A Mess in Texas

Freaks. What a great word. “Freaks”. When I was youngin’, I used to think that freaks only came from carnivals or California. I even thought this up until the point I left the little hick town in Wisconsin that I grew up in. I'm telling you, they're everywhere man--West Coast, East Coast, the Midwest (of course), Bald Knob, Arkansas and, I believe many of us can agree that it goes without saying, ....the whole god-fearing South!

I was living in Dallas, Texas at the time. "Don't Mess with Texas", as they say. Well, I made a "Mess on Texas", I say...in more ways than one, I suppose. When first entering the region on Interstate 10 coming from Cali and feeling rather bitter and psychotic because of a very recent break up, I read the Texas slogan upon crossing the state line. What arrogance! I thought. So being the great equalizer that I think myself to be and having just as big of an ego as our lone star state, I decided to do the only rightful thing that I could do--I took a shit behind a bush near the Welcome to Texas sign post that held the ever so comforting to a newcomer's saying, "Don't Mess With Texas". Though, I have to say, I do agree that "everything's bigger in Texas" especially after seeing the size dump I just took....or left, to be more accurate. I don’t know why everyone “takes” shits. That’s gross. I prefer to leave them.

Within the first week or so of my stay in Dallas, I had set up shop and was dancing in various gay and straight strip clubs in the area. I was now renamed a "dick-dancer" as they called it in the South and yes, Texas is the South to those not from there though most Texans refer to their locale as the Southwest. "Southwest" sounds more cowboyish, I guess. Even a lot of the gay scene was into the macho cowboy shit--lots of two-steppin' fags and what have you, not to be fucked with. It's definitely somewhat of a fallacy that all fags are wimps which I learned after seeing a two-steppin' big ass scary drag queen kick the living shit out of some gay-bashing redneck dude in front of a club called Big Daddy's one night. It would have been funny if not for all the blood...eh, it was still funny.

Even my macho Venezuelan friend and connection I was temporarily staying with had thrown me for a loop. Giovanni was the first good person, hell, probably the only good person I met in the male exotic dance scene. He noticed my initial struggle in trying to fit in with the other dancers and somewhat took me under his wing when I first started stripping at the Gay 90’s in Minneapolis. He was honest, confident and intelligent. Everyone wanted to give him their money….men, women or anyone in between. He would always turn down anything sketchy for cash, unlike myself. Though Giovanni wasn’t a hustler he was a money making machine nonetheless. Due to my lack of patience and lack of confidence at the time, I would be too willing in my performance, giving up too much of my personal space and energy. If that extreme wouldn’t reap me sufficient fruit then I would simply resort to taking what I wanted. Giovanni didn’t have to do this scramble. He simply earned the energy by pulling in what he wanted with shear confidence. A Fabio, primadonna type but with a humble ego set amongst an honest and healthy integrity. Simply put, he was a legitimately nice guy.

The women he would encounter were not only absolute super-model quality but had intelligence and class as well. They were goddesses….beautiful women, not girls, women. Too intimidating for my goofy young ass to hold for too long. I’d squeeze too tight. He was able to hold them because he was able to let them go. I didn’t know he was going to let them go as a whole gender though. The last night at his place we got back from a gig at Big Daddy’s and over some wine Giovanni told me he had lost all interest in women and that as soon as I left his new boyfriend was moving in. I thought he was lying to get me out of his flat but I was already leaving in the morning. I couldn’t believe it. He was a ladies man, a good physical fighter and athlete as well, an idol to all straight dudes, a bro I could finally trust…..and he was totally gay. He moved away from Minneapolis to get away from certain family and others who would judge him. He moved to Dallas to be himself. Hmm. Moving to tough guy, gun-totin’Texas to be comfortably gay? What an awesome oxymoron. Suck that dick, bubba!

I asked him what the appeal with men was and he told me that it was more challenging to dominate a dominator than to dominate a feminine woman. He was the top in his new relationships and he liked to have sex with big muscle dudes. He felt like more of a man this way than when screwing a passive woman. This was a new one for me. He was overly straight, overly male to the point where it flip-flopped on itself…..too macho to be with women. Fuckin’ weird. I guess to be straight and stay that way means that as a man we need a little female in us, at least enough to keep us connected to women lest we lose the ability to relate and go the route Pedro (Giovanni) did, not that there’s anything wrong with that. An energy taken to its extreme turns into its opposite. It makes sense to me now. I mean if you travel far enough east you will eventually find the west—you can get to Cali going east via the Atlantic, Europe, Asia then passed the Pacific to Cali. It comes full circle.

Regardless, I apparently was not tough enough for him to want to fuck because he didn’t make any moves on me. I was relieved yet strangely offended. I mean, I was a big dude! I had muscle! Was I not worthy? Wait a minute. What the fuck was I thinking. I’m not gay…..though apparently my ego and my vanity do not discriminate between which sex it craves attention from. Goddamn it’s strange being a lone human. Anyway, I moved out of Giovanni’s place the next day and we remained friends. I still looked up to him. Maybe even more than before for him having the balls to be himself ….’balls’ being the key word.

My new apartment was fairly cool. I painted it and decked it out. My money was starting to come back to me though I was still pissed at how much I blew in the previous year. Guess adventure is sometimes expensive. Regardless, cash from the stud bars was flowing to me nicely. Not but a couple weeks after settling in, I got a call from my best friend, King Ja.

“Hey! What’s up, King?”

“Got kicked out.”

“Kicked out of what?”

“The house. I got kicked out of the house. It’s a long story but basically I met this girl and my wife Renee found out about it. We’re getting a divorce. It’s been building for a while. It’s not a surprise but my living situation is fucked right now.”

“How did Renee find out? Did you feel guilty and tell her or some shit like that?”

“She tried to run me over with her car.”

“Huh?”

“Renee saw me in a car with this new girl and she tried to run us off the road. After we pulled over I tried to approach Renee’s car to talk to her and she tried to run me, literally run my physical body over! She completely lost her frickin’ mind. A total jealous raging female maniac!”

“Fuckin’ aye. Where did you meet this girl?”

“I actually met her about a month before I left for L.A. at the Northwest Swim and Racquet Club where we both worked. Since the baby was born, Renee was on my ass about money so I picked up an overnight shift at the club for extra cash. I actually worked there a couple months before the girl I met was there. The other employees were all guys before she showed up. The job was peaceful and without distractions but dull. One night I was cleaning in the locker room and overheard some of my co-workers talking about this chick that would be coming back soon. They were all excited that she was going to be back and it became the primary topic of conversation as the date drew nearer for her return. Apparently, I had been hired to replace her because she had surgery for an infection she had gotten after an abortion. Nobody really knew the real reason she had the surgery. She would tell me later on after I got to know her.

“What’s her name? How come you never told me about this?”

“Her name is Chantel. I mentioned her to you before but you were so wrapped up into the Ruby break-up thing that I thought bringing up some news about a hot new chic I met might not be such a good idea at the time.”

“Yea, I suppose. Fair enough. So what happened? What’s she like?”

“Well, anyway I banked the knowledge of this mystery girl away and then the
next week came and I got into work last like I usually did and everyone was in the break room. I noticed that there was a special feeling in the air, a higher energy in the room and then I saw her. At first I only saw the back of her long brunette hair before seeing her face. I went nearly unnoticed as I entered and sat down along the wall. I didn't get a good look at her until after a few moments went by when the foreman glanced over and saw me. He introduced us as he told me that she was the person he had me replace. ‘Chantel. This is James’. It was then that she turned towards me and smiled and I got up and reached out to shake her hand. Adam, let me tell you. Incredible. Beautiful. She’s this young 18 year old, tan, brunette girl who's smile is so pure, so easy…….and her eyes. Her eyes, man! So dark and so alive! She had sex written all over her body. I didn't stare long or she would have seen how attractive she was to me. That simple meeting was how we first met. I’ll never forget that initial image of her face. Never.”

“I picture everything you are telling me in slow motion.”

“Yea, man. It might as well have been. When I came to help you get out of L.A., Chantel covered for me at work. I remember calling her from the plane as I was taking off from Minneapolis. Anyway, I told her I couldn't wait to see her when I got back. I felt something stirring for her and she was starting to give me signals back as well. After our cross-country trip I was convinced that I had to try to get with her. I felt it specifically at the moment we passed through those neon trees of fear and desire when we drove through Vegas. It felt like destiny…like magic. As soon as I felt this is as soon as a conflict began both within and without for me.”

“Wow. So what are you going to do? I mean you got a place to stay?”

“I’ve been staying with Chantel since it happened and I got all my shit in storage. I gotta get the fuck outta here, man. Her place is too small for us and …. I don’t know. I just want to get the hell out of here but I aint got shit for cash. I just want to roll….to run out of the brush to see a clearing. I don’t know what I’m going to do…”

“Well, shit man, come to Dallas. I’m down here alone pretty much and could use a friend. Just stay with me. We’ll hook up some money for you somehow.”

“I think I got enough for gas but that’s about it. My car is a piece of shit but it may have one more run in it……”

“Don’t worry. Just get here and we’ll figure out a plan. I got a place. I got food. Fuck it. Run….get out of the brush, man, just get here!”

King Ja arrived within a few days after I had spoken to him. We met up at a Denny’s where he pulled up in a brownish-tan rusted out 1984 Chrysler Cordoba. It was a big fuckin’ ghetto pimp boat with crushed velvet seats, fuzzy dice and everything. I bought us an excessive amount of food and he told me about his road trip while we scarfed down our highly processed grub. He told me about some flea bag motel he stayed at in Oklahoma where outside of his room window he was entertained by watching a show of hookers hoarding around the truck drivin’ sons o’ guns that were parked by the diner that was attached to the motel. Ja hadn’t the desire (nor the cash) to partake in any of these local festivities. His mission for the moment was simply to get to Dallas and I was glad he was here.

After a few days of hanging out and enjoying some cocktails, King Ja and I grabbed a local newspaper and headed to a hipster little coffee house in the Elm Street district downtown. A job in a paper? Looking for a job in a newspaper? It was a foreign concept to me and beginning to be an unpleasant one for Ja.

“Dude, there is nothing in here. Janitor? Clerical work? I don’t even know what the fuck that is really. Cashier? Man, I ain’t working for fuckin’ $6.50 an hour ……. ….telemarketing!? I hate talking on the phone plus when telemarketers call me, I dig up the nastiest most vile shit I could possibly think of to say to them. I ain’t going through that shit. Well, I gotta take one of these. I mean, I gotta do somethin’. Fuck.”

“Fuck ‘em! No you don’t. I wrote that shit off a while ago and trust me, once you get a taste of some real cash, some easy cash, some cash you took for yourself….you’ll never be able to even pick up one of those papers but to read the funnies and they ain’t funny no how! So fuck it, King Ja!”

“Ok. That’s great and all but what the fuck am I supposed to do? Sell drugs? Rob a bank? I wouldn’t know the first place to start and even if I did it’s not my style anyway. Wait, are you talking about me stripping? Adam, that’s really not my style either I mean there’s no way. That’s not my thing.”

“No. I mean, well, not exactly. Just do some blade runners. Just one a day could make you a grand a week or more. When you get back on your feet, you could do something else.”

“….the fuck is a ‘blade runner’?”

“The one-on-ones. The male to males. The hustle where we play off of gay men’s desires for our youthful energy, snatch the money and give them a half ass strip show. You know, blade runners. It’s easy.”

“Oh. But why do you call them ‘blade runners’?”

“A friend of mine was making fun of one of the side things I do for cash, the male to male thing, and he said there was no way that I was totally straight if I did what I did. We argued for awhile and I told him I didn’t give them sex for the money. He claimed because I got naked and occasionally and unavoidably got groped, that I was at least a certain percentage gay regardless if I ran off with the money or not. I told him fine. Then I’m the gay percentage that gets me the cash and gives me the freedom to not be a fucking slave to the system with some asshole boss telling me what to do! If that percentage of ’gay’ is needed then so be it, I told him. Anyway, while we were debating about my ratio of gayness, the movie, Zorro the Gay Blade was on one of the tv channels we were flipping through. He called me Zorro the gay blade and because I ran from gay men, sometimes literally with my clothes in my hands, he called the act of me doing that, ‘blade runners’. He was a funny guy. I wonder what ever happened to him…”

“So, I mean, I don’t know. What do I do? How do I get the hell out of there. I mean, I’m not gonna just take him for his cash and leave. I’ll get in trouble eventually. Plus what if he’s a nice guy and I don’t feel right about it. On one hand I don’t want to fuck the guy over, on the other I certainly ain’t gonna suck his dick or whatever. I don’t know, Adam. It’s pretty weird.”

“What’s weird is working for minimum wage. That’s prostitution! This way you’re in control and you make a helluva a lot more money in a helluva lot less time. I meet a lot of nice guys and most the time they are happy with a little strip or muscle worship show. If they get pushy for their money back always remember that you never promised them nothin’. When you talk to them on the phone, sex is never talked about. If they ask you just tell them sex for money is not legal.”

“Yea but they probably assume that you still do it but you can’t say so on the phone then they still have you come over.”

“Exactly. But you never officially agreed to it so no sin, no karma involved!”

“How much do I make per gig?”

“Depends. Usually a couple hundred. Just depends what you can get. If they’re high on drugs you can get way more.”

“Fuck it. I’ll try it. Set me up in one of those ads. If I don’t feel right I’ll just stop. I ain’t got nothing to lose.”

It was amazing looking back on how I justified my thievery. Grant it some of the clients had bad intentions and deserved to be taken from but I still participated in the whole thing and I didn’t always deceive the rotten. I took from everyone after awhile. I used many techniques I learned from M and from scientology to justify my actions. I somewhat became the wolf I despised. Justifying myself by saying I never agreed to it over the phone was a loaded justification, if that makes sense. The client knew I couldn’t agree to it over the phone. It’s a silent agreement in the escort world. Regardless, I always got off on a technicality. Later, I even took it as far as bringing them cocaine or the most evil drug of all, crystal meth. It was a wonderful substance to loosen their mental hold on the cash in their wallets. Pure evil. I did it only a couple of times and stopped. I just didn’t feel right. I wasn’t really into my drug phase at this moment so I didn’t do it but it still felt wrong. It made me nervous and guilty. Just being around the substance gave me that feeling that something bad was going to happen….. so I simply stopped. It was one of my better decisions amongst a slew of bad ones.

King Ja had a run of easy calls. It was beginners luck as I had expected though not consciously sure why. How weird….and I’ve seen this before in other unrelated life situations. You seem to pull in things, in this case escort clients, who match your energy. King Ja was new at the game so he pulled in the innocent and the ignorant. He was also a jokester so his calls were funny and just a wild new adventure to him. Me? I pulled in the dirty birds.

One night while I was shakin' my ass at a mixed club (as in gay men and straight women), I noticed two giant boobies walk into the room. Attached to them was a female human, I believe. She was living proof that, yes, everything was forsure bigger in Texas and I promised to take back all the bad things I said about this place after seeing her. I have to admit, you Texan folk sure have you some beauteeful womens! On top of it all, I was eager to prove to myself that I was still straight after all the blade runners I was doing. They were starting to get to me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her staring at me trying to get my attention, and as soon as I peeled my eyeballs off of her breasts, I was in an approachable position for her question in which I already knew was going to be.

"Can I ask you a somethin' darlin'? Are you gay?" She asked in a sweet southern drawl.

"Only if she-bulls in the boneyard count."

"Huh?"

"Nevermind. I like women. As a matter of fact, so much that I wish I was one. What's your name?"

"Well, it's Denise but my hubby calls me Peanut. He's right over there with the white cowboy hat and the big belly but don't worry. He told me to come talk to you. Do you do private parties?"

"Depends on what ‘privates’ are involved", I said scoping out the situation.

She then explained to me what her and her husband's trip was. He was obsessfully focused on a cheat fantasy and he loved to be humiliated and belittled by his wife and her adulterer. She, equally and opposingly, got off on cheating on and degrading her husband but they only did this upon each others’ full agreement. Once silently agreed upon that the game had officially started and was in motion, no rules applied. Naturally, I agreed to fuck her in front of him and just to add to the fantasy and to make it even more cankerous and perverted, I asked her to tell him to give me $200 for my time. I mean, what's more humiliating than not only watching your wife getting fucked but paying for it to happen as well.

I collected my clothes and my money and we went back to their place in Fort Worth. She drove, I sat in the front, and he sat in the back not saying a word--he wasn't allowed to. During the drive I told her all the nasty things I was going to do to her as she rubbed my crotch. When we got to their home, her husband got in the drivers seat and drove off.

"Uhh...where the fuck is he going? I thought he wanted to watch?"

"Oh, don't worry hon'. He'll be back. He'll be back from work on time to catch us."

I really didn't know what the fuck was going on but I didn't care because whatever it was, it was turning me on and I got my pay and giant mega-tits waiting for me, so...I just had to watch my back. Thoughts of it being some kind of a funky "set-up" crossed my mind. Like--what if this guy got fucked over by some stud stripper in the past and he was out rounding up his boys to jump me? Or what if he was a cop? Eh,...fuck it. I wanted those big fat, low-hangin' Ubangi tits! So I went in.

She practically busted down the door, threw me into the house, poured some whiskey down my throat, and ripped both our clothes off. Her jacks were fucking perfect! They were...alright, enough about her tits. Anyway, after starting in the foyer, we eventually worked our way into the master bedroom and after we were well into it, I heard the front door open.

"Honey! I'm Home!"

Fuck! Her husband was home. Here we go, I thought. I pictured me with a boner and a bra wrapped around my head fighting off 4 or 5 crazy rednecks with ten-gallon hats and cowboy boots.....and in between punches getting a last look at those ten-gallon tits.

"Don't stop, honey. Keep fucking me!" She wanted me to keep going and she became very verbal at this point as well.

"Honey, I'm...Oh my God! What in hell's tarnation are you doin' ta mah wife!"

"He's fucking me you little prick! A helluva lot better than you ever could! Come on big stud! Fuck me while my little-dicked pathetic excuse for a husband watches and learns." She was into it.

Damn, I thought. Now I get it. Her husband had put a suit on during his temporary disappearance and had lost the cowboy hat. He was wearing glasses and carrying a briefcase as if he had just come home from a rough day at the office to find his wife cheating on him. His dear wife. His little Peanut. How could she do this to him.

She ordered him to sit and watch and that he could pull out his "wee-wee" but could not get unclothed. Everything he wanted us to do he would say not to do such as,

"Oh, please don't fuck her doggie-style. Please don't!"...or..."please don't cum in her mouth. Please don't!"

"Look at me when I'm fuckin' yer wife! She's lovin' it! Im gonna make her go ooooweeee!" My verbal sex talk felt awkward and contrived so to get nasty and not sound stupid, I covered it all up with a southern accent. Why the fuck not.

Well, not to cut off a good sex story but this is sounding a bit too much like Penthouse Forum so need I tell the rest? I think you get the picture. Anyway, after we were all sexed out, her husband jumped on top of her and fucked her brains out as well. Me, thinking I was "the man", took myself and the situation a little too serious because in the end I learned that the only one being used, used as their role playing sex toy…. was me. After they were done, they kissed and said how much they loved one another, threw me only part of what I needed for cab money and politely but abruptly told me to wait outside for my long, late ride home. They even lost their accents. Shit, even that was an act! When I left they were hugging and kissing and I felt used. Boy, I miss those days. Good times.

I got back to my lonely apartment. I don’t know where the fuck King Ja was. Even though he was in town, I felt like I had no friends. The King was in the game and it helped but at the same time it didn’t. My family was far away and it was too late to call anyone. I had nobody to talk to. I felt lost. All I really had was the memory of the girl I broke up with in Cali as I laid on my bed wondering who was fucking her. Money and pussy. I had it all but...had nothing at the same time. No, not true. I had despair, anguish, anxiety, and a silent, unbearable melancholy. "Don't Mess with Texas". Fuck. More like, "Messed Up in Texas", I thought. The Loner Star state...though I was feeling like no star. No girlfriend. No big boobies (I'm sure y'all feel so sorry for me). I cried myself to a sleep on my round, lighted disco bed. Yes, a round UFO-looking, lighted, disco bed I found at a rummage sale.

At about 4 or 5am, King Ja got back to the apartment. We talked about the night. He told me about his calls. I told him about ‘Peanut’. Before going back to bed, I checked my pager and noticed a shitload of messages were on it. I checked them and couldn’t fuckin’ believe my ears.

“Holy fuck!”

“What’s up?”

“Holy fuck!!”

“What’s up? What’s holy fuck, Adam!?”

“It’s Ruby! She’s here in town. She’s at the airport!”

I had no way of calling Ruby so I headed straight to Love Field, ironically the name of the Dallas airport. Her only connection with me was my pager number and the city I ran to. What the hell was she doing? When I got there I had her paged and found her immediately…. before she even heard the page, we saw each other.

“What the hell are you doing here, Ruby?”

“I had a friend in Houston that I was going to call if I couldn’t get ahold of you so I figured I’d take a chance. I was just about to give up and then I saw you talking to the airport information girl…..I just wanted to see you….”

“Ok. Well…um…let me help you with your bags.”

“I don’t have any bags. I’m leaving tonght.”

“What? Why would you come to visit me and leave here on the same day?”

“Here.” Ruby handed me an envelope. In it was a one-way plane ticket and Four thousand dollars.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a plane ticket to L.A. and money to start up another service.”

“What! Look, I’m really glad to see you Ruby but I aint fuckin’ moving back to L.A. There’s no fucking way.”

“I know you’re not. Neither am I. You’re going back to California with me to pick up my car and my brother. I’m moving to Dallas and we are opening another service.”

It was fucking surreal. Her showing up suddenly at such a lonely time for me…..well, shit like that just never happens! Her finally showing up when I would be over her? Now that seems more like it….that seems more believable…..more par for the course. But her showing up at a time when I needed her to? That seemed like only possible in a dream but she was here. She was really here. My efforts to thwart her from the porn scene in L.A. had apparently not been in vain.

An unpredictable and contradictory set of feelings had come up in me after hearing Ruby’s intentions. A feeling of success mixed with a strange and unexpected feeling of dissatisfaction. I mean, of course I was happy about it….happy that life was magical and friendly enough to give me back something I had lost, something that really hurt to lose but there was also a simultaneous feeling of disappointment……as if my efforts for independence were all for naught. It felt as though life was still making fun of me in an odd sense as in, ‘Ok, Adam’s just about to get over her so let’s throw her abruptly back into his life just to keep him fucked up for awhile longer. It’ll be funny.’ Like the gods just having a random laugh or experiment for their amusement….once again at my expense. Regardless, I took the gods bait and took Ruby up on her offer and stepped onto a plane for a quiet trip back to L.A.

Sanjay. What a cool young guy. Some would say I was a corrupting force in his life but I don’t see it that way. I was showing him the ropes….at least the ropes as I saw them. My intention was clean. I liked him a lot. It just so happened that all the things he would’ve done in his life eventually, all the “firsts” he would experience were done with me around. On a previous trip to San Francisco I got him a hooker. Probably not the best way to introduce a virgin to sex but it was all I could think of. Shit, man, it’s how I started. Besides, he ended up just talking to the girl while enjoying her naked company and saving his virginity for a girl he actually liked and knew. Hmph. For each their own. My teachings and rope showins did have more success in a motel we stayed at in New Mexico during a break from our drive to Texas where Sanjay and I enjoyed smoking his first puff of a joint. It was the first time he got stoned and he liked it. We actually snuck outside while his sister, Ruby was asleep and smoked it while leaning over a railing that looked out over the desert night sky. It was fun and reminded me of all the cliché things that people do when they get stoned for the first few times. We got the munchies, got a little paranoid, laughed our asses off and contemplated life on other planets and infinity as we looked at the cluster of stars that were laid out so brilliant that they looked like a fake backdrop to the desert horizon. I liked his youth. I liked his innocence. I felt very protective over Sanjay. I felt like his big brother. His pureness reminded me of the purity that I was playing with at the time….the purity that I was starting to lose and with our next stop in El Paso only added to my quest of ridding myself of more primal essence…..of more innocence.

“Coincidences” tend to surround my life. Hell they’re so abundant that they’ve almost become the only reliable constant to my experiences. I still had the same pager that my ads in L.A. were attached to and I’d still get calls from time to time that I’d have to turn down. Just previously, in L.A., before leaving to take Sanjay and Ruby back with me to Dallas I got a call from a man who lived in El Paso, TX. He said he couldn’t find any studs in his area and that on occasion, he would fly out male escorts from the southern Cali region to service him. I told him to add the plane ticket money to the fee because I was driving out in that general region anyway. We agreed on $1,500 for the evening in which I knew damn well I wouldn’t be staying the night. I never would. Get the money and get out. He actually sent me a partial payment via Western Union because I told him I needed a down payment if I was to change my route for him specifically. He sent $500 and I couldn’t believe it. I could’ve taken the money and run but damn brother, I was on a little roll. First, 4 grand from Ruby and now this. Why not snatch up another “G” en route to our destination. It was perfect.

A couple hours out from El Paso, Mike, I believe I remember his name was, paged me and I called him back from a payphone. Yes, pagers and payphones were still the technical gadgets of communication at the time. He called me and I got off the highway for him to ask me when I ate last. When I ate last? I told him a couple of hours ago and asked him if he had dinner planned. He told me he did not and after I told him I was only a couple hours away, he explained that it was imperative for me to eat again and that after I ate to come straight to his house without making any stops. Ok, I thought. Maybe we weren’t going to go eat and he didn’t want me to be hungry. He was just being considerate. I saw nothing at all weird in it at that moment.

Ignoring El Paso Mike’s request, Ruby, Sanjay and I got another Hotel in downtown El Paso. I wasn’t there long and I’ve never stayed in El Paso before but the feeling, at least at this moment, was a bit creepy. I’m not sure if it’s the situation that I permanently associate with the town but other times later that I’ve driven through, I get real down home sense of evil. My spider-senses would tingle I guess you could say. Anyway, when we got there I basically threw my shit into the hotel room and had Ruby drive me over to the client’s apartment building. We got a hotel within a mile from the location, not on purpose but just out of pure lucky. Mike was the landlord of a big apartment complex, a bit of a shithole and after Ruby dropped me off I was instructed by Mike to knock on the door marked “Manager”. I seen a sigh to a door that led down a yellow, dull lit hall. The lighting and the texture had a grainy almost blurry 70’s cheap film movie look and feel to it. It was scratchy, yellowy-red and lacked clarity, brightness and blue color tones. I’ve felt these vortexes many times and have developed an intuitive ability to avoid the areas when I feel them as such but in western Texas at the time I had not yet mastered the proper choice in the matter. I call it “blind-folded in your underwear”. In this situation, blind-folded in my underwear and running across the street in the dark. I knocked and the door opened on my 2nd of the usual quick 3 or 4 knocks I give.

Holy fuck! Santa Clause is a john! There stood Mike, smiling his ass off looking exactly like Santa Clause but with bad teeth and worse fashion. He was wearing an Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned halfway, high cut old man shorts with black sandals and, of course, white socks and not just any white socks but the ones from the 70’s that I wore when I was a kid that went all the way up to the bottom of your knees and had stripes and shit on them. What a fuckin’ dufus, ….a rotten-toothed super-geek with a shit-eatin’ grin. He looked like a perverted clown who was out of full costume and off for the weekend. I held back a laugh seeing him as such. It was actually a relief. It calmed my nerves. At least I knew what I was dealing with or so I thought until I ventured deeper into his apartment.

“Sit down man.”

His voice said the word, “man” but phonetically it sounded more like “meeyan” in a low and slow sounding, hippy like drawl similar Tommy Chong’s voice from ‘Cheech and Chong’.

“Yea, sit down meeyan. Did you eat meeyan?”

“Yea, I ate…..man.”

“Did you go or did you hold your shit?”

“Huh?”

“Hold your shit man are you holding your shit, meeyan!”

“Umm…I haven’t gone yet….what are you getting at……man?”

“I’m hungry……meeeyyaaann!”

Boom! With his last statement, the reality of his desire hit me like a thunderbolt and instantly made my stomach curdle. Gross. His shit-eatin’ grin was truly what it was in a literal sense…..a shit-eating grin ?…………?.

I looked around his place at that moment. I guess I wanted to see what a shit eater’s apartment would look like. I mean, I never met a shit eater that I knew of, at least, this up and close. I sent some of the girls from the escort service to clients who were into getting shit “on” but “eating” it? I was curious to see how he lived, to see his patterns. I studied the shit eater like I was the narrator of a nature documentary, speaking with the Queens English as they always do, very proper and British—‘Watch as the Southwestern Shit-Eater smiles with crystalline focus as he eyes his prey……the Shit-Eaters feeding season is very short so his attack must be direct and precise……his shit-eating grin is used to hypnotize his prey into a cathartic and catatonic state of disgust...scaring the shit out of the victim is a beneficial must as well.’ I don’t know. Something like that I had going on in my head to deal with this weird fucker.

The Shit-Eater’s apartment was….well…a shithole. Food, mostly half-eatin’ tv dinners were on the floor and countertops, garbage was scattered throughout….just a fuckin’ shitty mess. The one thing that stuck out in particular was the amount of cigarettes overflowing various ashtrays and most peculiar was the amount of full cigarette cartons. There were so many that he was able to make furniture out of them. Thirty or Forty of them in one part of the room made an end table and on the end table was an ashtray filled with cigarette butts. It was like a shrine to tobacco.

“Hey, meeyan. Let me put in a video to get you kind of in the mood, meeyan.”

Oh, no. There’s shit-eating porn too! At the time in 1992, I’m sure there was shit-worship pornography and such and you always heard of it but never really seen it around. Nowadays, we are so desensitized that it’s not as big of a shock that it exists but I don’t care what generation you’re from or what race, gender or background, the shit is disgusting all around. My dad and I have had many deep philosophical discussion regarding morals and judgment and we both came to the agreement that on a big picture all sin is relative….all acts are relative and are not to be judged ultimately but are merely to be put into the category of, “human experience”. We agreed that this applies to absolutely everything in the universe….except for one exception and that, of course, would be shit-eating. SHIT-EATING IS WRONG. This is why they say we are born into sin because the first thing a baby plays with is his or her shit. Now, this is forgivable due to ignorance and the drive for humans to utilize and create shit out of what is around in their environment and in a baby’s case their only malleable resource within grasp to create shit is shit itself therefore, there is forgiveness. As far as Mike the shit-eater? He is doomed.

The video was a compilation of sorts. There was some porn type material but most of what he showed me wasn’t predominately focused on sex per say. There was a section that showed various African tribes rubbing feces all over themselves and dancing into a frenzy, not engaging in intercourse but in ecstasy nonetheless. It was like a voodoo poopoo magic ritualistic dance or something. I was real curious at this point, scared and wanting to get the fuck out of whatever “shitty” vortex I fell into but equally as curious to know what the fuck this guy saw in this “shit” and what kind of “shit” was going on in his head to get him to this “shitty” state of mind.

“Man, with all judgment put aside and not to insult you in any way but…..why the fuck, how the fu.., what the…..I have to goddamn know! Why in the fucking world would you want to eat ka-ka!!”

“Because look at you, meeyan. And look at me, meeyan. You’re like the love-god and I’m like the war-god. If I eat your shit, I will have the anti-bodies that will kill my war toxins. I’ll have the anti-bodies of love…..meeyan.”

Fuckin’ aye. That was the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard. He wanted to consume me. He wanted my light even if it was my lower light. He wanted love and this was his distorted way he ended up having to seek it. What the fuck got him here? What the fuck did he do to get his self to this point? I didn’t want to know. I was done and I wanted out.

Not even thinking of the situation in relationship to my next motion, I got up from the chair I was sitting in when watching the video and proceeded to the bathroom after telling Mike I’d be right back. Ironically, I did in fact have to take a shit. I had to take one right when I got there though this is no mystical synchronicity. I’ve always had to drop mud between 5 and 7 times a day in my life and I’ll pretty much shit anywhere though crapping on people is not one of my designated places to release my bowels. I locked the door and while squatting planned my escape. As I was scheming in deep concentration and positioned like Rodin’s sculpture, The Thinker, I heard footsteps by the door….

“Hey, save some of that for me, meeyan!”

“What! Fuck you!” I wiped, pulled my pants up and flushed as fast as I could as he busted through the door.

“Where is it? Where’s your shit!”

“It’s gone, man. Let it go.”

As I said this to him he lunged his arm into the bowl as a last ditch effort for my shit…for my “love anti-bodies”. I stood there, buckling up my pants, watching this deranged and pathetic individual dig for love in a fucking toilet while he whimpered from his loss. My whole life and its integrity (or lack there of) flashed before my eyes. I was embarrassed to be there. What did I do in my own pathetic aspects of my life to be in this situation, I thought to myself.

I squeezed by him. He was on his knees crying with his head in the bowl. I stood there in the hall outside the bathroom still in a state of shock. As he whimpered, I glanced and seen pictures of him on the wall. There were some that I could only assume were of his folks but most of them were pictures of him and his buddies in Vietnam. I also saw some medals and military memorabilia and such. I was starting to get it. I was starting to see a reason. The idea of guilt came into my mind. His guilt for killing. He was the “war-god” and the war took away his love. I felt sorry for him, sorry for him but more worried for myself after seeing his valence change when he stood up from the toilet. His shit-eatin’ grin was back and quickly turned into a sardonic one.

“Here, meeyan. Take my keys. I want you to go to the store for me and buy me some cigarettes.”

“…..but, you have thousands of …them?”

“I want a different kind. Get me some Kools. Take the black Cadilac outside. You’ll see it, meeyan. You’ll see it.”

This was my cue to bolt out but I did not have a vehicle with me so I had to exhibit just a little more patience. I took his keys and found the black Cadilac he was talking about. It was one of the older Caddies that were boat sized and had huge interiors. As I sat down, I glanced over towards the passenger seat next to me to see a gun sitting there bare and alone. I don’t know much about guns but this one was one of those big magnum somethin’ or others like in the Clint Eastwood Dirty Harry movies. He obviously wanted me to see it, placing it there as a clue to his past sins or as an instrument to scare me or both. I saw it as a way for him to reveal himself to someone such as myself, such as who he thought I was—a hustler, a whore for pay, someone leaning towards the underground…..someone who had no right themselves judging him.

I got to a payphone and called Ruby. I didn’t explain much to her other than my escape plan. I was only at the client’s house for about 35 to 45 minutes and promised to stay all night but I didn’t give a shit. I just had to get his car back to him peacefully. Ruby came quick and spotted me near the payphone. She followed the Caddy I was in and parked in Mike’s apartment complex parking lot facing the exit. It was simple. I walked back into the Shit-Eater’s unit and threw him the keys. I told him I forgot the carton of cigs in the car and that I’d get them and be right back. I jumped in Ruby’s car and we dipped the hell out.

“What happened? Are you done? Did you get the rest of the money?”

“Yea, I got the money.”…….pause, pause…….

“Well, why are you so quiet? How did it go?”

“I don’t really care to talk about it. I mean, nothing bad happened or anything. It just went, well….shitty.”

“Well, whatever. You got paid for the shit so who cares.”

“Yea. Paid for the ‘shit’.”

I was too embarrassed to tell her about it. Even though I didn’t do much, being there was enough. I decided to throw the old pager out of the window. Throwing shit out car windows while moving is my official way of ending things that need to be ended. Once out a moving car, its over and I needed this last experience to be exactly that….over. I checked the pager one last time just in case my mom, a friend or King Ja back in Dallas had left any messages. There was only one and it was in fact the King…..with “shitty” news.

“Ruby. Pack your bags. We aint stayin’ at the hotel tonight.”

“Why? I’m tired!”

“Whatever. Sleep in the car. I’ll drive. King Ja’s in jail and he doesn’t know where my goddamn car is.”

A day earlier things were perfect. 24 hours later things turned….and I’m sorry to beat this into the ground but…….things simply just turned ………………………………. …………………………………………………………………………shitty.

( Texas, Summer, 1992) . . . . . aa

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