like bits of silver paper, and when I spurt the world seemed to stretch out and then snap back pulling my eggs together and I am spurting out, silver spots boil in front of my eyes and the window blacks out.
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
“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
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.
Saturday, August 16, 2014
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
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.
I wish I never had left Tijuana.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
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.
Wednesday, August 06, 2014
Sunday, August 03, 2014
ACT ONE: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
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
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
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
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.