SmokeLong Quarterly

Americano mens smell like no-good butter. Their necks get red when I kiss them. Their nipples pink like cherry Jell-O. We no have pink nipples in México: dark like Frijoles Negros, brown like the dry soil that sticks in our shoes. Our cocks and balls turn black from desesperación, or maybe boredom. Here in América everything is pink and filled with blood. Everyone is sexy and happy and ready to come in your face.

When I meet my first Americano mens in the park, I pinch his skin and make little kisses on his belly—everything turn red. I leave marks he must explain to his wife. Many Americanos no have wifes. They live with other mens and make sex all the day. These mens are called gay, and I feel sorry for them. They will never know their children, or celebrate the Dia de la Raza with cousins and uncles, or feel the comfort of praying to the Blessed Virgin. There is more to life than sucking cock.

I never fuck with mens before coming to América. Here, you can do anything. I wash dish in restaurant, see boys kissing and touching asses in the daytime—nobody care. Sometime they looks at me when my t-shirt is wet. They smile with all of their teeth. I think they laugh because I am small and look like young baby. They do not know I have two babies of my own back in Coahuila, and a wife who whispers my name when I make love with her. “Arturo,” she say. “Tu hace mi corazón cantar.”

The waiters no can understand this. There is fence between us wide and white as all of their teeths. They look like big powerful mens but talk like little girls. All time making joke and laughing like there is no problems in the world.

When I go to the park I never talk with the mens. We walk next to each other down paths covered with acorns and old crab apples. Heavy trees fold over us with all of their leaves. I feel water from the ground in the soles of my brand new Nikes. When we get to the place where bushes are thick and no one can see, I reach out and grab the lumps in their jeans. They like me because I have small hands. I push up their T-shirts and kiss the white skin—watch it turn red. They tap their big cocks on my face, like—wake up, get job done. Dont be lazy mexicano. Who could not love these muscle babies, so full of their own selfs?

I want them to say my name. I want them to say, Arturo, tu hace mi corazón cantar. But they do not know me. They do not know my name.