Make it quick and scram

It would be nice to say Chiara and I were in love. We weren’t. But we laughed together a lot, and I loved her mind, her tits and her personality. She was this wild party girl, she really was. She studied film, had a ton of crazy friends, the coolest apartment in Guadalajara, on Manuel Aspiroz – you entered a garage-like kind of ground floor, then had to climb up the stairs to the living quarters with the kitchen, the living room and her room, a big Union Jack hanging from the wall from when she was working in the UK for a spell, and you could still go upstairs another level, to the roof. She had a big, purple Buick, and she seemed to be into me for some reason.

Now Bibi hated Chiara. In his mind, she was taking the possibility of my cock in his mouth further and further away every time we fucked. Not that it was a real possiblity in the first place, but whatever. Bibibilin’s train of thought isn’t like yours or mine.

This is how Bibi’s mind worked: he wanted to have a “Greek sculpture day”, with “Apollinean men naked in artistic poses by the fountain”, in a “spirit of chastity and respect for Art”, as he and his friends smoked these big Greta Garbo joints and drank coffee and tequila and admired such Apollinean men from an artistic point of view, of course. Fuck, did I ever fall for that? Was I ever a Greek sculpture, taking breaks to puff at the joints and down glasses of raw jarabe tapatio, too bored to care? I don’t know. I hope not. Who cares. I don’t give a shit who gets to look at my cock and balls and ass and beer belly and tattoos, as long as it’s only women I like who get to handle that ugly stuff.

So for a while, my life was this crazy thing were I was living with Bibi, making money out of the wild parties there, meeting all kinds of odd characters – mariachis, queers, artists, bored housewives ready to fuck a tall stranger with an accent, badass coke dealers, young ingenues, and so on – and some nights, only some, not all, sleeping with Chiara. Some nights I slept alone, of course, and jerked off to the image of fucking Lily who had left my heart in tatters back in Christiansands before fading off into sleep, or of fucking Perla and her brilliant blowjobs and magnificent intelligence – the two go so well together, a blowjob from a dimwit is not the same as a blowjob from a woman with a sharp mind, the latter makes the whole thing almost psychedelic in the layers of pleasure involved, and when you take it out of her mouth and into her cunt, your cock is a bit sad about not being close to such an interesting mind anymore, until the sadness goes away and the joie de vivre, the wonderful electric currents take over and the petit mort is your enemy, you trying to keep it away for five more minutes until she really has to have her way and you come in spasms and, I’m sure, if you could see yourself in a mirror, you’d notice you make stupid faces and weird sounds. Anyhoo, anyhoo…

The main competition for Chiara at the time was this beautiful, fucked up woman, the Digital Artist – she really made some disturbing and wonderful Photoshop pieces, scanning her eyes, her hands, her cunt or whatever, and introducing death and colors and witty comments into the thing, so you had to stop and stare at that computer screen for a while, even with the information overload we all have to deal with.

The thing with the Digital woman is, she was beautiful, short black hair, a bit older than me, and loved to suck other women’s cunts in addition to my dick, but very needy. Very clingy. I don’t like that in a woman, I know for sure that’s the reason the women I loved in my life dumped me eventually, you get all “I love you” stupid, and she had that going on for sure. Also, she’d wear blue contacts, and I hated that. I thought her brown eyes were fine, her intelligence, her body and all that, and after Lily, I really had been trying to avoid blue eyes, but she wouldn’t listen, Digital chick.

Things get complicated. See, I was making a good job of really forgetting the previous years with everything in them, and I know, I know there’s other women there, and that’s why I say Chiara was really patient with me, always ready to send me for a cahuama of beer downstairs, or a bag of pot a few blocks down the street, while she cooked a quesadilla for me and was ready to have me stay overnight and away from Bibi and his posse if I wanted to.

So between Chiara and the Digital Artist and Bibi and all the other random women and friends, I was burning my Guadalajara days away, signed up to some bullshit postgraduate course at the local university (hey, more women there), until…

The police showed up…

Well, well, it looks like the wild parties had gotten noticed, finally. So this one hot, bright afternoon, I’m coming back to the Enchanted Mansion and there’s a number of police cars parked outside, I walk past the old wrought iron gates, gingerly, and cops, Mexican cops with all the implications and subtleties of that combination or words, are making a big pile of stuff in the central patio, a mouse-like orderly with a thin moustache has set up a typewriter on a table and is typing away, and a fat lieutenant approaches me and barks,

– Do you live here?

– Ummm, not really, I’m a traveler and staying at my friend’s place… is there anything wrong, officer?

– If you don’t live here, get the fuck out. This place is being vacated by order of judge x and so, rent hasn’t been paid for the last 4 years and there’s denuncias about drug use and loud noises in this here property…

– Do you mind if I take my stuff before I leave? I was staying in the room upstairs…

– Make it quick and scram.

As I go upstairs, I see Bibi sitting in the kitchen, cops searching the cupboards and drawers, a look of indifference in his face. Fuck, I think, so I was paying this motherfucker rent and he wasn’t even paying his, what a character. We exchange a quick glance, and he smiles, and all is forgiven in that brief second. Love the fucking queer asshole. And I know this is the last time I’m seeing him. But let me try to grab my backpack – done, my notebooks, shoes and shirts all hastily thrown in it, and I go downstairs again, thinking fast about possible forgotten items – I have seen my life go up in smoke, without notice, many times at this point – and all that comes to mind is my box of CD’s, fuck, I love my music, PJ Harvey and Tricky and Clash and tango and all that shit that makes life more bearable, where the fuck is it… I start looking, but the fat cop kind of kicks me out and I have to leave and I’ll never see my 40 CD’s again, they were probably next to the audio system, and all that stuff is being loaded onto a Policia truck…

Well, first order of business is get a beer, so I walk to the grocery store a couple blocks away, get me a cahuama of Corona and sit at the curb, backpack by my side, while I regroup and consider my options as the sun goes down. And who, oh who would drive by in her burgundy Buick but Chiara, who screeches to a halt when she sees me there, leans over and opens the passenger front door, winks and asks, what’s the matter, handsome? I explain as I jump in her car, tossing the backpack in the back seat, she kisses and licks and bites my tongue and playfully grabs my crotch, without much said, Manuel Aspiroz is my new residence now, and that night we celebrate with some great blow and weed, a party, and a long, slow, twisted, nice fuck when we get back…

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