by: Luis Blasini
“My name’s Johnny. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you.” Johnny coyly smiled at the bloated, American tourist.
Around them, an assortment of Tijuana men cooed and guffawed and composed lust-drenched comments to each other. More to the rentboys that prowled the center of the crowded bar than to each other.
The Patio Bar was a gay-friendly juke joint inhabited by revolutionary college students and hipster kids. The décor of the small bar was much like a Hollywood set depicting a Mexican cantina – old posters of the city, dusty piñatas, futbol banners, a strung up row of red Christmas lights that dangled over the long, oak bar.
The rockola banged out ranchero mixed with Mexican Top 40. The pungent waft of beer, piss and puke issued out of the water closet from the use of a million, infected fairies.
Johnny grabbed his warming beer, took a swig, followed it by a puff of smoke off of his cigarette. He leaned propped against the old, wooden bar and pulled his best James Dean routine as he watched the smoky debauchery that swirled in front of him.
Johnny slithered closer to the tourist; he sat and twisted seductively on a metal stool next to him. A lascivious smirk crossed the tourist’s face. Outwardly, Johnny was being friendly, but in his mind, he was recoiling in utter disgust.
The old man smelled of acrid sweat and cheap aftershave. Beads of perspiration formed on his ruddy, glistening face. His bulbous gut hung over the ample waist barely contained by a green polo shirt and khaki cargo pants so tight to the point that his love handles peeked out like a bursting can of biscuits. Thinning, silver hair had been combed over a red, pumpkinish head. A closely cropped beard covered the copious folds of his neck.
Johnny placed a slender, brown hand onto the tourist’s sweat dampened shirt.
“So, what brings you to Tijuana?” Johnny smiled, grabbing the fresh beer placed onto the counter by the bartender. Johnny took a sip, demurely returned to the tourist.
“Just visiting. Looking for some fun, you know?” The tourist slurred.
His demeanor was both haltingly timid and defensively arrogant.
Typical, Johnny thought.
He noticed that the tourist was already slightly inebriated and decided to take full advantage of the situation. The tourist belched, and the immediate air reeked of stale tacos and salsa.
Johnny kept up the smile, scooched his barstool closer. “Well, I can find all kinds of fun for you. Anything you want. What were you looking for?”
He slid his hand across he tourist’s neck, felt the stubble of a fresh haircut, read the moles like Braille.
The tourist grinned, looking Johnny over with obscenity. The tourist admired the thin, tall frame, the tank-top that accentuated sinewy muscles under copper-smooth skin, the dark jeans that fit long legs. The tussle of short, jet black, wavy hair, the pencil-thin mustache over lips that the tourist fantasized must had sucked a million cocks.
It was his eyes that the tourist liked – large amber eyes nestled in thick eyelashes topped by fat, black eyebrows. Johnny was handsome and could not have been more than twenty-two years old.
“Some good cock.” The tourist stated flatly, gazing at Johnny with bloodshot, rheumy eyes.
Johnny continued his slithering massage of the tourist’s anatomy. “Really? Well, I know of a cheap place around the corner where we can have all kinds of fun.”
He finished off with a slight brush of his own crotch, wherein the tourist noticed the stiffening of Johnny’s long organ.
“Wow.” The tourist chuckled. “You are definitely hot. So forward.”
“It’s all for you, honey.” Johnny breathed.
The tourist’s face went blank as a poker dealer, gazing out into the bar. He asked with a condescending finality, “How much this going to set me back?”
Johnny put on his little hurt boy look, “Oh, don’t say it like that, papi. I’m not a whore. I just want to spend time with you. I really like you.”
The tourist’s face turned a darker shade of crimson, the lights beamed off his ample forehead.
The fact was the obese, squat American made Johnny nauseous. He secretly loathed the Americans that trolled the bar scene in Tijuana. Images flashed through Johnny’s mind on how these slobbering vampires had the audacity to filter down to Mexico with arrogant certainty and a fistful of dollars and act as if they had free reign. They usually behaved atrociously – performing like haughty, aggressive beasts, feeding off the poor and never holding any responsibility for their horrendous actions.
Johnny thought, This isn’t Disneyland, this is our life.
The tourist sputtered, lifted his beer to his wet lips, “Oh…oh, I didn’t mean it like that. I think you are hot. So, adorable. So, beautiful. I meant, I want to be with you, too.”
“I know, guero.” Johnny sighed as he continued the rub down. “Let’s go get a room, baby. I want to show you how much I like you.”
“Sounds good.” The tourist belched loudly and downed the remaining of his beer.
Johnny and the tourist stumbled out into the bustling, loud streets of a Tijuana Saturday night and rushed over crumbling, trash littered pavement that smelled of shit and urine – shabby, bent, sad taco stands sweltered with the wafting stench of burnt meats and fermented salsas and wilted vegetables with mangy dogs and small infants that played in the black grease pools between the stalls.
Throngs of pedestrians clogged the way – Johnny and the tourist weaved through knots of swaggering hip-hop boys with arms around the waists of their brown, thick-hipped sweethearts with sad, mascara-painted, brown eyes that drooped up to Guadalupe. Street vendors with leprosy and missing limbs called out selling leather belts, key chains, lottery tickets, condoms – as tank like para-military vehicles rumbled down the street sluggishly, slowly passing ancient, creaking buses that farted black smoke into the muggy night.
Johnny led the wobbling tourist down a dimly-lit side street that was packed with prostitutes of both sexes who wearily leaned against broken, red-brick and grimy, white-washed facades. Roaming addicts – shifty-eyed and alert – hurtled down the way, they stopped only to snatch small bags of dope from hidden nooks and crannies of crumbling walls. Groups of catatonic American tourists stumbled with bloated guts and shirts spotted with beer and puke – all under the wary eye of hateful police patrols. A cacophony of car horns and screeches mixed with the smells of seared meat, steaming hotdogs, and festering garbage flowed up into a crisp, neon splashed night.
Passing a row of exhausted hookers who flashed silver-capped teeth, Johnny and the tourist arrived at the sordid entrance of a cheap, ten-dollar a night hotel that was reached by climbing a set of worn, wooden stairs.
White paint flaked off of the ancient Spanish-style, two story structure. The hotel glowed from a dusty, plastic marquee that sagged over the cracked sidewalk.
At the foot of the stairs, the tourist took out his wallet to pay a woman behind a metal grate. Johnny got a glimpse of the contents of the wallet – it bulged with twenty-dollar bills. The old proprietress gave the tourist a key attached to a huge, plastic pad.
“Checkout is at eleven o’clock, manana.” The receptionist wheezed in broken English.
Dashing up the warped stairs to a room that had an overpowering stench of mildew, Johnny flicked on the light. A legion of roaches scattered across the red-tiled floor.
In a corner sagged a dresser with missing drawers and across from the bed, a rickety metal folding chair. The walls were a multicolored hue of scrawled graffiti of both black marker and spray paint. A tired mattress dominated the room supported by a black-metal frame that was draped in a thin, pink blanket – bedbugs and all.
“Hold up, cutie. I gotta pee.” The tourist slurred and entered the grimy, white-tiled bathroom. Johnny heard him empty himself.
Johnny sat silently on the chair and looked around. He overheard the muffled moaning of someone earning her rent in the next room. From the street emanated the dull pounding of a hundred jukeboxes.
The tourist came out of the bathroom – small urine drops splotched the front of his khakis — and sat on the bed, which creaked under the weight.
In one lithe movement, Johnny stood up and slid down his jeans followed by white and blue striped briefs. His uncircumcised penis swung free. He sat back in the chair.
“You like this?” Johnny asked coyly as he stroked his stiffening organ.
The old tourist blubbered, “Oh, yeah, baby. You got a nice dick.”
Johnny smirked, with a hint of condescension, “What’s so nice about it?”
The tourist fumbled uncomfortably; he didn’t expect that remark. He sat there and stared at the inches of erection being swayed in his direction – the smooth shaft, the glistening mushroom tip.
Johnny slowly worked the foreskin back and forth over the head, coyly looking up at the tourist who wheezed in mounting excitement.
“I’m so hot.” Johnny sighed. “Why don’t you come over here and do something about it?”
The tourist gawked at the undulating erection – hypnotized by it as Johnny smoothly swung it back and forth.
Like a kid in a candy store, the tourist dropped to his knees in front of Johnny and gobbled the hard on up.
Loud sucking noises echoed in the spartan room as the tourist slurped up and down Johnny’s cock. Though Johnny had his legs spread wide open, he could still feel the tourist’s obscene stomach rubbing against both his inner calves.
God, please hurry up and cum, Johnny thought, I need to get away.
Johnny reluctantly held the back of the tourist’s greasy head as finally, in a matter of short, merciful minutes, felt the surge of an orgasm and squirted his semen into the tourist’s mouth. The man leaned over and spat the matter – a mix of bubbly sperm, saliva, and blood – onto the scuffed floor.
Gasping, the tourist looked glaze-eyed up to Johnny and breathed, “Oh, baby. That was good.”
“It was s0 hot, baby.” Johnny said mechanically, pulling up and fastening his pants.
With much effort and a series of dramatic grunts, the tourist rose to his feet. He sighed and exhaled an embarrassed chuckle.
Johnny stood, also, and blurted, “Hey, you think you can help me with twenty dollars? I need to pay my electric bill and I am low on money this week.”
“Don’t you work?” The tourist asked, snidely.
“Yes. But, you know, this is Mexico. They don’t pay much and I just paid rent.” Johnny stated as a matter of fact.
The tourist grimaced as he reached and pulled out his wallet, placing a twenty dollar bill in Johnny’s thin hand.
The tourist saw the young man in a new light – the lines around the mouth, the dark circles under the eyes, the black grime under the uneven, chewed fingernails.
“Can I have ten more? I have no food.” Johnny smiled that smile.
The tourist dramatically sighed and faltered at putting his wallet away. Johnny noticed the glint of fear and distrust of being in a bad part of town, the uncertainty of being in a foreign locale in the sobering eyes of the tourist.
Johnny glared with just the right amount of lust and intimidation, “Please?”
“Oh, all right. But, that’s it! I have to get back to the States tomorrow and I can’t spare anymore.”
The tourist frowned, placed a ten dollar bill in the young man’s hand and then quickly slipped the wallet into his back pocket.
Johnny made for the door but stopped. “You sleeping here tonight?” He pointed abstractly around the squalid room. “It’s a very dangerous area. A lot of muggings.”
Fear now flamed in the darting eyes of the tourist, “No. No, I have a room somewhere else. I’m going there now.”
“Orale. I’ll walk you out.” Johnny yanked on the thin door that wobbled a bit from sticking in the frame.
Once downstairs, they separated at the corner with a handshake. The tourist quickly strode to the safety of the nearest waiting taxi as Johnny returned to the shadows of the corner. Several thugs stood in a knot under a poster-plastered, iron street lamp that emitted no light.
A man stood in white athletic gear and greeted Johnny as he approached. They swapped a familiar handshake.
Johnny’s gaze swept up and down the sidewalk, “Not much, man. Gimme a paper.”
From a sagging fannypack, the man slapped into Johnny’s palm a tiny, cellophane envelope folded into a small square as Johnny passed a wadded, ten dollar bill into the pusher’s chubby fingers.
With that, Johnny returned to the still congested Patio Bar and made a direct line to the bathroom.
In a grimy, white-tiled stall, he cut three lines of coke out onto the flat, steel-top of the filthiest toilet paper dispenser in the world and with a rolled peso note, he loudly sniffled the lines up. Johnny leaned back, snorted up the residue into the back of his throat and casually glanced over to the next stall and wish he hadn’t.
A hooker in a frayed, blue dress squatted down and was blowing some prehistoric artifact in a grey-felt Stetson. But, that didn’t offend Johnny. It was the festering toilet next to them that overflowed in thick, muddy feces. Lines of dark brown cascaded over the rim like a boiling pot of beans. The smell of putrid shit punched him in the face.
Feeling the effects of the coke, he returned to the bar and stood next to a tall, ancient American tourist that leaned against the counter. Johnny ordered a beer for himself.
Johnny took a quick swig and smiled at the old relic, “Hola!”
The old man raised his bottle, clinking it with Johnny’s. “Hello, there. What’s your name?”
“My name’s Johnny. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you.” Johnny smiled.
Luis Blasini hails from Los Angeles, California. He is a published novelist, poet, and world traveler. He enjoys a good drink and laugh among friends. If you would like to know more about the author or purchase one of his novels, please visit his blog at www.borrowedflesh.blogspot.com