Thirty-seven years old and this is who I am. I am a dog catcher for the L.A. Department of Animal Services. A reflection of a man running las calls de Oro of my youth hiding from trouble without success and usually involved jumping a fence. If they knew I was a loco with a heavy penginton shirt, sharp creased Ben Davis Pants which I would iron for sometimes 45 minutes to perfection and always gleaming white Nike Cortez’s, my uniform of then now replaced by green khaki pants and a pressed heavy polyester shirt with batches that made me an official of L.A. County’s public. Tuesday’s morning sun was rising as the neighborhood roosters sounded its morning serenade. I had been reflecting my old barrio for 20 mins now reminiscing by the smells of huevos estatellados, the morning sounds of decrepit cars trying to turn on for one more day, squealing, spitting, coughing its way to life. Doors opening in a syncopated pattern with its occupants streaming out holding their lunches in plastics bags all leading to bus line 67 towards downtown. The sounds and smells brought everything back, including the reason why I had left, the taste of fear in my mouth, the feeling of metal slicing in and out of my abdomen and my first true love laying in her own pool of blood lifeless the same blade that permeated its metal with her blood was in me now had been since I left her there running away from the barrio’s war cries & bloodshed. The violent poetry of the times written in the blood of its youth.
For the third night came the calls of the death of a relationship. This tone this emphasis to get louder than one another. She was in her late twenties, struggling with the fact with the reality that she will never be what her life told her she was going to be in high school with the captain of the football team, her blonde locks, her talent with her voice all gone. He was in his early thirties and struggling with the fact that his mother never loved him. And now she doesn’t love him enough and he can feel it a ghost of her mother that on occasion gives sloppy blowjobs, emotionless fucking and on occasion rim jobs. His favorite by her introduction. Something warm something to stimulate the digestion of love and keeps alive for another night. Fuck they are sad together. I had spent time with them apart a few times. I liked her she was a cloud of contradiction, never knowing what she wanted out of anything, worried that every step was wrong. Just like her, her friends were the typical social injustice warriors urging change by twitting or instagraming some injustice in the world to their followers not knowing the fact that 1/3 only cared of what vintage outfit they put together, 1/3 self-deprecating humor, 1/3 their tits popping out of their shirts. All mimes struggling with the fact of existing.
Rats, cockroaches, pigeons, lice, men & woman in a struggle for space constantly crossing each others paths, hearts filled with each others anxiety. The rats with the fear of laced poisonous food and ice-binding their tails together to form a rat king of the underground. The lice living casually on heads of men eating away the dead skin pleasant ground keepers with an itchy presence. Woman keep passing by.. I watch them biting my lips, silently thinking who they must be fucking. What type of ugly asshole do they find cute, funny and “I like his parents and he has a job.” The miniature thought of a man he must be but yet he was fucking someone because “he had a job”. And a mattress on the floor of a small one bedroom apartment in Little Armenia, the last poor mans enclave of Hollywood, struggling desperate hungry men wanting to be something, saviors of their so-called art, writing, music created for their friends by dragging them with guilt to their desperate need for attention on a stage. What horror to witness and an audience drowning them out with mindless chatter, five men on stage with delusions of grandeur. Tails bonded together, desperate and hungry rat king.
Day 6 and yet I find it impossible to leave. I trapped my self in this suburban hell only to realize I was in paradise, a makeshift distorted world. Mini-worlds that showed people how their lives could be better if they only had color coordinated spoons and placemats of cheap sadist Swedish furniture. It was the last time I was with her and I could remember we were truly happy. I ruminated everything about that day, her plans for our future together, living together as if it was forever. “ Do you think this would look cute next to the couch.”? She asked. I smiled with a sense of engagement into the conversation when in reality I kept thinking of how I was going to fuck her over the table with a perverse rage of trying to fill her completely with the cruelty of a potential version of me but smaller and hopefully not as shitty. Her enticement to wander aimlessly through what seemed miles of cheap furniture with a facade of good design. No man over the age of thirty should be here it wasn’t right as if you didn’t have a soul or knew that he no longer was in college fucking whatever Sigma Kappa said hello. I’ve been sleeping here for 5 days I figured how to hide in the oversize wardrobe with a small chair, my meditation room. Every night the poor excuse for what is called a security man gave his final rounds at night before setting the motion detectors that conveniently was next to my meditation room allowing me to see the code only to turn it off thirty seconds as turned the corner. I couldn’t leave, reflections in my brain of her memories, in particular, this memory. Her false assumptions she gave me that she was deeply in love with me. I had come to the end of my rope dancing with the romance of the thoughts of her. I started walking the same route we did that day only now to question everything that had to happen. The carnival of happiness had been picked cleaned and now I questioned everything even if my memory ever happens due to my insanity of heartbreak. Like an idiot had been crawling on my metaphorical wounds that I kept licking raw through every empty aisle. Trapping myself mentality and needing to feel a physical presence of her ghost. A distorted world of my cheap self.
I was standing in them middle of her back yard looking at fucking chickens, she had three chickens, three fucking chickens in the middle of Venice Beach. Why I thought. Next to the chicken coup was an airstream with white Christmas lights turned dangling from the inside highlighting the vintage decor of a perfect life. Next to that was a surfboard that had yet to see water, you could tell. “ How long has that been sitting there”? I asked. “Oh, I just got it last summer”. It was may. Behind the airstream sat her electric car. “Can that pull that?” I asked. “ha, no that’s when friends come over and want to crash I offer them the airstream.” It’s my ex’s husbands he couldn’t take it back to France with him.” I laughed at the thought picturing a sad, lonely french man getting on a plane his life as a wanderlust artist over. And now her ex-wife inviting random men over and fucking them within hours of a meeting if they have a motorcycle, low self-esteem, overalls, implied success and an oversized hat. I hate french men so I felt happy at the thought of a deflated pompous ego crawling back inside a fuckin croissant. Fuck him. I was here now and I could deal with the dry cum left behind on her pink couch. I’ll ignore it Just like I’ve ignored everything about her except her giant ass. “Show me the rest of the house,” I asked. Letting her walk of ahead of me. I wondered if she knew anything about this neighborhood and the history of “Oakwood” aka Ghost Town the once neglected area of Los Angeles, with its poor whites, skinheads, blacks, Mexicans, each with their own ethnic gang. Venice Shoreline Crips, Venice 13, Big Locos, Culver city Gang. All fighting for who can sell crack where forming alliances of mistrust. She didn’t know any of this, that world was a long time ago and the rains of artisan coffees, farmed to table restaurants, organic fabrics, and money has brought together whites and blacks to form a sense of peace washing the years of blood and bullets down the storm drains and into the sea.
Monica Bellucci and I have been together for almost 15 years now. Today is our anniversary. She’s there when I’m sad and knows when I need space. We’re perfect together. I can build a whole world with the smallest thoughts never leaving my bed. The bed we lay in sometimes at a distant apart, worried and without passion something like a grey flower growing between us. A thought that takes shape and speaks the great chasm that grows between us with time and reality. I love you, Monica.
I knew summer was approaching in Los Angeles, it wasn’t the change of weather or anything in particular that made me realize that the next three months of perpetual mundane sense of life filled with intense heat and sweat but the the migration. The slow steady migration of young Swedish, Norwegian or were they dutch girls, nineteen, twenty, young, thick woman built for winter and fawned over by simple men in summer. Walking around with their silly backpacks and confused looked on their faces as if they were had by the false sense of what they thought Los Angeles was where was the sparkle, the brunching celebrities, pink walls and overzealous ice cream cones. There was nothing of that except a glint of sparkle that was long gone now, dull and covered with dry cum . Left over by everyone who has fucked everyone over since the Spanish to the Tongva did almost five hundred years ago, followed by the white to the rancheros, that streets still bare their names, Los Feliz, La Brea, Alvarado, San Pedro. A consolation gift to the fact they were too stupid to read the loans forfeiting their lands. It was summer now but I knew she wouldn’t be here by the end. The worst part is knowing I had to see her/us die in front of me . Perpetuating my deep love that I can be the one that helps her, change her, change myself only to left trying to forget we knew each other. I stand here now covered in fresh cum slowly cascading down my chin dripping on to my feet.
I’m writing this to tell you, I will eventually love you but with that be prepared to hear I’m sorry… A lot.
“My hair is all over the bathroom floor. Do you know why? Because I’m twenty.”
“My favorite food is chicken parmesan do you know why? Because I’m twenty and I grew up where there were two olive gardens a less then a mile apart and to us they were fancy.”
“I get basically drunk off one glass of wine.. Because I’m twenty.
“I can’t decide if I should throw out everything I own that is low rise because I’m twenty”
And yes I’m in love with you because I don’t know better and I’m twenty. Listening to her yell at me in a tremble of tears that flowed because i was breaking up with her made love her more. I ignored her age for a few months now but a decade laid in front of her. Twenty something boys so called men and their friends, watching him play xbox, his four room mates, watching his band play, couple nights at the gym, beer pong, paying for his lunch, going through his phone, him going through hers, his mother, his sisters, his ex girlfriend, his converse, his converse at weddings, getting drunk, he’s an artist, he trades day stocks, he plays poker online, he smokes a lot of weed, he works for his dad… She needed to experience this, she didn’t need me to distract her future with senile thoughts of a meaningless life.
“I love you because you’re twenty”. I responded.
“You’re a grown man and there is coffee, it’s a thing but I’m not the one to convince to fuck me or anything else in your life, you gotta do that yourself” She knew what she wanted, in every possible way. 11:30 at night and exhaustion paralyzed every muscle in my body. She was 24 full of energy, blonde, beautiful in every possible way. Her hair was beautiful, her shitty valley accent was beautiful, skinny long legs with boney knees were beautiful, her alien looking face was beautiful. She had a way about how she treated men, she knew who to control them with her charm, turning on her baby voice, softening it and submitting her eyes to them. But she was the one who was in control, she knew how to manipulate them get them to be wrapped around her finger. “So, what are we doing”? she asked. I was still standing naked in the middle of the living room still in shock of her forwardness and the fact she had not run away at the sight of my flaccid dick hiding between my legs and my lump of a body trying to hide from existence in the dark. “Men die because of woman like you”.
Maxim Magazine 2013
7 a.m. laying in bed lonely, covered with the regrets of last night and on the verge of tears. from Underneath the pillow I can hear the video starting from my phone, some twenty something girl roleplaying the fact she about to fuck her brother. I let it play, imagining if she would really every fuck her real brother, as my dick begins to rise. All the good memories have started to fade now I can’t recall them to be honest. Time casting it’s light on my window spotlighting loneliness of how I was the one wrong with the expectations on the person I thought she was. I’m left with bitter horrible memories vivid with blinding clarity. Clarity that only perversion of incest can make me forget about her to start my day.