Chiara is so patient. I mean I try hard to piss her off. No, it’s not that I try, I like her well enough and feel guilty every time I hurt her. I’m just a bit mad about La Paz. Hell, it’s a long story, told elsewhere, and it would be unfair to Chiara to go into it here. This is about her, about how great she is, how tolerant towards my shenanigans. Also about Guadalajara. That’s an opening. Let me start by talking about Guadalajara – La Perla Tapatía, as it’s called.
Oh, fuck, there it is, I said Perla, and Perla is Buenos Aires, Valpo, Santiago, Miami, California, and that thin, frozen high Andes air of La Paz, arriving at the airport in El Alto, and leaving from there too, months or years later, choking. It’s many years of the purest, most innocent friendship, and then something going click somewhere, my cock is in her mouth, I come all over her big breasts, all of a sudden I’m in love and I’m finger-painting little barely visible hearts with my spunk around her nipples as we both laugh and plan for La Paz.
Rewind this bitch. Guadalajara is a great, great, great town. Like everything else in Mexico, degrading now, degrading and crumbling and getting more violent, with severed heads tossed in public plazas, rival gangsters tortured with drills and kidnappings and whatnot. NAFTA and globalization and I dunno, the Porfiristas and the Cientificos, the demand for drugs bound for El Norte, and the poverty and misery this toxic enchilada creates have been great for the violence. On the other hand, the violence has always done well in Mexico lindo y querido. Violence, beauty, death, fun, are all Mexican trademarks, from La Malinche to Zapata, but I stray.
First time I was in Guadalajara -Guanatos, for those in the know- I was dangerously young, maybe 21, 22. Never mind, the city treated me good, despite my studied nonchalance, faux tough-guyness, and the Panama hat I had bought in Mérida and wore everywhere. I was alone, and Bibiblin wanted to suck my dick, of course.
Second time, this one with a girlfriend, one I barely remember now although we spent years together, Bibiblin also wanted to suck my dick. He introduced my blond girlfriend and me to all his circle of friends at the time, even took us to some of these fun places where men dressed in drag lip-sync to Gloria Trevi and look better than the real thing. Blondie and me were wearing cutoffs and sandals, high on Acapulco weed and tequila, and those nights could have taken many directions, most bad, but in fact they all ended well: street taco stands at 4am with a bunch of queens in drag, Bibiblin on fire, such fun and wit, all laughing, going back to his place -The Enchanted Mansion- to try some mescal con gusano and roll more mota and laugh, laugh until my head was on fire. Blondie didn’t dig all this too much. She liked the Caribbean beaches better, where she could discuss Marguerite Duras in French with some Canadian chicks, all topless. My French was never any good, but titty beach felt fine. Where am I going with all this. Oh, I was young. I had to make those decisions, titties and snorkeling, or Bibiblin and fascinating Guadalajara with the good drugs and the history and that cemetery I love, El Panteón. I chose, and Blondie was history soon after. Looking at her pictures and her life on the internet now, I’m glad I had the good sense to send her packing. That’s the bastard in me speaking.
This is years before I had any idea of what I wanted to do with my life, of course. Some bullshit university back in BA, the random jobs, the drugs. Not interesting. Back to GDL.
Third time there is when I met Chiara. I was living, you guessed it, at Bibiblin’s Enchanted Mansion. Ohhh, that rooftop room, by the water tank, like a nest in the foliage of the ancient, huge mango tree growing in the central patio, by the derelict water fountain. It had been Nayarit’s room last time, a dyke artist who disliked all men in general, me in particular, and now it was mine, for a few monthly pesos. No pesos, if I’d let Bibiblin do his thing with my cock, but I prefered to pay. A 50-something male bohemian haute-couture designer and drama queen was never my idea of a good time for my wiener. For my brain, yes. For laughs, yes. For a roll in the hay, no fucking way.
Both Bibi and myself needed to make some money somehow. My months in Guanatos kept adding up, and oh surprise, I was broke again. I had been working for a newspaper back in La Paz, then painting McMansions in Florida, and thought I would find some sort of a paying gig in GDL, but it hadn’t happened – fuck knows I walked the streets in the crushing heat, in borrowed chinos and dress shoes, with my pathetic portfolio of crap graphic design jobs, for nothing at all. Oh, a few shekels here and there, some fat catalog publisher giving me an assignment to work on a line of skivvies for fat women – I swear to God- and then taking forever to pay me, after I had run my credit dry at the cyber cafe where I parked myself in front of a screen to work on it. I had also landed the one and only modeling job I ever did, for a middle aged woman who took a fancy to me and wanted to take my pictures wearing her line of what was it, sandals, leather sandals. I got paid something like 50 bucks for that, and a few pairs of the things. Well, the mota dealer was always a phone call away, every little grocery store carries 100 different brands of tequila in the State of Jalisco, a chap has to eat too, and pay rent, otherwise… there’s always Bibiblin’s mouth waiting, he’s broke too but knows his priorities, cock first, rent a distant second.
So we figured the parties at his place were the best in town – we should really try and milk them. And milk them good we did. All sorts of people showed up at these parties, it was mysterious how they found out about them. We would be chilling there and rolling and playing rancheras and drum’n’bass, maybe 10 or 20 faggots and queens, some artsy girls and boys, a few older women who ordered a gown now and then, whatever, and next thing you knew, we’re seeing all these BMW’s and Land Rovers parking on Avenida Vallarta, we’re smelling the good French stuff and there’s 200 swells and snobs there, in the patio, the empty derelict rooms, the roof: rich bored kids, closeted politicians, journalists, expats, all sorts of people.
First, we started running a parking racket, charging for protection I guess is what it was, you’ll pay up if you want to find your nice motor without a scratch when you come out, using the young gays for muscle, hah. Soon, we had a contact, a kid whose dad ran a chain of tortas ahogadas restaurants, so there were tortas ahogadas for sale at the parties, big trays of the shredded pork sandwiches soaked in scalding hot chilli sauce, and beer kegs to go with them, and then a full liquor bar, then weed and blow sales in a back room, then we’re charging the artists that want to show their work there a fee, and a commission if they sell anything, and then and then and then.
Oh, those were the days. My heart was broken once again, I hadn’t learned a damn thing after the near comatose state Lily had left me in back in Tel Aviv, and had painted myself into a corner in La Paz – but boy, were there ways to dull the pain and make it go away at the Mexican Enchanted Mansion.
So we’re finally making some money! So I’m not taking the trolley to go searching for work downtown anymore! So Bibi’s mouth is not a threat anymore, and can be enjoyed for the funny, witty stuff that comes out of it, rather than dreaded for the unthinkable prospect of parking my cock there or else sleeping in the park with the bums!
I met Chiara right around that time. I had had an argument with Bibi the week before, guess over what. I had departed the Mansion in a fury, to crash at a roach motel near the bus station and San Juan de Dios. I had met two, not one, but two teenage prostitutes there, just poor runaway girls from somewhere in the back country who had come to the big city and started playing tricks to survive. Not very good at that, as all 3 of us were broke after a few fun nights, and had to improvise an exit from there: chipping our money in so I could pay for my room and check out, carrying not only my pack but the girls’ stuff too, while they sneaked out and left their bill unpaid. So, nowhere to go after that but Bibi’s Mansion, and that’s what we did. Only he wouldn’t suffer the young tramps and kicked them out after I got one last good fuck out of them, and gave them my last few crumpled bills, some pills, and all my love before they walked out the wrought iron gate that had seen better days, back when the Mansion wasn’t falling apart and a coach was parked in the patio and horses ate oats in the stables. Never saw them again, and I don’t remember their names (Jessi? Lizzy?). I do remember their sweet brown faces and brown nipples. But I was allowed to stay, rent suspended until the next party, or else. Ouch. The next party better be good, then.
It was. After many hours of profit-taking, only the core loyalists were left, eating and drinking leftovers in the kitchen, rolling joints, and so on. As I was walking around the Mansion, trash bin in hand, cleaning up a bit, I noticed a beautiful curvy girl in a black dress, snorting lines with a couple of her mates hid away somewhere. I don’t recall if I played the cop there, or just had a laugh with them, or what, but she offered some perico, I said what the hell and took it, and the next thing I know, we had sneaked upstairs to my roof domain, by the mango, this güera and me. Her skin was very white, her hair a mess, she had a wild sexual appetite and was soon working on sating it with me. We tried a few positions, until we settled on her atop me. I had to stop pumping for a moment and ask her if she had peed herself, she kept coming again and again and was getting so wet, her juices were trickling down my balls and my belly and pooling on the rucksack and the bamboo mat that were my ersatz bed.
– No, keep going, she said. It’s just that I come a lot. Go on…
– OK, I said, and had just started again, when the door busted open, and Bibiblin made a grand, angry entrance, followed by two drunk dykes that were his personal bodyguard that night.
– THERE WILL BE NO FORNICATING IN THIS HOUSE!!! THAT’S THE RULES!!! CHASTITY, GODDAMN IT!!! FIRST THOSE TWO LITTLE TRAMPS THE OTHER DAY, NOW THIS FAT COKEHEAD WHORE!!! THERE’S NO END TO YOUR LUST, YOU DEVIL!!!
– Yeah, you are a fornicating goat, you know, one of the dykes seconded Bibi.
– Disgusting, ugly man, the other one approved, smiling cruelly at Chiara’s embarrassment.
– Get the hell outta here, you nuts!, I yelled, Chiara still on top of me, her stuff still dripping down.
– CHASTE!!! YOU WILL BE CHASTE AROUND HERE FROM NOW ON, YOU HEAR ME! THIS IS A SPIRITUAL HOUSE, WE RESPECT OUR ELDERS’ CATHOLIC FAITH HERE, AND STRIVE FOR ART AND BEAUTY, NOT FORNICATING LIKE DOGS AND BITCHES, LIKE ANIMALS IN HEAT!
I’m not kidding. He was saying stuff like that.
I got out from under Chiara and felt three sets of eyes fixed on my cock, which was rapidly losing momentum there, and an additional pair on my ass as I walked towards Bibi and his wenches, grabbing an empty bottle on the way and probably looking very angry. They turned around and left in a hurry, I barred the fucking door, apologized to Chiara as good as I could, and we sat and looked at the light of dawn coming through the window, filtering through the mango tree branches and leaves. We finished the stuff she had, smoked something or other, and after a while, were laughing about the whole thing – I could hear the crazy old coot, Bibiblin, laughing downstairs with those dyke cows, too.