The
Old Queer fidgeted on a concrete bench in Plaza las
Armas, Ciudad Juárez. That being in Mexico, pendejo. (Native adolescents stroll
by, arms around each other’s neck and ribs); strain his failing organs to
occupy young ass and thighs, dangling balls and hard spurting cocks. A boy
walking past, turns, grins at him and yell, “Que tal, jefe?” Their schoolboy
innocence achingly stroke across flaccid buttocks and drooping loins. The Old
Queer inwardly screams, an enigmatic frustrated howl with dark glasses and grey
face. Piss trickles warm on his withered thighs.
I set my pen down onto my notebook and glanced
at the clock on the café wall. There was a vato at the counter giving me the
eye and I returned a vague impression as if something half seen from a bus
window smeared with grey smoke - the clock had jumped ahead like time will
after 3pm - and I became conscious I did not want to know about him or
anybody...
“Hector.” I mouthed the name silently,
finish my coffee and cigarette – we recently fought and argued over silly shit.
He wanted me to stay in Juárez for the sole benefit of my finances. Out of the
nine billion fucked up souls on this planet, he elected me to support him and
his mother.
“No.” I whispered.
The night prior, his cousin – by name of
Adrian - had visited from Tabasco. A downright sultry, walking hard on with the
air that no one, and I mean no one, will refuse his glare when he pin-points
your ass to hammer in unbridled macho-lust.
We three had sat on the roof of Hector’s one
story, adobe-brick trap drinking beers and listening to cha-cha reggeaton as
out in the paranoid City; citizens partied, fucked, and violently died.
Gunshots in the distance mixed with jukeboxes and car horns.
I blew plumes of smoke from a joint up into
a dark sky blanketed in a swath of twinkling stars. After the beer began to
flow, Hector launched into the same old blah
blah blah and it pissed me off, or should I say, irritated the fuck out of
me because I was held in the trance of Adrian’s hypnotic spell and all I craved
was that lascivious motherfucker to screw me into the dirt.
“You’re being a complete letdown and an
all-around drag.” I drearily stated to Hector.
He then went into full bitch mode: Droning
on about his financial woes and the cold, imperious nature of your
stereotypical American homosexual which, if I didn’t know better, was aimed
towards me.
I retorted, “If you cared for me as much as
my bank account, you wouldn’t have so much to complain about.”
Hector flew into a tizzy (this macho homo
who I first met was declining into a full, fledged fag) and stomped downstairs
to warrant sympathy from his placating mother because he wasn’t gonna get shit
from my gringo ass.
I sat there a moment, holding my caguama –
silently contemplating the conundrum. Adrian had other ideas.
The sultry bastard rose up off the milk
crate he was stooped on, silently walked over to me, gently pushed my head back
and shoved his tongue into my mouth. I sat there – all things serene around us
except for the occasional smack or slurp – when Adrian was violently hurled
away from a rather pissed off Hector who silently slunk back up onto the roof.
Hector roared at the well-inebriated Adrian to get the fuck off me or something
like that as the two executed a short ballet around the roof swinging blows. I
sat there watching this stupid mess and as I casually lit a cigarette, Mother
of Hector swooped up and put an end to these faggoty-ass shenanigans.
A few words were exchanged and I muttered I
was going to get a hotel room to think this silly shit through. And I did.
Nevertheless, I am sitting in this café
thinking. No one here but me – syphoned in a booth. I do care for Hector.
Physically. Mentally. Not too much emotionally. After a decade dealing with
this culture, I am befuddled with the fact I still carry that snotty ass
attitude of West Hollywood with me when dealing with these gay fuckers. Of
course it would be a financial boon to him and his mother - they having near
nothing. What do I get out of it? A few kicks? I require more. I want what
every red-blooded homosexual desires. I want to be loved back. Unconditionally
and without strings. An arrangement which seemed an impossibility in this land
of Mexican machismo. Unless, of
course, I hook up with some simpering, fey faggot, an unlikely option which
truly sickened me.
Fuck it. I exited the café and strolled
through dusty, near empty streets. A mangy, yellow dog stared at me from a
mountain of garbage. Jovial, fat Mexican waved at my white ass from his shop. A
group of chattering Indian women hush up as I walked by on the smashed
sidewalk. Yeah, I’m going back to Hector’s house. I think I love him. No, think is not the correct word, the
correct word would be undeniably.
- Juarez City Blues, 1997
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