Our Rooms of Sweat above Hotel Las Piemas Del Burdel (2008)

PhotoCollage:

I come here to the Revolucion Park in the middle of downtown Mazatlan to pound away at this laptop that sweats along with the rest of us. Living things.

Two blocks away and around the corner from El Mercado -- Teniente Azueta and Leandro Valle -- the Hotel Las Piemas Del Burdel with its eternal ceiling fans seems to almost melt in this humid soaking-wet jungle heat.

I come here to write while Gamma Ray fucks the local men who arrive upstairs at our room to receive their piece of her.

I cannot be her pimp even if she wanted me to and she did. "It's just not me," I said.

She shrugs.

We left Los Angeles that July and drove to Mazatlan. She swore it was where the money was.

Right.

I tend to believe a lot of things people tell me. Especially when it's convenient and ...

Full Description

PhotoCollage:

I come here to the Revolucion Park in the middle of downtown Mazatlan to pound away at this laptop that sweats along with the rest of us. Living things.

Two blocks away and around the corner from El Mercado -- Teniente Azueta and Leandro Valle -- the Hotel Las Piemas Del Burdel with its eternal ceiling fans seems to almost melt in this humid soaking-wet jungle heat.

I come here to write while Gamma Ray fucks the local men who arrive upstairs at our room to receive their piece of her.

I cannot be her pimp even if she wanted me to and she did. "It's just not me," I said.

She shrugs.

We left Los Angeles that July and drove to Mazatlan. She swore it was where the money was.

Right.

I tend to believe a lot of things people tell me. Especially when it's convenient and the deal was I would write and Gamma Ray would support us.

Art, you know.

Yes. Gamma Ray is her real name. Her parents were hippies from somewhere in the South.

Billy and Bella Ray.

"No," I said.

"Trust me," Gamma Ray explained.

I didn't mind that all the men in Mazatlan wanted to fuck her. I wanted to fuck her. She smelled of sweat, lime, and her gypsy dress.

All she owned was that gypsy dress.

I do not mind sitting here in Revolucion Park banging away on this goddamn thing.

It will rain (it always does) in an hour. And we will run over to the balcony above the central market and drown our sorrows in a river of Tecate and chips.

Boys will come by with Mexican blankets but we will only smile and will not buy one.

Blankets in this heat.

I bought a parrot from a foul-mouthed Brit who sold parrots he trained to speak and not in Spanish. The parrot's name is Eduardo and he's green.

Every afternoon I get the Eduardo report: Awwk, she took it up the ass today.

Thank you, Eduardo.

"He never misses a thing, does he," Gamma Ray observed. A little dryly.

"No."

Eduardo is the sex police.

We paint at night in the light outside the balcony window. Sort of yellow from the street.

The color of chips.

Not Tecate which is too dark as colors go to compare it to the light.

We feed Eduardo peanuts and listen to the whores scream blood in the other rooms below us.

We wanted the top room. You pay extra.

It's worth the view.

The mattress on the bed sort of caves in in the middle. We roll into each other at night and wake up laughing.

Can you say you wake up laughing.

Eduardo wants a peanut. Eduardo wants a peanut.

Eduardo speaks Brit-Gringo. No Mexican would have him.

The sex police never shut up.

The black clouds are rolling in from the blue Pacific.

Sometimes I dance the two blocks back to the corner of Teniente Azueta and Leandro Valle.

Steam rising from the sidewalk in front of Hotel Las Piemas Del Burdel.

I just can't become a pimp. It's not in me.

The Tecate will be cold today. Viva La Revolucion.

In the balcony above the central market of Mazatlan.

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