Short Story / The New Colonial Age

Sexcapades in Mexico.
Richard Beach

“I’d do battle for the creation of a human world -
that is, a world of reciprocal recognition.
                                        Frantz Fanon, M.D.

     I don’t have a lot of sex. I entertain the notion that is my choice.
     Now, should I want some, a favorite playground is Mexico City. Many Chilangos, as men of Mexico City are known, start panting like hounds in heat over ‘tall, blond and blue-eyed.’ But I’m painfully slow in this arena. A few months back, out at the landmark gay establishment, El Taller, once again, I didn’t realize pheromones were pouring forth.
     Until my friend from Los Angeles, Tom, punched me in the arm.
     “Nino, that one wants you.” Referring to the man with whom I’d been charlando.
     “Really?”
     That’s me. The only gay man on the planet to have condoms expire on him.
     It mattered little, the guy had already moved on. As with most gay men, a conquest was to be made before sunrise, no matter how far he, or the rest of them, had to lower their standards.
     “He asked if he could kiss me” I informed Tom. “Ick” I said, fingering my lips.
     I figured this guy asked all the men for a kiss. Opposite side of the club, three hours later, he
asked Tom for a kiss.
     I understand that sex between men is about power and release, frustration, punishment even. But struggling in such close approximation to another man, in that physical bonding, is that intimacy? I’m less than convinced, but somehow in Mexico City, I’m more open to the notion.
     Now, the average woman in North America finds twenty percent of men datable. For me, that figure’s around 0.001 . Lowering my standards, I no longer find the man alluring and see little point to pursuing half the enchilada. I must track on a man, observe the way he walks, how he smiles, converses, what he does with his hands, number of shirt buttons undone. Does he smoke, drink, use drugs? Gay friends tell me they’ve known less about the men they’ve married. They have a point, for if a man falls in that 0.001, there’s no wrong answer to any of the queries.
     So, I’m meeting Tom in Mexico City. Amazingly, in less than 24 hours I’m about to have three ‘sexual encounters.’ I label them sexual, as they involve me and someone else’s erect penis.

     Airport to the hotel, I dump my things and am, literally, running to the nearest VIPS (Denny’s a la Mexicana) for chilaquiles. Ay Papi, que rrrrrrico.
     You should hear me roll my rr’s after I’ve eaten them
     On my way there, I breeze by this guy dressed in a suit, he’s quite handsome; I note he’s in his thirties and seems comfortable with it. He stops, no longer walking with his friend, staring as if I have a gaping hole in my head. Turned back looking, I clip an Estacionamiento Prohibido sign, see
stars and must now make sure I don’t have that gaping hole in my head. Reversing in the direction of VIPS, I’m too late; he’s seen that I’ve seen that he’s seen…...that whole thing.
     He comes up to me and flat out states – it’s 4:00 in the afternoon on a busy thoroughfare in the tony Zona Rosa – “Zew are virrry hangsone.”
     “Excuse me?” my mouth open. He repeats it, still saying the same thing.
     I’m not hung up on the pronunciation, only the location.
     “You’re pretty hangsone yourself, pero yo hablo Espanol perfectamente bien.” I switch to Spanish, he stays in English. He’s transfixed by the blond hairs on my forearms, gently pulling at them, asking if I have similar blonde hair everywhere. I’m not sharing information so personal, so soon. A position I take, like it’s somehow of value to me.
     In short, he wants to play hide the sausage, do I have a hotel room?
     “How about coffee?” I reply. “I’m meeting a friend at VIPS” (untruth).
     “I’ll come with you,” he’s agreeing far too readily.
     Now this guy really is virrry hangsone. He’s single, twenty-nine (not so comfortable as I thought), in computers (everyone in Mexico these days), has an obedient dog, loves his mother, and would never lie. My bullshit detector is going crazy but he still has something, I don’t know what. Nice eyes, if lying, very nice hands.
     My fictional friend doesn’t arrive at VIPS. My new acquaintance, Roberto, doesn’t have a phone at home but, yes, he’s definitely in computers, offers to drive me to the play in his new Volkswagen Golf convertible, but, no, still no phone at home. The theatre is five miles down Avenida Insurgentes, the major traffic artery that bisects Mexico City named in honor of insurgent nineteenth century revolutionary child heroes who had rallied to throw off the colonial yolk, inspired to action by one Father Hidalgo y Costilla.
     We’re talking, Roberto’s in English, yo hablando Espanol, so somehow it’s not really either of us there in the car taking part in whatever this is. Traffic coming at us from every side, I’m looking away out the window, wondering how long this guy will jabber on, when he takes my hand and gently wraps it around his warrior of love, now out of his pants and standing at attention. My
eyes look to be falling out of my head.
     But it feels kind of good in a funny way. The car being an automatic, his erect penis is like a stick shift, we’re in second right now, but moving my hand over and forward, we’ll be in third and I’m wondering if he’s a five-speed. All mid-traffic on Avenida Insurgentes. Father Hidalgo y Costilla is surely spinning in his grave and some peasant woman’s going to see us and drop stone cold dead to the pavement.
     I continue shifting and soon Roberto’s adequately revved up to splatter the steering column. I’m looking for a rag, a Kleenex, an anything, to get whatever it is we’re doing off my hands.
     Polite, but halfway out of the moving car, I send him on his way. This constitutes someone’s sex life? Machismo takes its toll and it’s not so attractive on such a closeted man. I pray una novena beseeching his wife isn’t mad when he arrives at the house with no phone.
     I pray for me, too. Praise God that I’m from this century’s mother country.

     Tom, newly arrived from Los Angeles, suggests we check out a new gay club in the Zona Rosa. Por supuesto. Like that, we’re in a cab and on our way.
     It’s huge, open and dark, an airplane hangar with waiters and barbacks dressed in underwear or jockstraps; we’re walking around a high school locker room in a power outage. There’s a show, men who dance (? – hombres Mexicanos have less rhythm than white boys – just ask one of them to salsa) and strip. Yawn – more shaved, buffed beef emulating that served up by butchers, bartenders, and gay club owners in the States.
     “Half of them are straight” Tom tells me.
     They’ve done a survey?
     “It’s the tips in dollars” he further provides. He’s got a point, half the clientele are clearly from the North America that lies north of the Mexican border. The strippers reputed ‘straightness’ is likely perpetuated by Gringos who desire that the same boy, rented overnight when the club closes, be ‘straight.’ We from the mother country have our own touch of internalized homophobia.
     Tom drags me into a cave-like annex housing a bumping, grinding, briefly clad hombre Mexicano. Swarthy, whites of his eyes and broad smile flashing, not overbuilt but solid, he’s looking right at me. Tom and I sit, order beers, yuck, carbonated urine, but you have to order something. I enjoy his dancing, un poco, aunque sea, avergonzado.
     The maitre’d/supervisor/whatever you call the guy who’s in charge of the cave taps me on the shoulder.
     “Rene wants to know if you would like a sesion privado?”
     “Excuse me?” I say. Tom is dying laughing, knowing this was coming.
     “Oh, go ahead,” Tom tells me, never dreaming I will. For some reason, perhaps something about Mexico City, something Roberto set in motion, I do. Rene’s done dancing, disappeared, I haven’t any idea what I’m doing. Mr. maitre’d/supervisor/whatever guides me to three curtained-off booths. I’m sent to a somewhat dirty, torn, crushed velvet Door Number Three.
     “Esperate alli, ya viene Rene” he tells me. That I can do, wait for Rene. He plunks me down on a bench as I stumble over the stand Rene will use for his tabledance/whathaveyou.
     In but a flash, Rene slides through the curtains. Dios Santo, Virgen Santisima, this guy is beautiful. And all mine. How long? Five minutes? Ten? Does he rent by the hour? Night? Week? My hands can’t touch him enough.
     Wait, what about those things so important to me? His demeanor, his smile, the way he walks, clearly all his buttons are undone, does he smoke, use drugs? Does it matter? I want to suck his dick.
     “That’s extra, tu sabes?”
     “That’s just fine.”
     “Another $2.50.”
     Let me think. My boyfriends have been a bit more expensive than that.
     He’s kissing me and I don’t think they do that if they’re straight, his tongue’s in my mouth, soft, warm and hungry, my hands running over him, grabbing, him me, me him…..in and out of my mouth he slides and I’m wondering what he’s doing for the rest of his life, got him halfway across the border, he’s sliding harder and faster, his hands cradling my head, he’s making a run for it in the Southern California desert, “Cuidado, mi amor,” watch out for La Migra, sliding in and out and I’m tasting precum, wondering if I have any cuts in my mouth, doesn’t matter, I’m marrying him anyway…..can’t stop…..neither him, nor me, he’s climbing on a plane in Los Angeles bound for Miami, he’s coming home…..he’s coming in my mouth.
     De repente, I realize I shouldn’t bring this one home.
     “Ay Dios mio, they’ll fire me. Please don’t tell el supervisor,” Rene pleads. So that’s what they call him.
     “No te preocupes, nino” Evidence swallowed, they’ll have to take a buccal smear. I’m just thankful I’m not in the middle of some homosexual/imperialist nightmare. Well, OK, it is a homosexual/imperialist nightmare, but for once I didn’t commit myself to it before awakening.
     Rene’s so fucking innocent, what a draw. Has no idea, so I think, what we’ve done is a
centuries-old tradition, a man-to-man sexual part of an obsequious whole.
     Back to the hotel, a busy day for someone who doesn’t have much sex.

     The telephone’s ringing. Slits for eyes, I make out it’s 8:00 A.M.
     “We need to repent for our sins.”
     “Excuse me?” my always ready line, but groggily.
     “Repent for what you did to me yesterday, we need to talk” It’s Roberto, calling from somewhere not home.
     “What I did to you?” I’m incredulous. “Oye, Roberto, maybe you have misgivings about what we did. I don’t” (not the sort you’re having, anyway). “My God claims no such proscriptions,” I tell him, thinking reason might prevail. On that account, I’m the one of the two of us needing his head examined.
     “It’s all right there in la Biblia” he lectures.
     “Ay, Dios Mio” I groan, cradling my head the way Rene had…..Ay, Rene. Hadn’t thought of him yet today. “Roberto, I’m hanging up.”
     “Esperate” he switches to Spanish.
     Hanging up, I tell the hotel operator to hold my calls, roll over and think of Rene, so masculine yet so warm, so sexual and yet so sweet…......Oyeme, deja.
     Downstairs for coffee, the front desk clerk hands me a thick envelope, my name scrawled across it. I told Roberto my name? My behavior is becoming somewhat scandalous. Perhaps Roberto and I have more in common than I’m willing to admit. So, I don’t.
     Opening the letter, half La Biblia falls on the floor, copied in Roberto’s scrawl. Interspersed, his reflections on what we did, that redemption can still be his, mine, ours if we confess. I imagine the two of us kneeling in the confessional, oh so repentant for my having shifted his weenie. I should read the entire document, he spent so much time writing it. Not able to make myself do this, I do carry it around for six months before dumping it.
     Pats on the back for leaving the Rene thing alone, I’m looking forward to an afternoon meal at a steak place in the Zona Rosa. A warm summer day, I elect to eat on the terrace.

     The all-female wait staff at this upscale restaurant have walked in off the set of a telenovela. All blonde, they’re Thalia if young, Laura Leon, if older.  As it’s still pre-kidnapping/torture scandal, a few are Gloria Trevi, awfully far downstream for this place, anyway. All low-cut dresses tightly fitted to statuesque frames, their rotating heads speak to me in broken-Menu-English. They bring me my tender steak; it’s likely imported from the U.S., the flavorless but colorful lettuce and tomato clearly are, picked in the U.S. by illegal Mexicanos. I openly wonder how the hombre sleeping under the cactus came to represent the people who risk great bodily harm, migrating thousands of miles, for the opportunity to do the dirty work of their neighbors to the north.
     The dire economic circumstances of most Chilangos have skyrocketed the crime rate in Mexico City. As countermeasure, soldiers are stationed on every corner in the tourist-inhabited Zona Rosa. Soldiers with machine guns – too young to go into a bar, let alone exercise good judgment handling an automatic weapon. One of their number combs the sidewalk alongside the restaurant’s terrace, one end to the other. A German Shepherd I wouldn’t want to cross walks in front, in tune with the soldier’s steps, alternately panting and baring his teeth, step….pant/bare… step….pant/bare….
Soldier and dog come within ten feet of my table during each sweep.
     His camouflage fatigues, a poor foil against the upscale urban environment, are unzipped halfway down his chest, a guinea T underneath. Dark eyes, dark hair, there’s something dangerous about him. Besides the automatic rifle and dog. Years of street-smart scrabbling, he’s in the military, only way for a poor Mexicano boy to get ahead. Going somewhere, this one, it’s in his eyes.
     Not wanting to watch him, my eyes bounce up off the thick, grain-fed slab of beef. Each pass, our eyes lock for that instant laden with everything there is to know. His face is stiff, unsmiling; I’m unable to form any facial expressions beyond “deer caught in headlights.” Eyes bouncing…..steak, soldier…step… pant/bare…steak, soldier…step…pant/bare….
     He may not be, but his eyes say he’s ready to go. Things happen in threes. Numero tres?
     A la vez, I pause. Ten feet away, automatic rifle in hand, he’s dutifully serving his machista, homophobic society. And there’s the dog. Some would label this a logistical problem. Loving a challenge, men with a great story have always been my meat and potatoes. This one has a story, I rest assured. Not to mention a wife and three little muchachitos out in the slums surrounding the city.
     It occurs to me he’s never eaten a steak like the one in which I am no longer interested. I refrain from jumping up and taking it over to him. The broken-Menu-English speaking waitress, tight-fitting low-cut dress and smiling head that’s trying to impress the wrong guy, I’ll take the soldier, please, removes the plate. The steak goes to the trash; children, any three the required statistic, die somewhere in the city at this precise moment, muchachitos who might survive were they to eat the rest of my steak. Truly remorseful, transiently ashamed, I know not how to get it to them. But I do want this guy to experience a good steak, if just once. Oh, so Western and white, I miss that he won’t like it, that it may make him sick.
     “I’d like to buy the soldier out front a steak” I tell the maitre’d.
     Crazy Gringo, Loco, Loco, he’s thinking, but the Gringo Loco in Mexico City is always right. I give him one of my business cards, hotel and room number on the back, sure the soldier will do no more than eat, maybe not even. Perhaps ask for the cash equivalent, buy a month’s food for the wife and muchachitos.
     Pride is a funny thing, I reflect.
     Heading to my hotel, I can’t look back at the soldier, walking his beat, pant/bare’ing dog ever in front. Sweat runs off his brow, down his cheek, it resembles a tear. Then I remember I’m not looking back at him and turn away.

     Dropping onto the bed in the hotel, I’m all undigested meat, hormones and tension. Deep slumber locates me and I dream.
     There’s a knock; must be Tom dropping by.
     But it’s the soldier, now in civvies. I’m looking for the German Shepherd, baring all those teeth. Guy’s more compact out of his fatigues. Not objectionable, just smaller.
     “Perdoname. Quiero expresarle mis agradecimientos para su oferta, pero no lo puedo aceptar” he tells me. His voice is small, his manner humble, but his eyes are full of fire, one he can’t extinguish, no matter what he says, where he looks. Whether to believe his eyes, I’m torn, though not really. Trust the eyes, they always betray, floats through my head, supporting the conclusion I want to reach.
     “Why can’t you accept it?” I ask.
     “It isn’t right, no need to do such a thing, you don’t know me, things are just not done that
way” he tells me. I’m still waiting for the dog to pop out though we’re on the twentieth floor. Our eyes lock, then he’s looking away. I’m trying not to stare, to pay attention to what he’s saying, but in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, we’re locked back into that gaze.
     Conjuring up yet another reason to negate my offering, I’m clear I’d rather he be fucking me than further humbling himself. Any more humble, he won’t be able to get it up. I’m suddenly impatient with the mixed up machista horseshit. Basta con la in-between, maybe-I-do, maybe-I-don’t mierda.
     I reach out, take his hand.

Choose whichever ending.

Option One:
     So small, he pulls back and decks me with a practiced and solid left hook. He looks exactly like Oscar de la Hoya when he’s doing it, alleviating nearly all associated pain. He tears up my card, scraps raining down on me.
     “Maricon reputa, que verguenza, eres una mierda.  Quien? Yo? Que va.. Tu eres la pinche mariquita mierda…..” trailing down the hall. “Chinga tu madre” he shouts to the entire hotel, entering the elevator.
     Homosexual panic? Straight? Bi? I don’t yet realize it doesn’t matter.
     Still smiling, I’m left with a black eye, cheek busted up by de la Hoya.
     For some of us, things happen in 2 1/2’s.

Option Two:
     He looks scared as I bring him into the room. Going somewhere from which he can’t return, I know, he knows. I miss that I, too, am headed somewhere.
     “Ni importa the consequences for me, my wife, and my three little muchachitos” he tells me “this is between el Gringo y el Chilango, made the same way, we’re fucked up that we want to do this, but you’re right Mr. BigShot Gringo, I do want to fuck you,” clothes falling away, his gestures grow to match his eyes, he’s got my clothes off and he’s flipping me around.
     “No, no, Senor Gringo, I’m the one fucking you.” And I only want to see the Aztec warlord’s jewels, but he’s flipping me around, three thousand times over five hundred years…..hands moving over me, he’s Pancho Villa parting the Red Sea….feeling oddly familiar, but from the other end, working his way in, he touches me gently, Gringo-like, having me think he’s with me when he fucks me…....more than anything, he’s about retribution, redressing wrongs, payback time….he’s thrusting….we hit a rhythm, he wants me to catch it on my own…I’m not sure….but wait…..a slow, sensuous push into me and I know how much he wants me, we are fucked up, made the same wrong way, but it’s so very good…...on it’s heels, an aggressive thrust, showing me everything that smooth thrust has, and will, cost him….quickly, the painful thrust is over, he’s whispering in my ear about the peace-loving, slaughtered-for-gold Moctezuma, sliding in slow….over too soon, he pulls back quaking like a terremoto and I feel swell Moctezuma’s true revenge as he yells out “Fernando, Isabel and their New World lackey rapist Christopher Columbus,” the Spanish Inquisition delivered there inside me…..he slows, whispers “Los Ninos Heroes” and glides in so gently….then pulling back, lets me have it, yelling “Those manifestly destined louts, Winfield Scott and Robert E Lee, who dared raise the American flag over the Mexican capitol”….a slow and smooth approach for Emiliano
Zapata followed by a battering for “That Caudillo puppet, Porfirio Diaz and his amigo, William Taft and their not so subtle ‘investment, not invasion’ strategy”….I survive but just barely….then, mi amor Mexicano’s licking my ear, an oddly sumptuous and patriotic thrust, murmuring “Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo” and I’m thinking: Now we’re doing painters?.......”Oye, they hung with Trotsky” he says and sends in a battering ram for the imperialista decision denying Rivera’s mural created for Rockefeller Center…..and I’m seeing how it all relates, obsequious whole that Rene and I honored the night prior…he pushes forward, pondering….....”Fidel…esperate… no…….Che hung out in Mexico….he’s ‘in’ again.…Yeah, Che” as he lovingly skates a city block into me, but then he’s all sharp thrust for Che’s killer, the Bolivian, Hugo Banzer and his ‘secret’ helpers la CIA….“And while we’re in Sud America” he slides in, while I’m moaning “Ay, papito,” his tongue deep in my ear, he adds “For the badly tricked Chilean, Salvador Allende”….and I’m already wincing, and then he’s yelling “That motherfucker Pinochet”….I’m frowning….he says “Oye, there were Mexicanos among those he tortured and murdered” and I must admit I’m impressed with his full documentation under the circumstances, but more importantly, the white Episcopalian in me is beginning to appreciate the painful stabs….then he changes up, provides three long langorous pushes, cooing “As my main man Frantz Fanon said, we’re all in this together, the struggle but one”….a nice slow push for Comandante Cero y sus guerrilleros of Mexico, a second slow and succulent push for Daniel Noriega y las Sandinistas, and finally another, so smooth, so good, for Rigoberta Menchu and her slaughtered Guatemalan family…..I’m surprised, but again he’s way ahead…..”So la Miss Nobel Laureate embellished her story a little”…..then, I feel surging a three-pronged, single-effort earthquake of a thrust, he’ll surely come out the other side of me….and he’s yelling that the three little pigs need also be seen as one….”pig Nixon, pig Reagan and pig Bush….their Contra lackeys….again la CIA, pero ya estoy aburrido de ellos” and I, too, am getting tired of  the CIA, but all the same, he’s getting me there, only need a few more…..think…....another, any other… he’s pausing, shouldn’t have gotten greedy, used three at once….it’s up to me….think, motherfucker, think…wait…..esperate….that’s it….”Oscar Romero and the FMLN ” I cry out and graciously honoring the Fanon bit, he glides in, agreeing to the whole fucking Salvadorean Frente Farabundo Marti para la Liberacion de la Nacion, promptly following it with a pile-driver “for that facista Roberto D’Abuisson, may his soul twist in the winds of Hell”… “Already done” I point out…..and now he’s impressed……and the painful thrusts are getting more pleasurable, justicia being meted out in my guilt-ridden internal imperialista organs…..rebel versus villain beginning to blur at this torque…..he’s so close to planting that red-white-and-green flag…..think….one or two more, I’ll feel his warmth spread inside me….but I, too, am low on rebel leaders, a surplus of villains yet to address…..”Bien jodido, chico, kind of like the real world, no?” and I can feel his shit-eating grin……both of us, out of liberationist rebels, he’ll have to finish me with painful pile-drivers…..ni importa……so acclimated I am to them….yet…..so wrapped up in the experience, those villains are somewhere I can’t access….we could do Somoza and Stroessner…. the drug-dealing Noriega….the 1970’s Argentine junta militar….but I yell out the only thing that comes to me…...”Yolanda Saldivar”…..anxious to echo my cry, he yells out….”Yolan…..” almost there…..he’s slowing…...wants us totally synchronized….... almost, almost there…... he stops.
     “Quien?” he asks me. Who?
     “Yolanda Salidvar, you know, that lesbo-psycho-bitch that killed Selena” I pant. Hey, I’m under a lot of pressure here. And he’s the one who threw in Freida Kahlo and Rigoberta Menchu.
     “You gringos are absolutely pitiful,” he says, pulling out. I’m left high and dry.
     “You should feel that way”  he says, reading my thoughts like the handwriting on the wall.
“All Chilangos…...all Mexicanos…..everyone, everywhere, knows what you’re feeling right now. We live like this; you’re merely a tourist passing through. Someone had to start paying the bill. Settle my share of it, anyway.” He pauses, ‘deer caught in headlights’ flashing across my face, anew.
     “You should be so lucky as to get my Chilango seed, Mr. Gringo. La Biblia states that seed is for making muchachitos” he lectures me, the fire in his eyes now meant for something larger than us. He’s done with me, retribution delivered, that withheld more painful than anything delivered. Leaving me right here on the edge of…..what?
     I don’t have a good idea.
     Que clase de mierda, I don’t know. He’s leaving me the same place the U.S. has left Mexico. Embarcado. Enganado. Fooled, dressed with no place to go, given little when a lot was needed, none when little was needed, expect us to beg for more? No, no, Senor. Olivideselo.
     “I’m gonna make an exception” he continues “and I think God will approve that this once my seed not be used to make more muchachitos. Anyway, I can’t afford more muchachitos right now.”
     Hope springs anew. Now that I’m properly conscious of colonial crimes perpetrated throughout history, he’ll finish what we started.
     Pero, que es esto?
     Standing alongside the bed, he grabs his dick, eyes of fire order me not to interrupt him, he knows how much I want him, making me watch, his left hand pulling for every time the States have taken Mexico to the cleaners, stroking it for every time the imperialistas paid farmers to not grow food, stroking it for every time the U.S. had extra grain, extra milk, extra beef they just dumped, price supports, while muchachitos like his own, starved…..he’s coming, brown palm filled, gobs spilling out, white shiny Mother of Pearl…..que tristeza…..that inside of me, I might deliver a few
muchachitos myself.
     Raising his hand, palm full of seed, he turns and spreads it over the hotel room wall. It sticks, hangs like a cross between mortar and paint and then he’s writing with his right index finger….here I thought he was left-handed the whole time…...I know what it will say before he’s inscribed the first letter.
     “Chinga tu madre.”
     All roads do lead to Roma.
     “For me, my country, and all of the muchachitos I will one day have” he tells me. “Pride isn’t so useless. But you must have something to be proud of.” He’s halfway into his jeans, Moctezuma’s jewels spent, my conquest undone. His shirt slides on over his hard-worked frame.
     “Un placer. I’d shake your hand but I don’t do that with pinche maricones.” The sneer he wears only makes him look better, so much for machismo losing its luster. Out the door, he’s left his guinea T hanging over the chair.
     I consider licking the wall but fear my tongue will stick to it, the hotel maid finding me that way.
     I take the guinea T, caress it, kiss it, scent so rich…...under other circumstances, BO….. and though he’s gone, I’m surprisingly turned on…..but it’s something more, real retribution for true wounds, repenting real sins, reciprocity….. Fanon’s raprochemente ….... desire felt deep, under such pressure, it shoots out, hits the same wall as…..Ay, Dios Mio…...I don’t know his name….....me, always bragging I knew the name of every man I ever slept with, we’re setting the historical score straight and I don’t know his name…...Angel, I’ll call him…..maybe, Jesus…......
     My repatriation lands atop Angel Jesus Fulano de Tal’s autographed seed. Makes an
exclamation mark following Chinga tu madre. Dot punctuates, drips down.
     The greater score is surely not settled, but that between El Gringo y El Chilango is.

     I carry that guinea T everywhere I go. Boyfriends never understand, even if they’ve been in the Peace Corps.
     Oh, and by the way, even for the slow, things including those sexual, can happen in threes.

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