The hunter dusted off his hiking boots as he entered his lair just before sunrise. Humming a favorite tune, the hunter grabbed the red Magic Marker and crossed out another face and drew a line through another name. He sang to himself, "…so many men, so little time…how can I choose?" I can't believe so many men still cruise Griffith Park at night. Don't they know how many psychos are out there? He hid the body in a small cave near a trail popular with wanna-be astronomers coming from Griffith Observatory. Maybe one of them would notice the sole of his prey's shoe just visible from the trail.
His Casio beeped. Time for meds.
---
Mateo panted as he collapsed in the lobby of the Barclay Hotel. He treated the rising sun's rays as if he were a vampire. He almost didn't make it this time. That last guy took forever to cum. Too much crystal or poppers. Mateo felt the familiar discomfort in his ass.
Zelda, the Barclay's own Garry Kasparov, flagged him over as he picked himself up from the art deco floor. "Matt, sweetie, are you ok? Wanna play Zelda?" She always referred to herself in the third person, one of the quirks of being the eccentric tenant in a once-grand hotel that survived off the crumpled ones and fives from day laborers, the elderly on a fixed income, and the rest of downtown L.A.'s expendables that could barely keep their heads above water. A place like this was just one step above Skid Row. And the tenants knew it. Thirty bucks a night—cash. No checks or cards. You could pay for a night or a month. You didn't need ID. You just signed a giant ledger that nobody read or cared about. Zelda had come out to the coast from the Big Apple wanting to make it big in pictures but all she could get were roles on casting couches. One month she didn’t have the three-hundred bucks for the abortion so she had it. She remembered his name but told her son his father was dead. She worked her way through nursing school and worked thirty-three years as an R.N. at County Hospital where she unknowingly assisted doctors sterilize young Mexican women giving birth. The doctor wanted to make sure these women didn’t keep having more welfare babies. When she found out what she had been party to, Zelda took an early retirement and planned to spend her final years in the small tidy home she had bought in El Sereno and volunteering at the local community medical center. Her son, David, never amounted to much. College dropout, closeted alcoholic and meth addict. He drifted from job to job and never moved out. Angry that his mother wouldn’t co-sign a car loan for him, he took out a dozen credit cards in her name and rang up $300,000 in debt. She found out one day when the credit card companies served her with papers. They sued her and took her home and put a lien on her pension. After the bank foreclosed to pay the credit card companies, she still owed $70,000. The meager leftovers of her monthly pension are enough for her to pay for a room at the Barclay and to eat every other day. She figures eating only every other day helps her keep her svelte size 4 figure. Today was an "other" day. The sad clown in the painting mocked the two of them.
"No thanks, zelda. Remember the only time we played you beat me in five moves. I'm not going through that humiliation again."
"Come on ya sissy. grow a pair. you afraid of lil ol' zelda?" she loved to tease mateo. she preferred him to her own son. An ambulance and three police cars raced past the barclay down 4th street towards Los Angeles street. Mateo and Zelda barely noticed as these were common sounds in downtown L.A. at this time of day—that border between night and day when the city streets reveal its mysteries.
Zelda sipped her tea, practically water, made from yesterday's bag. She added a sliver of a cinnamon stick to give it some zing. Mateo rubbed his eyes.
"Another long night, Honey?"
"yup, you know that old song, 'so many men, so little time'?"
zelda chuckled, "of course, sweetie, zelda danced to that at circus when you were still in diapers!"
"Well, that's my life motto!" Mateo leaned over and kissed zelda on both cheeks. As he leaned over her, Mateo slipped a five dollar bill in the pocket of her housecoat. He knew she didn't eat regularly. she stroked his cheek. their mutual warmth helped to fill the void of their pasts.
"gotta get sleep, zelda. My shift starts in a few hours."
"bye, sugar. see you later," she turned her attention to another of the long time residents, an elderly black man who lost his home in baldwin hills during the housing crash of 2008 after he refinanced to help fund his children's college educations. he had even cashed out his pension in order to put his eldest through law school. All are successful professionals yet they provide no assistance to the vietnam veteran who worked double-shifts at the post office to purchase the spanish bungalow for his family. his absence was exceeded by the nights of violent drunkenness they endured cowering with their mother, now deceased. To them, roland williams, sr. might as well be dead, too. he had just received his chip for 1000 days sober at the local A/A chapter but had no one to help him celebrate this milestone. The other a/a members were his new family. he supplemented his social security check with work he procured from the local day labor center. it was getting harder to compete with the young men from south of the border. he was sweet on zelda, always trying to take her for a cup of coffee.
Roland smiled a toothy grin, "good morning, zelda, my lovely…So when are we…"
their voices trailed off as mateo entered the elevator to his single room on the 10th floor. he ignored the biblical rants from the portable television that the new front desk clerk was watching. he eyed mateo suspiciously every morning after he came in from his nightly hunts. a young indigenous man from guatemala whose parents were slaughtered during the genocide of the 1980s, marlon canul garcia had recently been converted to evangelical protestantism by a preacher who condemned sinners, especially homosexuals, to hell while he cheated on his wife with sex workers, evaded taxes, and snorted cocaine with his flock's generous donations.
mateo entered his cell of a room and washed the residue of the dozen or so men who all used him as a fluid receptacle but provided no intimacy. every time he tried to kiss one of these men, they rebuffed him and pushed his head and ass onto their penises. he allowed any man to use him as they wanted. before he entered the scalding hot shower, he caught a glimpse of the same police cars and ambulance parked near the entrance of klyt, the bathhouse he had emerged from earlier in the morning. hmmm, probably another o/d or dead transient in one of the rooms. more flophouse than bathhouse and the city's oldest, klyt offered 10 hours of protection from the elements for 10 bucks. mateo used it for the variety of working class men he craved. all straight, of course. I'll ask jerry what happened on my way to work. mateo worked temp office jobs that offered him just enough stability to support his chosen method of slow suicide—porn, poppers, bathhouses and sex clubs.
He never missed a night.
---
Paul fidgeted in his cramped seat in the waiting room at the Commerce location of Altamed, a series of medical service centers and clinics in southern California providing HIV specialty services targeting the Latina/o communities. he flipped through a copy of the local gay latino rag, ¡Adelante!, and flipped to the back pages that advertised the area's sex clubs and bathhouses. one ad featured the smooth buttocks of a young latino; paul had to use the magazine to cover his hard-on. Then he remembered why he was here. he had received an email from the department of health the day before warning him that he may have been exposed to one or more sexually transmitted infections from an unknown sexual partner. he was given a list of several testing locations and this was the most convenient to his job. Testing and results in less than 10 minutes—drive thru medical care. holding a middle management position at a state agency provided paul with comprehensive medical benefits but didn't want to go to his regular doctor in west l.a. the email stated, "someone who'd like to remain anonymous wants give you a heads up…" the friendly vernacular was designed to put the recipient at ease and encourage testing. paul stared at the ads, his desire growing. a young latino sitting across from paul stared at his crotch and gave him a knowing smile. the young latino was coming in for his usual bloodwork and a shot of penicillin for a nasty bout of syphilis. hiv-positive ever since he had to hustle santa monica blvd when his stepfather threw him out of the house at 14, luis had contracted every sti on numerous occasions. he never finished high school and at 23 was beginning to lose the luster of his boyish good looks. every night, younger and younger boys crowded the streets of east hollywood waiting for affection in the form of tens and fives, sometimes even a 20 but those were few and far between. luis wasn't sure how much longer he could survive. he recently had to give up his comfortable room at the barclay hotel in downtown l.a. because of the competition from the younger hustlers—some as young as 12—he had to lower his rate from 30 bucks to 20 for greek from 20 to 10 for french. luis got up and headed to the bathroom—he turned his head and gave a subtle head motion that communicated, follow me to the bathroom and I'll take care of your tension, papi. paul started to follow luis when a nurse opened the door, "patient number 424!" paul's desire shattered as he remembered this was his number, as if he were waiting on cold cuts at the deli counter. he walked through the serpent's mouth unsure of what lay ahead. the nurse, a tattoo necked, bleach blond chicana met his gaze and blurted, "come this way and the doctor will go over your results."
Doctor? why does the doctor need to see me? paul stared at the floor as he dodged medical personnel and other men of various ages who gave him a second glance. paul sat silently as the nurse checked his weight and vitals. "he'll be right with you," tattoo neck fled the room, leaving Paul to contemplate the last three months…Craigslist.com, SGV, Casual Encounters, MSM, "Young Latino seeking Older Latino Daddy for NSA fun. Tina's always welcome!"
He had no idea what "Tina" meant? A three-way with a woman? A drag queen named Tina? But he was intrigued by the full lips and smooth lithe frame contrasting his own barrel chested furry self. A salt and pepper beard, silver dollar nipples, and a set of beefy thighs complemented the "Daddy" look. He remembered that summer his cousin Gilbert spent at his house, sleeping in the same bed…come on primo, nobody'll every find out. No one ever did, but he had tried to repress his desires every since. Lately, they had been consuming him…until he met Miguel from the ad.
Knock, knock. "I'm Dr. Rodriguez. I'm afraid I have some bad news. You tested positive…[woman's scream]…hiv…[woman's sobbing]…hepatitis C…[woman's wailing].
The doctor's voice dissolved ino a pool of blackness as he focused on one face. I'm going to kill that son of a bitch Miguel.
---
Miguel's sphincter quivered as he thought of the sensory overload he was about to experience. It was Latino night at Midtowne Spa and the line wrapped around the corner. The guys working in the seafood warehouse next door made homophobic comments to each other as they gawked at the diverse crowd of men waiting to enter the mouth of the serpent. Despite the chilly May afternoon, Miguel wore a pair of tight short shorts that accented his full round ass. Some of the warehouse workers laughed at the fags in line but did a discreet double take at Miguel's ass. Damn I'd like a piece of that cherry pie, thought Joe as he helped packed boxes of frozen seafood. Miguel was ready. His Old Navy messenger bag held the ingredients to scale the heights of pleasure—poppers, meth, gun oil lube, a Fleet enema, leather blindfold, leather assless underwear, and handcuffs. Miguel had been experimenting with hardcore S & M lately and was not toeing a boundary he never thought he'd cross. Tonight, I'm gonna get fisted. His sphincter quivered again. Miguel handed the clerk, a jaded twenty-two year old tweaker, the cash and his ID. Every bathhouse required the swiping of a valid ID before entering in order to quell any impending STI breakout. The information was immediately logged by the LA County Department of Health.
"Back again so soon?" the jaded clerk asked.
"Bitch please," Miguel retorted, "you know you get my sloppy seconds…and thirds…"
The jaded clerk became mute and handed Miguel his room key, towel, and complimentary lube and condom. Miguel deliberately overlooked the condom but took the packet of lube. Miguel had come to the bathhouse directly from Altamed where he had bloodwork done every three months to monitor the virus thriving in his veins. Miguel, the latest treatment isn't working. You failed another regimen. There are no more medications that will work. You might have a good two to three years…Miguel blocked out his doctor's voice as he slipped out of his clothes and into the leather assless underwear he bought at Long Beach Pride the previous weekend. He took the Fleet enema and headed to the bathroom.
The bathhouse overflowed with men—a diverse crowd with one thing in common—a desire for Latino cock and ass. Several men cruised Miguel as he hurried to the bathroom. As his viral load increased, his diarrhea got worse. He locked himself in the last stall and relieved himself. After he completed the enema, he felt confident enough to cross the border that he had been fantasizing about for months. I want to get fisted.
He took a hit of meth in his room and grabbed the bottle of poppers.
He descended to the first floor, ignoring the would-be suitors. This was all about quantity. For $25, you got twelve hours to collect as much cock and ass as you could get. It was a sexual buffet.
He stood at the threshold of his destiny—the door descending to the pits of the bathhouse—the basement. Miguel's eyes adjusted to the blackness enveloping him as he navigated the steep staircase. The basement held a maze and there was only a soft red light that illuminated the one escape route from hell. Miguel wandered through this sexual wilderness as he groped and was groped. He stopped to give head to a faceless man whose moans were couched within the blasting techno music. As he was crouched, another man got on his knees and started to rim Miguel. Another man rammed his hard cock into the man rimming Miguel. A chorus of moans and manscents emanated from that interstitial space in the maze. Miguel felt a cock in his ass as he continued to blow multiple men. Miguel's ass was flooded with cum and the man withdrew. Another man eagerly fed on the trough that was Miguel's ass. The man who fucked Miguel fed his dick to another man. Miguel tore himself away from the group to find his true desire—the sling. It awaited him like the last present under the tree on Christmas morning. He maneuvered himself into the sling. The first congregant scooped a handful of Crisco and smeared his hand with it. He entered one, two, three fingers deep into Miguel's ass. The volume of Miguel's moans rivaled the techno music. Shadow men were lured by Miguel's siren song to the far end of the maze. Four fingers and then it happened. Miguel's ass swallowed the man's fist, transcending his bleak reality of AIDS, toxic meds, hyper-religious parents, a dead-end job, and countless cheating lovers. His cries nearly reached heaven. The congregant began to punch Miguel's ass until half of his forearm disappeared into Miguel approaching his elbow. A dozen men had fed their cocks to Miguel's mouth, covering his face in piss and cum. He had transformed into a fluid receptacle, willing orifices for other men's fury and despair.
After the first congregant withdrew his arm, several others approximated the severity of the first. Miguel kept asking for more as if wanting to be split into shards of himself, permanently shattered into fragments of reality.
In the shadows, a figure lingered.
The flock dispersed and Miguel was almost sated. One more…one more and I'll take a break and call that guy Paul. He was the only nice guy I've met in a long time. Miguel's thoughts shattered when a lone figure in vinyl emerged from the shadow, the shiny blackness of the material contrasting with that of the space. The man wore a mask that was zipped tight. No skin was visible. Miguel's ass could barely feel but his heart raced. One more…and this guy's a freak!
The masked man scooped Crisco and covered his vinyl glove. The ritual repeated itself as if he were praying the rosary. One, two, three, four fingers—then fist. Miguel had been so loosened, the fist entered with little difficulty. Something else entered Miguel that he hadn't expected. The masked man slid the brand new carpenter's nail from his palm to the middle of his index and middle fingers. The masked man began to pump his fist and when Miguel's moans and the soulless techno music both reached their crescendos, the masked man punched Miguel's ass with the nail as if it were the final one of the crucifixion. Miguel heard a POPPING noise that punctured his existence. Blackness overcame him until he was nothingness. No light. No grandmother greeting him. No memory. Just an erasure.
The masked man withdrew his fist releasing a torrent of blood, feces, and bile from Miguel's ass. The masked man, disgusted and satisfied, withdrew into the shadows. The ritual was over. More prey awaited.
--
Teodoro sat in his cubicle thoroughly frustrated, slamming the file cabinet closed.
Josie, the transgender counselor in the neighboring cubicle, poked her head in Teodoro's cube, "¿Todo bien, corazón?"
Teodoro nodded and turned back to his monitor, burying his face in his hands. Another HIV positive gay Latino co-infected with Hep C with a meth addiction who didn't seem to give a damn. His client disclosed a list of several dozen men he had had high-risk sex from the popular apps like Grinder and Scruff and from Craigslist. This little queen had the balls to fuck around with three dozen guys within a three month span but not to alert them as to his health status. Teodoro submitted their names to the Department of Health which sent them an anonymous email recommending a visit for STI testing. Teodoro, HIV-positive for the past decade, had changed careers from a certified public accountant to counselor to help other gay Latino men manage their conditions with dignity. Instead, he saw nothing but depravity.
"Andale, vamos a lonchar, mijito," Josie considered herself Teodoro's big sister and counseled him when he had man troubles, which was a full time job in itself.
"No, thanks, Josie. I don't feel like it," Teodoro protested.
"C'mon, mujer. We can cruise the construction workers at the lonchera."
"What for? They never look at me when you're around."
Josie blushed, knowing he spoke the truth. Josie had turned out more than one of those construction workers making them scream like a bitch when she fucked them with her big pinga, "Why don't you see another doctor?"
Teodoro turned away.
"Ok, mijo, quieres algo de la lonchera?"
Teodoro shook his head and smiled at the person who nursed him through his last bout of pneumocystis. Because of his lack of adherence to his regimens over the years and the lies from his supposed anonymous former lover, now deceased, Teodoro was resistant to all available drugs. He was waiting to hear back about being included in a trial for a new drug, but his doctor had warned him not to get his hopes up. His doctor gave him 24-30 good months before he would begin to develop AIDS-related illnesses like toxoplasmosis, cryptosporidosis, and crytptococcal meningitis. Fifty-two years old, estranged from his evangelical Protestant family, Teodoro stared at the sunken cheeks and distorted features from his once handsome face, a by-product of "AIDS wasting." Several plastic surgeries later had only made the situation worse. He faintly resembled the socialite, Jocelyn Wildenstein. Even though he spent hours sculpting his body and constantly maintained a gymnast's physique with only 7% body fat, that face of his drew shudders and gasps in even the darkest of bathhouse corridors. He recalled his last trip to the bathhouse, Klyt, the bottom rung of bathhouses in terms of quality of men. Teodoro met a young Latino in the steam room and led him to his room. Lights dimmed, Teodoro felt attractive again. He barebacked the youth and held him in his arms for a whole five minutes before the youth became restless. He wriggled out of Teodoro's embrace and before any protest could be made, he turned on the lights. The youth gasped and gagged at the sight of Teodoro's face, running from the room as if he had just invoked Bloody Mary.
Teodoro sat in the room for the rest of the allotted time contemplating suicide. Who would miss him? Not his family. Every greeting card was "returned to sender" and unopened. One of his cousins had told him that Teodoro's face was cut out of every picture, replaced by the face of Jesus on his shoulders. He wished he could cut his own face off. He laughed and cried at the thought. He tried to picture all the family photos on the walls of the small stucco house in El Sereno that erased his memory. What about his friends? Teodoro knew that the L.A. gay Latino scene did not support the idea of true friendship. Every alleged friend had either stolen money or a boyfriend from him. Before he got sick, Teodoro had a mad crush on a young guy, Gabriel, he and his friend, Elias, had met at Circus one Friday night. After a few dates, Teodoro was in love and thought Gabriel felt the same.
After their fifth date, thoughts of cohabitation, marriage, adoption, a dog and a cat began to occupy his conscious and unconscious minds. Until that one night. The week before he was going to propose, Gabriel had left his phone in Teodoro's car. Madly in love, he didn’t even think of snooping. Gabriel's phone kept chiming with text messages. Teodoro thought nothing of it until they continued to pour in well past midnight. Like the ticking metronome of his tell-tale heart, Teodoro grew mad with curiosity. The phone was locked but Teodoro was able to read a part of the last message—from Elias—"…want your ass bad baby…" Teodoro's world crumbled. He stopped taking his meds. He developed AIDS-related pneumonia and wasted away, resembling the Día de los Muertos calaveras he admired so. That was five years ago. Now, the only times he ventured out, besides his job at Bienestar Hollywood, an HIV services organization for the queer Latina/o community, were the trips in the middle of the night to Klyt and Midtowne, letting the night conceal his twisted face and soul.
---
Manuel peaked out of the tattered curtain in his rented room above the Klyt bathhouse. He had had a nice room at the Barclay with his wife and son until that day that she had walked in on him getting fucked by that tranny he met outside the lonchera from one of his construction jobs. Now, he could only afford this roach motel a block away. His wife destroyed all his shit and took all their money. She threatened him to take his son away if he didn't give her money to support them. His son, Manny, Jr., was his world and couldn't bear the thought of being separated from him. Every week, he made sure to pay the rent for the Barclay room. What was leftover was spent on this 10x7 cell, beer, and 59 cent tacos. He wondered about the men who came in and out of Klyt at all hours of the day. Some looked like day laborers like him and some looked like maricones. Getting fucked by that tranny awoke the same desires as when his tío used to fuck him that summer he stayed with him.
His phone beeped, alerting him to an email. He had no use for email except to sign up for free porn, but his son's school sent him messages regarding upcoming events and fundraisers.
---
Mateo stood stunned as he caught a glimpse of the young Latino man being hauled off on a gurney by two apathetic paramedics. A burly Black police officer blocked his egress from the cell of a room in the bathhouse. He had just seen the young Latino in the steam room a few hours earlier. They had messed around but realized they were both bottoms. No fun in bumping pussies. Mateo left him to another man who walked in as he left. He didn't get a good look at the man as he had to turn away to readjust his towel around his thinning waist. Over the next two hours, four men—one tranny—bred Mateo. The tranny switched from her woman's voice to a deeper, more masculine one with more bass as she fucked Mateo. "As soon as she pulled out—she had the biggest dick of all four men—she switched back to her feminine voice.
"Do you know about Bienestar?" squeaked out in a chola voice.
"Yes,"
"I'm a counselor there; come visit me. My name is Josie," She held out her hand like she wanted Mateo to kiss it. He gave her a fist bump. She wiped off her dick with Mateo's towel. "Have fun, mi'jo. Come see me," She shut the splintering door.
Mi'jo. No one's called me that since before my grandmother died. Mateo recalled that last time he had visited his grandmother after she suffered a massive stroke brought on by an advanced case of diabetes.
She stroked Mateo's hand and uttered through a mucous mouth, "Te quiero, mi'jo.'
He stayed until his father returned, yelling in a loud whisper, "Largate, pinche puto. No eres parte de esta familia." He walked passed his father through the arch of the doorway. Mateo's eyes never wavered from his father's, the man he had spent countless Saturday afternoons watching sports and doing yardwork. Only hate and contempt lived in his father's eyes now; the love and cariño extinguished. Mateo's eyes watered but he held his nerve. He left before he saw any other family members. None had ever sought him out except for one cousin who told him about the pictures but eventually relented to familial pressure and stopped returning Mateo's calls and texts. Mateo took his MP3 player out of his pants pocket and turned it on. His one extravagance, he listened to music before he showered to continue the sexhunt. The MP3 player continued the iconic song by the 80s dark synth group, Soft Cell, "Tainted Love."
"…run away, I've got to/get away from the pain you drive into the heart of me/the love we share/seems to go nowhere/and I've lost my light…"
Mateo's reverie was shattered by commotion right outside his door. The time on his MP3 player read 5:17 a.m. Oh shit, I better get outta here…the sunrise. He slung his towel over his shoulder to head towards the communal showers but was blocked by the Black police officer.
"No one is allowed to leave the premises," the cop blurted.
"What happened?"
"We're investigating a homocide."
The lingering patrons leered from their doorways like commuters braking to view an accident. Mateo gasped as the gurney chortled by, the sheet soaked with blood barely covered his face. As the gurney struggled over the uneven tile floor, Mateo saw a giant dildo protruding from the young man's ass. The EMTs' faces housed apathy. When the gurney left Klyt, the police officers followed suit. The Black cop blared into the ancient intercom system, "Ok, gentlemen. Klyt is closing. Get dressed to be interviewed by a police detective."
Sunrise! The light! Mateo got dressed and nervously answered the detective's questions. It was a dead night so Mateo was probably one of the last patrons to see the young man alive. That other guy! He scanned the other patrons waiting to be questioned. They were all regulars. And bottoms. Who was that guy? There was something strange about him. Beyond the typical strangeness of the inhabitants of this world. "I've never seen that guy before," he told the butch Chicana lesbian detective. He responded to her questions more freely as she had a way to make people open up. Mateo's skin felt an uncomfortable warmth from the sun's rays.
"Ok. Here's my card. Call me if you think of anything else," Detective Elisa Villanueva repeated in an official but warm tone, thinking of her beloved younger brother, Simon, who died of AIDS complications a few years earlier. She could see the good looks buried in the creases under Mateo's eyes. Simon would've liked him. Detective Villanueva couldn't help but assume that Mateo was negotiating the disease, too. She remembered how she held her brother's hand in the hospice in Austin, Texas. Christopher House it was called. Closed now because of the survival rate of HIV+ men. Her brother, however, made too much money to qualify for any state programs and his job didn't provide health insurance. A month's medications cost nearly three thousand dollars. Once the news broke about his diagnosis, the family shunned him as they were afraid of breathing the same air. Their parents, still in El Paso, never visited him in the hospice and listed the cause of death as an "accident." Elisa visited him every day after her shift, and she quickly became a welcome sight for the other residents, many of whom, she noticed, never had any visitors. Three months into his stay, he resembled a Day of the Dead calaca. His once chubby cheeks were hollow pits of despair. The last few weeks were the hardest of Elisa's life. Simon's body was ravaged by opportunistic infections—the toxoplasmosis blinded him in one eye and dementia began to set in; the cryptosporidosis gave him constant diarrhea and nausea; and the pneumocystis gave him burning coughing fits. The fluid in his lungs made him sound like he was drowning when he tried to speak about memories of their childhood in Ysleta, Texas. "Remember, Licha? We would get raspas at Shaver Park every day during the summer. Red for me. Blue for you." Elisa remembered her brother liked the red because the syrup made it look like he had red lipstick on, granting him license to kiss boys. Elisa stroked his hand and affirmed his memories, whether or not they happened.
The last week, he thought Elisa was their mother. Elisa begged their mother to see him but she refused. "Ay, Mami, why did you cut your beautiful hair so short?" He lamented with his one good eye.
"¿Con este calor? Why would I want long hair?"
"All the cute boys like Papi like girls with long hair."
Hours before his exit, the hospice threw a "Bon Voyage" party for Simon, as its staff did for all its patients nearing the end. There was cake that she had special delivered from Greggerson's Bakery in El Paso and Red Hawaiian punch and Elisa had even turned her oven on to make a batch of biscochos. Simon, now completely blind and suffering from dementia, smiled when Elisa put his party hat on and the staff and patients blew the favors and yelled, "Bon Voyage, Simon."
As Elisa was about to wheel her brother back to his room, Dwight, a Black middle-aged patient who was sweet on Elisa grabbed Simon's hand and told him, "Bring me back something nice." Simon just smiled.
A few hours later, Simon took his final breath with his protective big sister clutching one hand and stroking his cheek. Memories of Simon tortured Elisa; the transfer to L.A.P.D. had not blunted the severity.
Who will hold Mateo's hand when it's his time? "Make sure to call me with anything you might remember," Detective Villanueva reminded him.
---
The hunter hummed a tune walking through his front door. His Casio beeped. Time for meds. After downing the four pills comprising his cocktail, the hunter studied the list on the fridge, a chart of names and faces downloaded from gay hook-up apps and sites cross-listed with names from the department of health. With a red Magic Marker, he crossed out the face of Miguel Salazar and drew a line through his name. The progress was slow but steady. Satiated, the hunter sang, "…this tainted love you've given, I give you all a boy could give you, take my tears and that's not nearly all…"
His Casio beeped. Time for meds.
---
Mateo panted as he collapsed in the lobby of the Barclay Hotel. He treated the rising sun's rays as if he were a vampire. He almost didn't make it this time. That last guy took forever to cum. Too much crystal or poppers. Mateo felt the familiar discomfort in his ass.
Zelda, the Barclay's own Garry Kasparov, flagged him over as he picked himself up from the art deco floor. "Matt, sweetie, are you ok? Wanna play Zelda?" She always referred to herself in the third person, one of the quirks of being the eccentric tenant in a once-grand hotel that survived off the crumpled ones and fives from day laborers, the elderly on a fixed income, and the rest of downtown L.A.'s expendables that could barely keep their heads above water. A place like this was just one step above Skid Row. And the tenants knew it. Thirty bucks a night—cash. No checks or cards. You could pay for a night or a month. You didn't need ID. You just signed a giant ledger that nobody read or cared about. Zelda had come out to the coast from the Big Apple wanting to make it big in pictures but all she could get were roles on casting couches. One month she didn’t have the three-hundred bucks for the abortion so she had it. She remembered his name but told her son his father was dead. She worked her way through nursing school and worked thirty-three years as an R.N. at County Hospital where she unknowingly assisted doctors sterilize young Mexican women giving birth. The doctor wanted to make sure these women didn’t keep having more welfare babies. When she found out what she had been party to, Zelda took an early retirement and planned to spend her final years in the small tidy home she had bought in El Sereno and volunteering at the local community medical center. Her son, David, never amounted to much. College dropout, closeted alcoholic and meth addict. He drifted from job to job and never moved out. Angry that his mother wouldn’t co-sign a car loan for him, he took out a dozen credit cards in her name and rang up $300,000 in debt. She found out one day when the credit card companies served her with papers. They sued her and took her home and put a lien on her pension. After the bank foreclosed to pay the credit card companies, she still owed $70,000. The meager leftovers of her monthly pension are enough for her to pay for a room at the Barclay and to eat every other day. She figures eating only every other day helps her keep her svelte size 4 figure. Today was an "other" day. The sad clown in the painting mocked the two of them.
"No thanks, zelda. Remember the only time we played you beat me in five moves. I'm not going through that humiliation again."
"Come on ya sissy. grow a pair. you afraid of lil ol' zelda?" she loved to tease mateo. she preferred him to her own son. An ambulance and three police cars raced past the barclay down 4th street towards Los Angeles street. Mateo and Zelda barely noticed as these were common sounds in downtown L.A. at this time of day—that border between night and day when the city streets reveal its mysteries.
Zelda sipped her tea, practically water, made from yesterday's bag. She added a sliver of a cinnamon stick to give it some zing. Mateo rubbed his eyes.
"Another long night, Honey?"
"yup, you know that old song, 'so many men, so little time'?"
zelda chuckled, "of course, sweetie, zelda danced to that at circus when you were still in diapers!"
"Well, that's my life motto!" Mateo leaned over and kissed zelda on both cheeks. As he leaned over her, Mateo slipped a five dollar bill in the pocket of her housecoat. He knew she didn't eat regularly. she stroked his cheek. their mutual warmth helped to fill the void of their pasts.
"gotta get sleep, zelda. My shift starts in a few hours."
"bye, sugar. see you later," she turned her attention to another of the long time residents, an elderly black man who lost his home in baldwin hills during the housing crash of 2008 after he refinanced to help fund his children's college educations. he had even cashed out his pension in order to put his eldest through law school. All are successful professionals yet they provide no assistance to the vietnam veteran who worked double-shifts at the post office to purchase the spanish bungalow for his family. his absence was exceeded by the nights of violent drunkenness they endured cowering with their mother, now deceased. To them, roland williams, sr. might as well be dead, too. he had just received his chip for 1000 days sober at the local A/A chapter but had no one to help him celebrate this milestone. The other a/a members were his new family. he supplemented his social security check with work he procured from the local day labor center. it was getting harder to compete with the young men from south of the border. he was sweet on zelda, always trying to take her for a cup of coffee.
Roland smiled a toothy grin, "good morning, zelda, my lovely…So when are we…"
their voices trailed off as mateo entered the elevator to his single room on the 10th floor. he ignored the biblical rants from the portable television that the new front desk clerk was watching. he eyed mateo suspiciously every morning after he came in from his nightly hunts. a young indigenous man from guatemala whose parents were slaughtered during the genocide of the 1980s, marlon canul garcia had recently been converted to evangelical protestantism by a preacher who condemned sinners, especially homosexuals, to hell while he cheated on his wife with sex workers, evaded taxes, and snorted cocaine with his flock's generous donations.
mateo entered his cell of a room and washed the residue of the dozen or so men who all used him as a fluid receptacle but provided no intimacy. every time he tried to kiss one of these men, they rebuffed him and pushed his head and ass onto their penises. he allowed any man to use him as they wanted. before he entered the scalding hot shower, he caught a glimpse of the same police cars and ambulance parked near the entrance of klyt, the bathhouse he had emerged from earlier in the morning. hmmm, probably another o/d or dead transient in one of the rooms. more flophouse than bathhouse and the city's oldest, klyt offered 10 hours of protection from the elements for 10 bucks. mateo used it for the variety of working class men he craved. all straight, of course. I'll ask jerry what happened on my way to work. mateo worked temp office jobs that offered him just enough stability to support his chosen method of slow suicide—porn, poppers, bathhouses and sex clubs.
He never missed a night.
---
Paul fidgeted in his cramped seat in the waiting room at the Commerce location of Altamed, a series of medical service centers and clinics in southern California providing HIV specialty services targeting the Latina/o communities. he flipped through a copy of the local gay latino rag, ¡Adelante!, and flipped to the back pages that advertised the area's sex clubs and bathhouses. one ad featured the smooth buttocks of a young latino; paul had to use the magazine to cover his hard-on. Then he remembered why he was here. he had received an email from the department of health the day before warning him that he may have been exposed to one or more sexually transmitted infections from an unknown sexual partner. he was given a list of several testing locations and this was the most convenient to his job. Testing and results in less than 10 minutes—drive thru medical care. holding a middle management position at a state agency provided paul with comprehensive medical benefits but didn't want to go to his regular doctor in west l.a. the email stated, "someone who'd like to remain anonymous wants give you a heads up…" the friendly vernacular was designed to put the recipient at ease and encourage testing. paul stared at the ads, his desire growing. a young latino sitting across from paul stared at his crotch and gave him a knowing smile. the young latino was coming in for his usual bloodwork and a shot of penicillin for a nasty bout of syphilis. hiv-positive ever since he had to hustle santa monica blvd when his stepfather threw him out of the house at 14, luis had contracted every sti on numerous occasions. he never finished high school and at 23 was beginning to lose the luster of his boyish good looks. every night, younger and younger boys crowded the streets of east hollywood waiting for affection in the form of tens and fives, sometimes even a 20 but those were few and far between. luis wasn't sure how much longer he could survive. he recently had to give up his comfortable room at the barclay hotel in downtown l.a. because of the competition from the younger hustlers—some as young as 12—he had to lower his rate from 30 bucks to 20 for greek from 20 to 10 for french. luis got up and headed to the bathroom—he turned his head and gave a subtle head motion that communicated, follow me to the bathroom and I'll take care of your tension, papi. paul started to follow luis when a nurse opened the door, "patient number 424!" paul's desire shattered as he remembered this was his number, as if he were waiting on cold cuts at the deli counter. he walked through the serpent's mouth unsure of what lay ahead. the nurse, a tattoo necked, bleach blond chicana met his gaze and blurted, "come this way and the doctor will go over your results."
Doctor? why does the doctor need to see me? paul stared at the floor as he dodged medical personnel and other men of various ages who gave him a second glance. paul sat silently as the nurse checked his weight and vitals. "he'll be right with you," tattoo neck fled the room, leaving Paul to contemplate the last three months…Craigslist.com, SGV, Casual Encounters, MSM, "Young Latino seeking Older Latino Daddy for NSA fun. Tina's always welcome!"
He had no idea what "Tina" meant? A three-way with a woman? A drag queen named Tina? But he was intrigued by the full lips and smooth lithe frame contrasting his own barrel chested furry self. A salt and pepper beard, silver dollar nipples, and a set of beefy thighs complemented the "Daddy" look. He remembered that summer his cousin Gilbert spent at his house, sleeping in the same bed…come on primo, nobody'll every find out. No one ever did, but he had tried to repress his desires every since. Lately, they had been consuming him…until he met Miguel from the ad.
Knock, knock. "I'm Dr. Rodriguez. I'm afraid I have some bad news. You tested positive…[woman's scream]…hiv…[woman's sobbing]…hepatitis C…[woman's wailing].
The doctor's voice dissolved ino a pool of blackness as he focused on one face. I'm going to kill that son of a bitch Miguel.
---
Miguel's sphincter quivered as he thought of the sensory overload he was about to experience. It was Latino night at Midtowne Spa and the line wrapped around the corner. The guys working in the seafood warehouse next door made homophobic comments to each other as they gawked at the diverse crowd of men waiting to enter the mouth of the serpent. Despite the chilly May afternoon, Miguel wore a pair of tight short shorts that accented his full round ass. Some of the warehouse workers laughed at the fags in line but did a discreet double take at Miguel's ass. Damn I'd like a piece of that cherry pie, thought Joe as he helped packed boxes of frozen seafood. Miguel was ready. His Old Navy messenger bag held the ingredients to scale the heights of pleasure—poppers, meth, gun oil lube, a Fleet enema, leather blindfold, leather assless underwear, and handcuffs. Miguel had been experimenting with hardcore S & M lately and was not toeing a boundary he never thought he'd cross. Tonight, I'm gonna get fisted. His sphincter quivered again. Miguel handed the clerk, a jaded twenty-two year old tweaker, the cash and his ID. Every bathhouse required the swiping of a valid ID before entering in order to quell any impending STI breakout. The information was immediately logged by the LA County Department of Health.
"Back again so soon?" the jaded clerk asked.
"Bitch please," Miguel retorted, "you know you get my sloppy seconds…and thirds…"
The jaded clerk became mute and handed Miguel his room key, towel, and complimentary lube and condom. Miguel deliberately overlooked the condom but took the packet of lube. Miguel had come to the bathhouse directly from Altamed where he had bloodwork done every three months to monitor the virus thriving in his veins. Miguel, the latest treatment isn't working. You failed another regimen. There are no more medications that will work. You might have a good two to three years…Miguel blocked out his doctor's voice as he slipped out of his clothes and into the leather assless underwear he bought at Long Beach Pride the previous weekend. He took the Fleet enema and headed to the bathroom.
The bathhouse overflowed with men—a diverse crowd with one thing in common—a desire for Latino cock and ass. Several men cruised Miguel as he hurried to the bathroom. As his viral load increased, his diarrhea got worse. He locked himself in the last stall and relieved himself. After he completed the enema, he felt confident enough to cross the border that he had been fantasizing about for months. I want to get fisted.
He took a hit of meth in his room and grabbed the bottle of poppers.
He descended to the first floor, ignoring the would-be suitors. This was all about quantity. For $25, you got twelve hours to collect as much cock and ass as you could get. It was a sexual buffet.
He stood at the threshold of his destiny—the door descending to the pits of the bathhouse—the basement. Miguel's eyes adjusted to the blackness enveloping him as he navigated the steep staircase. The basement held a maze and there was only a soft red light that illuminated the one escape route from hell. Miguel wandered through this sexual wilderness as he groped and was groped. He stopped to give head to a faceless man whose moans were couched within the blasting techno music. As he was crouched, another man got on his knees and started to rim Miguel. Another man rammed his hard cock into the man rimming Miguel. A chorus of moans and manscents emanated from that interstitial space in the maze. Miguel felt a cock in his ass as he continued to blow multiple men. Miguel's ass was flooded with cum and the man withdrew. Another man eagerly fed on the trough that was Miguel's ass. The man who fucked Miguel fed his dick to another man. Miguel tore himself away from the group to find his true desire—the sling. It awaited him like the last present under the tree on Christmas morning. He maneuvered himself into the sling. The first congregant scooped a handful of Crisco and smeared his hand with it. He entered one, two, three fingers deep into Miguel's ass. The volume of Miguel's moans rivaled the techno music. Shadow men were lured by Miguel's siren song to the far end of the maze. Four fingers and then it happened. Miguel's ass swallowed the man's fist, transcending his bleak reality of AIDS, toxic meds, hyper-religious parents, a dead-end job, and countless cheating lovers. His cries nearly reached heaven. The congregant began to punch Miguel's ass until half of his forearm disappeared into Miguel approaching his elbow. A dozen men had fed their cocks to Miguel's mouth, covering his face in piss and cum. He had transformed into a fluid receptacle, willing orifices for other men's fury and despair.
After the first congregant withdrew his arm, several others approximated the severity of the first. Miguel kept asking for more as if wanting to be split into shards of himself, permanently shattered into fragments of reality.
In the shadows, a figure lingered.
The flock dispersed and Miguel was almost sated. One more…one more and I'll take a break and call that guy Paul. He was the only nice guy I've met in a long time. Miguel's thoughts shattered when a lone figure in vinyl emerged from the shadow, the shiny blackness of the material contrasting with that of the space. The man wore a mask that was zipped tight. No skin was visible. Miguel's ass could barely feel but his heart raced. One more…and this guy's a freak!
The masked man scooped Crisco and covered his vinyl glove. The ritual repeated itself as if he were praying the rosary. One, two, three, four fingers—then fist. Miguel had been so loosened, the fist entered with little difficulty. Something else entered Miguel that he hadn't expected. The masked man slid the brand new carpenter's nail from his palm to the middle of his index and middle fingers. The masked man began to pump his fist and when Miguel's moans and the soulless techno music both reached their crescendos, the masked man punched Miguel's ass with the nail as if it were the final one of the crucifixion. Miguel heard a POPPING noise that punctured his existence. Blackness overcame him until he was nothingness. No light. No grandmother greeting him. No memory. Just an erasure.
The masked man withdrew his fist releasing a torrent of blood, feces, and bile from Miguel's ass. The masked man, disgusted and satisfied, withdrew into the shadows. The ritual was over. More prey awaited.
--
Teodoro sat in his cubicle thoroughly frustrated, slamming the file cabinet closed.
Josie, the transgender counselor in the neighboring cubicle, poked her head in Teodoro's cube, "¿Todo bien, corazón?"
Teodoro nodded and turned back to his monitor, burying his face in his hands. Another HIV positive gay Latino co-infected with Hep C with a meth addiction who didn't seem to give a damn. His client disclosed a list of several dozen men he had had high-risk sex from the popular apps like Grinder and Scruff and from Craigslist. This little queen had the balls to fuck around with three dozen guys within a three month span but not to alert them as to his health status. Teodoro submitted their names to the Department of Health which sent them an anonymous email recommending a visit for STI testing. Teodoro, HIV-positive for the past decade, had changed careers from a certified public accountant to counselor to help other gay Latino men manage their conditions with dignity. Instead, he saw nothing but depravity.
"Andale, vamos a lonchar, mijito," Josie considered herself Teodoro's big sister and counseled him when he had man troubles, which was a full time job in itself.
"No, thanks, Josie. I don't feel like it," Teodoro protested.
"C'mon, mujer. We can cruise the construction workers at the lonchera."
"What for? They never look at me when you're around."
Josie blushed, knowing he spoke the truth. Josie had turned out more than one of those construction workers making them scream like a bitch when she fucked them with her big pinga, "Why don't you see another doctor?"
Teodoro turned away.
"Ok, mijo, quieres algo de la lonchera?"
Teodoro shook his head and smiled at the person who nursed him through his last bout of pneumocystis. Because of his lack of adherence to his regimens over the years and the lies from his supposed anonymous former lover, now deceased, Teodoro was resistant to all available drugs. He was waiting to hear back about being included in a trial for a new drug, but his doctor had warned him not to get his hopes up. His doctor gave him 24-30 good months before he would begin to develop AIDS-related illnesses like toxoplasmosis, cryptosporidosis, and crytptococcal meningitis. Fifty-two years old, estranged from his evangelical Protestant family, Teodoro stared at the sunken cheeks and distorted features from his once handsome face, a by-product of "AIDS wasting." Several plastic surgeries later had only made the situation worse. He faintly resembled the socialite, Jocelyn Wildenstein. Even though he spent hours sculpting his body and constantly maintained a gymnast's physique with only 7% body fat, that face of his drew shudders and gasps in even the darkest of bathhouse corridors. He recalled his last trip to the bathhouse, Klyt, the bottom rung of bathhouses in terms of quality of men. Teodoro met a young Latino in the steam room and led him to his room. Lights dimmed, Teodoro felt attractive again. He barebacked the youth and held him in his arms for a whole five minutes before the youth became restless. He wriggled out of Teodoro's embrace and before any protest could be made, he turned on the lights. The youth gasped and gagged at the sight of Teodoro's face, running from the room as if he had just invoked Bloody Mary.
Teodoro sat in the room for the rest of the allotted time contemplating suicide. Who would miss him? Not his family. Every greeting card was "returned to sender" and unopened. One of his cousins had told him that Teodoro's face was cut out of every picture, replaced by the face of Jesus on his shoulders. He wished he could cut his own face off. He laughed and cried at the thought. He tried to picture all the family photos on the walls of the small stucco house in El Sereno that erased his memory. What about his friends? Teodoro knew that the L.A. gay Latino scene did not support the idea of true friendship. Every alleged friend had either stolen money or a boyfriend from him. Before he got sick, Teodoro had a mad crush on a young guy, Gabriel, he and his friend, Elias, had met at Circus one Friday night. After a few dates, Teodoro was in love and thought Gabriel felt the same.
After their fifth date, thoughts of cohabitation, marriage, adoption, a dog and a cat began to occupy his conscious and unconscious minds. Until that one night. The week before he was going to propose, Gabriel had left his phone in Teodoro's car. Madly in love, he didn’t even think of snooping. Gabriel's phone kept chiming with text messages. Teodoro thought nothing of it until they continued to pour in well past midnight. Like the ticking metronome of his tell-tale heart, Teodoro grew mad with curiosity. The phone was locked but Teodoro was able to read a part of the last message—from Elias—"…want your ass bad baby…" Teodoro's world crumbled. He stopped taking his meds. He developed AIDS-related pneumonia and wasted away, resembling the Día de los Muertos calaveras he admired so. That was five years ago. Now, the only times he ventured out, besides his job at Bienestar Hollywood, an HIV services organization for the queer Latina/o community, were the trips in the middle of the night to Klyt and Midtowne, letting the night conceal his twisted face and soul.
---
Manuel peaked out of the tattered curtain in his rented room above the Klyt bathhouse. He had had a nice room at the Barclay with his wife and son until that day that she had walked in on him getting fucked by that tranny he met outside the lonchera from one of his construction jobs. Now, he could only afford this roach motel a block away. His wife destroyed all his shit and took all their money. She threatened him to take his son away if he didn't give her money to support them. His son, Manny, Jr., was his world and couldn't bear the thought of being separated from him. Every week, he made sure to pay the rent for the Barclay room. What was leftover was spent on this 10x7 cell, beer, and 59 cent tacos. He wondered about the men who came in and out of Klyt at all hours of the day. Some looked like day laborers like him and some looked like maricones. Getting fucked by that tranny awoke the same desires as when his tío used to fuck him that summer he stayed with him.
His phone beeped, alerting him to an email. He had no use for email except to sign up for free porn, but his son's school sent him messages regarding upcoming events and fundraisers.
---
Mateo stood stunned as he caught a glimpse of the young Latino man being hauled off on a gurney by two apathetic paramedics. A burly Black police officer blocked his egress from the cell of a room in the bathhouse. He had just seen the young Latino in the steam room a few hours earlier. They had messed around but realized they were both bottoms. No fun in bumping pussies. Mateo left him to another man who walked in as he left. He didn't get a good look at the man as he had to turn away to readjust his towel around his thinning waist. Over the next two hours, four men—one tranny—bred Mateo. The tranny switched from her woman's voice to a deeper, more masculine one with more bass as she fucked Mateo. "As soon as she pulled out—she had the biggest dick of all four men—she switched back to her feminine voice.
"Do you know about Bienestar?" squeaked out in a chola voice.
"Yes,"
"I'm a counselor there; come visit me. My name is Josie," She held out her hand like she wanted Mateo to kiss it. He gave her a fist bump. She wiped off her dick with Mateo's towel. "Have fun, mi'jo. Come see me," She shut the splintering door.
Mi'jo. No one's called me that since before my grandmother died. Mateo recalled that last time he had visited his grandmother after she suffered a massive stroke brought on by an advanced case of diabetes.
She stroked Mateo's hand and uttered through a mucous mouth, "Te quiero, mi'jo.'
He stayed until his father returned, yelling in a loud whisper, "Largate, pinche puto. No eres parte de esta familia." He walked passed his father through the arch of the doorway. Mateo's eyes never wavered from his father's, the man he had spent countless Saturday afternoons watching sports and doing yardwork. Only hate and contempt lived in his father's eyes now; the love and cariño extinguished. Mateo's eyes watered but he held his nerve. He left before he saw any other family members. None had ever sought him out except for one cousin who told him about the pictures but eventually relented to familial pressure and stopped returning Mateo's calls and texts. Mateo took his MP3 player out of his pants pocket and turned it on. His one extravagance, he listened to music before he showered to continue the sexhunt. The MP3 player continued the iconic song by the 80s dark synth group, Soft Cell, "Tainted Love."
"…run away, I've got to/get away from the pain you drive into the heart of me/the love we share/seems to go nowhere/and I've lost my light…"
Mateo's reverie was shattered by commotion right outside his door. The time on his MP3 player read 5:17 a.m. Oh shit, I better get outta here…the sunrise. He slung his towel over his shoulder to head towards the communal showers but was blocked by the Black police officer.
"No one is allowed to leave the premises," the cop blurted.
"What happened?"
"We're investigating a homocide."
The lingering patrons leered from their doorways like commuters braking to view an accident. Mateo gasped as the gurney chortled by, the sheet soaked with blood barely covered his face. As the gurney struggled over the uneven tile floor, Mateo saw a giant dildo protruding from the young man's ass. The EMTs' faces housed apathy. When the gurney left Klyt, the police officers followed suit. The Black cop blared into the ancient intercom system, "Ok, gentlemen. Klyt is closing. Get dressed to be interviewed by a police detective."
Sunrise! The light! Mateo got dressed and nervously answered the detective's questions. It was a dead night so Mateo was probably one of the last patrons to see the young man alive. That other guy! He scanned the other patrons waiting to be questioned. They were all regulars. And bottoms. Who was that guy? There was something strange about him. Beyond the typical strangeness of the inhabitants of this world. "I've never seen that guy before," he told the butch Chicana lesbian detective. He responded to her questions more freely as she had a way to make people open up. Mateo's skin felt an uncomfortable warmth from the sun's rays.
"Ok. Here's my card. Call me if you think of anything else," Detective Elisa Villanueva repeated in an official but warm tone, thinking of her beloved younger brother, Simon, who died of AIDS complications a few years earlier. She could see the good looks buried in the creases under Mateo's eyes. Simon would've liked him. Detective Villanueva couldn't help but assume that Mateo was negotiating the disease, too. She remembered how she held her brother's hand in the hospice in Austin, Texas. Christopher House it was called. Closed now because of the survival rate of HIV+ men. Her brother, however, made too much money to qualify for any state programs and his job didn't provide health insurance. A month's medications cost nearly three thousand dollars. Once the news broke about his diagnosis, the family shunned him as they were afraid of breathing the same air. Their parents, still in El Paso, never visited him in the hospice and listed the cause of death as an "accident." Elisa visited him every day after her shift, and she quickly became a welcome sight for the other residents, many of whom, she noticed, never had any visitors. Three months into his stay, he resembled a Day of the Dead calaca. His once chubby cheeks were hollow pits of despair. The last few weeks were the hardest of Elisa's life. Simon's body was ravaged by opportunistic infections—the toxoplasmosis blinded him in one eye and dementia began to set in; the cryptosporidosis gave him constant diarrhea and nausea; and the pneumocystis gave him burning coughing fits. The fluid in his lungs made him sound like he was drowning when he tried to speak about memories of their childhood in Ysleta, Texas. "Remember, Licha? We would get raspas at Shaver Park every day during the summer. Red for me. Blue for you." Elisa remembered her brother liked the red because the syrup made it look like he had red lipstick on, granting him license to kiss boys. Elisa stroked his hand and affirmed his memories, whether or not they happened.
The last week, he thought Elisa was their mother. Elisa begged their mother to see him but she refused. "Ay, Mami, why did you cut your beautiful hair so short?" He lamented with his one good eye.
"¿Con este calor? Why would I want long hair?"
"All the cute boys like Papi like girls with long hair."
Hours before his exit, the hospice threw a "Bon Voyage" party for Simon, as its staff did for all its patients nearing the end. There was cake that she had special delivered from Greggerson's Bakery in El Paso and Red Hawaiian punch and Elisa had even turned her oven on to make a batch of biscochos. Simon, now completely blind and suffering from dementia, smiled when Elisa put his party hat on and the staff and patients blew the favors and yelled, "Bon Voyage, Simon."
As Elisa was about to wheel her brother back to his room, Dwight, a Black middle-aged patient who was sweet on Elisa grabbed Simon's hand and told him, "Bring me back something nice." Simon just smiled.
A few hours later, Simon took his final breath with his protective big sister clutching one hand and stroking his cheek. Memories of Simon tortured Elisa; the transfer to L.A.P.D. had not blunted the severity.
Who will hold Mateo's hand when it's his time? "Make sure to call me with anything you might remember," Detective Villanueva reminded him.
---
The hunter hummed a tune walking through his front door. His Casio beeped. Time for meds. After downing the four pills comprising his cocktail, the hunter studied the list on the fridge, a chart of names and faces downloaded from gay hook-up apps and sites cross-listed with names from the department of health. With a red Magic Marker, he crossed out the face of Miguel Salazar and drew a line through his name. The progress was slow but steady. Satiated, the hunter sang, "…this tainted love you've given, I give you all a boy could give you, take my tears and that's not nearly all…"