Rumblings from the Eastside #5

Jim Marquez regularly crosses the bridge to downtown from East L.A. in search of art, debauchery and a good story.  New pieces by Mr. Marquez will appear here, unedited and unexpurgated (cover your ears, children) every week or so and will eventually appear in book form.

What Will The Neighbors Think?
By Jim Marquez

Drinks @ a Downtown LA bar. What night? Thursday? Yeah, a good night to head out. Cop radars are down. Only the “normals” wait until Friday. I haven’t been normal in a long, long time. Fuckin’ blessed, baby, that’s what I am. And goddamn lucky too.

She was a “fan”, found me on Facebook. I am flattered. What the hell? See where it goes. Buy the ticket & all that…

Manic, spirited chat, she doesn’t drink much, fine, I order a half dozen Jameson-rocks, more than I wanted, usually taken care of at another place but closed for some reason so forced to come to this joint and the bill is 80-fucking-dollars. Goddamn. Better be worth it.

Walk her to her car? Sure, honey. Let’s go. Some grab ass & sloppy kisses back at the bar make me want more. But my car’s on the street, she says. No problem; park in that lot, I suggest, it’s after 1am, the attendant is gone. In the dark, yeah, right here…

Saliva is exchanged. Take off your panties, I say. She does. Fingers slide in & out quite freely. You’re all wet, baby. It’s because of you, she says. Take off your bra, I say. She does. There’s only one other car in the lot and it happens to be next to us. I choose this spot for cover from the cops cruising by on Main Street. Not even 2am yet and these mutts, two-long hairs & a girl, come moping across the asphalt, climb into their car, and start smoking out. Jesus-Fucking-Christ. At least tag-team on the chick in the back seat, get us going again. Assholes! Our windows are fogged up. They can’t see us too good. And they’re probably already high, anyway. One steps in front of the car and takes out a limp cock and pisses.

Let’s just go back to my place, she says. Where? Up in the hills. I’ll bring you back down after. Ok, cool. Let’s go.

Put my jacket over her naked body. She drives. Down Sunset. Empty. Windows open. Sweat drying on my face, my hair has lost its product and is flat and soft. Silent running. Fast. Make a right. Twists & turns. Higher & higher we go. See a skunk scamper across a narrow road. A black cat. Earth & houses loom at alarming angles above us. It’s colder up here. Reminds me of when my old love used to drive us up into the hills behind the Hollywood Bowl, and we lied to the cadets doing street-closure-duty that we lived up there and when asked what street we lived on we said “Hightower” because there is such a street there, she knew this from when she was younger and also did cadet duty and so we always parked for free and then simply hiked down the hill with our Subway sandwiches & a bottle of cheap wine. I always had the pastrami. I think she used to have the veggie. I think…

We park on streets with no sidewalks. No street lights. What will the neighbors think? I ask. Fuck the neighbors, she says. OK, then…

Be quiet though, I have a roommate. But don’t worry, he’s asleep by now. Whose house? My parent’s old place. Oh.

My boots clop too loud on the wooden floor. Fuckin’ HATE sneaking into places. Tough enough worrying about weather you’re gonna get rolled or stabbed by the chick, but when somebody else is around, and it’s a “he”? Goddammit, you know? Keep going, she says. End of the hall.

Unnerving. To be in a stranger’s place. How do women do this? Meet some dude in a bar and go back to HIS place to fuck? Do they ever think what could happen? Be waiting for them? If they’ll be heard from again? Does any of this ever cross their cloudy minds? Craigslist chicks that actually look for dates on that thing? Hell, look at me: fuckin’ Facebook?! Ah, no, see, but that’s different. This one is a fan. She knows my work. 

Oh, please…

I gotta piss, I say. Across the way there; I go. Pee. Wash hands, slick back hair. Look in mirror. Hope I can get hard, Jimbo. Seven drinks, in a foreign place, have no clue how to get back to the boulevard, I’m totally lost up here, I’m tired, have to remember there’s a dude in the next room, check my wallet, do I have enough cash for a taxi in case the shit hits the fan? In case she changes her mind? In case somebody come at me with a baseball bat? Yes, good. Ok. Now. Just. Relax. I have no intention of staying until sun-up. I’m out of my Downtown element. I’m used to the loft-party-fucks in bathrooms, walk-somebody-back-to-their-car-sex, alley-sex, stair-sex, kitchen-sex, VIP-room-sex, gallery-sex; hell, bar/restaurant-bathroom-stall-sex. Christ, wish I had one more whiskey. Maybe not a straight shot, maybe just a Jack-Coke to calm the nerves…I wonder if I am going to hell…

Go back to the room, dim light is on, can see the usual scattered stuffed animals tossed about the floor, and she is laying on her belly, skirt hiked up, ass exposed; a subtle invitation not, but, welcomed.

I lay besides her. Hear a raccoon scuttle across the roof. Should we turn off the light, I ask? If you want, but we’re so high up, at an angle, really, nobody can see. Cool by me. You know, she says and kisses me, puts a leg over mine: my father died in this bed.

I’m sorry, what?

Does that freak you out?
Um…no; should, but……………no.

Just thought I should tell you.

Great. Anything else?

Well…

(oh fuck here it comes)

My roomie is actually my ex-husband.

I’m sorry, what?

Yeah, but he’s cool. We’re still friends. He doesn’t care.

Right.

No, relax, we’re good. (She points at the wall separating this room from the next).

He’s right there? And he doesn’t give a fuck? (I scan for a peephole. Hey, maybe this is their game. Who knows?)

What?

Nothing.

And I’ll be goddamned if I don’t start to sport wood. Fuck it. Give the old man a show I say! I climb on from behind, let ‘ol John Thursday fall between her cheeks, rub up against her, she moans a bit, and I mount.

Oh, hey, um…you’re in…you’re in the wrong hole…I mean, unless you want to…I mean, I’m ok if that’s what…

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

There was an old Gene Hackman movie, he plays a gunslinger-what else?-and he goes to have one last squaw before his final showdown (yes, I know exactly what “squaw” means but I’m still gonna use it) and she says how handsome he is and how strong he is and then she asks him how he wants it and he plainly says, “Quiet” and quickly jumps her bones. Or, maybe that was Warren Oates. Ah well, anyway… 

Call me old fashioned, but that’s how this beast likes it too. No talking. I like to hear the groaning & the panting & the crying & the god knows what the hell else one hears during the act of a quick, in the dead of night fuck; stomach growling, pussy farts, belches, more crying, the whir of an old video camera-no music though!-need to concentrate…

I come in her ass and slip out.

(Should I stay or should I go now?)

What are you thinking?

Nothing.

You’re so sweet.

Really? Lotta women been telling me that lately but I still have no girlfriend.

You will.

Yeah. You know how many women I’ve dated just this year alone? Every other week I’m out with a woman. I fuck around everywhere I go. It’s so easy on this scene. I get numbers. I should feel lucky.

But you don’t.

Naw.

(She kisses me, snuggles up to me. Lays her head on my arm. Sighs. She stays like that for a few minutes.)

Ah, well, fuck it, I say. Let’s just rest awhile. Getting kinda hungry, actually.

Yeah, let’s rest awhile. I’m getting hungry too.

Ok.

You let me know when you want to leave.

Ok.

And I did.

Find Jim’s Books “The Beast From The East: A Rambler’s Tales-Circa L.A.” & “From East Los” at www.LuLu.com/JimMarquez

Contact the author at www.MySpace.com/JimTheWriter

Other titles by Jim Marquez also available:
Polyester Books & Gallery/Downtown Los Angeles
Stories Books & Café/Echo Park
Skylight Books/Loz Feliz
Libreria Martinez/Lynwood