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When Morning Touches Your Face
By
Matthew R K Haynes
Your eyes open to the summer morning. The sun is just beginning to cut through the smog, red beams illuminating the city with hazy superficial light, shadows cast on dumpsters and walls.
A yellow cat with black, barbecued stripes sniffs your ear and licks the not-yet-dry blood from your left temple. You jerk your head and the cat runs into a box. There is a wheeze in your breathing-the sound of an air conditioner on a quiet sun-baked day. Rodent noises arise from the man hole next to you. Half of your body is hidden under the remnants of other people’s pizza boxes, magazines, toilet tissue and tampons. The left half is exposed. A black dress sock with a hole showing your white, big toe clings to your foot while the knee on your gabardine trousers is ripped, holding no form. Your silk Versace print shirt is spotted with dirt and blood.
You move your legs to a sitting position with knees arched. Pain swells in your ass and echoes to your head. You rub your face-a few nicks, scratches and globs of blood.
With an eager push of the hands you hoist yourself to your feet.
The alley that you find yourself in summons redeye fear. The buildings that structure the alley, climb to the sky. Narrow. Too perfect the angles-a cell with a semi-permeable membrane in which you are the nucleus, bound in an envelope.
You bend over, sifting through garbage that once covered you. You cannot find your jacket, but underneath a half-full box of Cheerios is your wallet, brown and rectangular with the initials L.V. mapping the leather. Flipping it open you finds that your credit cards are still in place as well as your driver’s license.
“Denver Dawn. That’s me,” you say aloud. “Where the hell am I?”
“You right here baby.” A voice comes from a wooden box across the alley.
You turn, startled.
“What?”
“You right here baby.”
A man crawls from the box with the striped yellow cat in one arm. He pets it with a steady momentum. The cat licks the man’s stubbled black chin and then licks its own fur.
“Where is this?”
“Here.” The man laughs, his lips up past his teeth and gums.
“Yeah I know, but where is here?”
“In some alley baby. My alley baby. My alley.” He laughs again. “What you doing in my alley?”
“I just was here and...”
“I know you was just here because I saw them bring you and dump your ass right here baby. I saw them bring you. And they didn’t like you very much did they baby? No. I saw them. They dumped your ass right here. They did.”
“Who?”
“What? I am supposed to know who you with? Who’s dumping your ass baby? No. I don’t know they was just regular you know what I mean? I‘ve seen people like them, before baby. They sit in Mercedes and they drink drinks and they read papers and all. I’ve seen them before with their pools and fancy chicken and stuff baby. I know who they was, you now what I mean. I’ve seen them before.”
The man’s hand moves faster over the cat’s fur, scratching its head then stroking its tail.
“What did they look like?” You move closer. A pain shoots up your back. You take a deep breath.
“What you mean? Like people baby.”
You take another step towards the man.
“Don’t come near me baby. No. I don’t know what they looked like. Okay baby. They looked like men in nice clothes and shit. They looked like nice men and they cute too baby. They your pimps?”
“No.”
“Uh huh, cause they give me fifty dollars baby. They give me money.”
“Can you tell me...”
“No. No, huh uh. No. You got to leave baby. Go now. Get out of my alley baby.”
The man starts rubbing his nose, picking at his face in split second intervals. The cat jumps from his arms and reenters the box.
“If you could...”
“No. Baby.”
“Okay.” You sweep your half-matted hair with your hands and start to move away in no particular direction.
“Hey baby, where you going?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know huh, well, umm...I got a cigarette if you want one and I got some water.”
You stop your useless movement and look back. The man from the box nods his head, making the motions of scratching his ear but never touching his skin.
A Cheshire smile studs the man’s face and he laughs.
“Come on and have a cigarette baby.” The man ducks into the box.
You don't know what to think of the man. But by the looks of the buildings, streaked with coded gang language and fliers advertising “Mr. 12 inch cock, Moby Dick tonight at the Circle J Club,” you think you might be in the Tenderloin or possibly somewhere South of Market. If you are right, that's a long trek home to Pacific Heights.
You aren't worried about the man or his cat. The man seems harmless. A little whacked, but not violent. And you want a smoke.
“Yeah, okay.” You half-limp your way to get a cigarette, stopping and rubbing your itching palms against your trousers. You bring your hands to your face and see the dirt embedded like culking in the lines of your palms. You think of the time you got your palm read at Mama Moon's Fortune Shop in the Castro. An old drag queen entered from a doorway draped in orange sherbet chiffon. Her hair was matted like a cat and it sat on the top of her head like a stale piece of wedding cake. Face doddled with foundation and coke, she grabbed your right hand and kissed it leaving a lip mark in fresh pink. She asked you what you wanted to know and you told her that you wanted to know if you were ever going to find a true love. She told you while grabbing your crotch, that there was going to be a lot of dirt in the way. You laugh remembering her drug-induced fortune.
The man pops out of the box holding two cigarettes. One is half smoked and the other new.
“You want the full one baby? Cause I can give you the full one because I don’t mind because those men gave me fifty dollars.”
“Whatever.”
“Okay, well here you are then baby. The full one.”
“Thanks,” you say taking the cigarette from the man’s hand.
“You got a light?”, the man asks. “No, no. I’m just joking baby, I’ve got a light.”
The man removes a tarnished silver Zippo from his pocket with the words "to ten years..." almost wholly erased from the side, flips the top and lights his guest's smoke and then his own. You take a large drag. Hot when you inhale and cool when you exhale.
The nicotine rushes through you. It pushes your blood aside, clinging to your tongue.
“So what’s your name baby?”
“Denver.”
“Like the city or like the omelet.” The man laughs loud, teeth showing, licking his upper lip.
You smile a bit.
“And your name?”
“I was born Michael Allen, but my friends called me Critter but I changed my name to Boccacio like the writer but my cat calls me ‘mrow.’” He laughs at his joke and you laugh too. More at him though.
“So, Boccacio, what are you doing out here?”
“Just living baby. Just living.” Boccacio sits down, hugging his knees to his chest and rubbing his chin on his red pant leg. “What you doing?”
“Just living.”
“Uh, huh.” Boccacio laughs. “So what happened with those men baby?”
“Nothing. Things just got a little out of control.”
“A little out of control huh baby. Like how? Like out of control what? Like a crazy ass carnival ride or what?”
“Nothing.”
“No. No nothing baby. I’ve been there before. Yes, I’ve been through it all. I know. It’s all happened to me before. You met them at a bar right? Some nasty bar right baby?”
When you move you can feel the, blood, cum and shit that is caked in your crack rubbing your ass raw into a sore. You are aware of your lack of underwear and the burn in your dick.
• • •
The night started with a hit of Ecstasy that was given to you by some guy you met in the bathroom at Daddy's. You tipped your head while pissing in the urinal and the man put it on your tongue, leaving his finger there until you closed your mouth sucking the man's fingertip.
After leaving the bathroom the next stop was Club Universe where Chaka Khan was supposed to be performing for her devoted gay fans.
When you arrived at Club Universe there was a mist in the air. When it hit your face you could feel it fall into your skin. Rejuvenating. Replenishing. Reconnecting.
The line to enter wound down around two blocks of warehouses. You slipped in front of a guy who you'd met at the Midnight Sun a few weeks earlier. The guy was wearing red rubber shorts and a yellow rubber tank top. You two talked a little.
The line moved fast, steel toed boots kicked your heels every time you came full stop. You were in the door. The double-spaced warehouse was packed with thousands of people, mostly men. You immediately worked your way to the bar bumping into various sexual opportunities. Eyes met eyes met crotches.
High ceilings framed vast amounts of track lighting and huge papier-mache Grecian urns. Smoke shot from a machine, driving into the air, leaving bodies headless. A stage was positioned slightly off center of the building which was guarded by three stone sphinx that seemed near ten feet high.
• • •
“Do you know what I mean baby? Those times when you’re so fucked up that all you can do is think of how this is the time that you’ve been the most fucked up, but you know there’s going to be a next time baby. You know what I mean?”
“Uh huh.”
You aren't paying the least attention to Boccacio who is digging into his box and retriving a package of Swisher Sweets, which he fidgets with, tossing the box from left hand to right.
“Cause this one night I got so fucked up that I thought I was going to have a heart attack or something baby.”
“Really?”
• • •
The bar didn’t have any Tanqueray so you had to settle for Sapphire in your gin and tonic. It tasted the same, but everything tasted the same by then.
The music was strong with a stiff basso continuo and high intensity treble like Hitchcock screams. You stood by the speakers, letting your head throb with each beat. The mix of music and sweaty bare-chested men was a low level euphoria. You flirted with every man you could lock eyes with. One in particular wore a Dodgers ball cap and had a branding on his left bicep that read
HIV-. Seemed pretentious.
They all looked alike. Meaty. Short marine cuts. Tight pants and shorts. Big packages.
The branded man asked you to dance. You agreed and you moved to the packed dance floor.
Your head seemed like it was expanding and your balls tingled to an itch. The sounds quieted, but you could hear the music with greater clarity. You could smell Obsession and Calvin Klein, DKNY and Issay Miyake wrangled with hair spray, cigarettes, liquor and sweat. The man licked his lips and blew you a kiss. When the air hit you it was like the spray of a wave. It washed over you clinging to your nose hairs and eye lids.
The man was closer now kissing and biting your neck, eating your sweat. There were more hands on your body. They grabbed your ass and pinched your nipples. You turned around and there was the other man who had been grabbing your ass. You laughed and tossed your head back. The ass-grabber was like the first man. No branding but with both nipples pierced. The three rubbed and grabbed as each song melded into the next.
• • •
“But these weren’t your average boys baby. No. They were pretty boys and they were pretty you know what I mean. They liked me and they wanted me baby. And I was so fucked up you, know what I mean, that I was all, ‘Hell Yes.’ And we just kept on drinking and shit.”
“Really.” You wonder what you missed from Boccacio’s story. It sounds half interesting but you can't pull your mind from your thoughts.
• • •
The last drop spilled down your throat and the ice raged against your lips, falling from the glass and to the floor. You laughed at your carelessness. Three gin and tonics and a hit of Ecstasy was good. It brightened your mind, lightened your attitude and hungered your inhibitions.
You continued to eye the two men you'd come to know from the dance floor, as Chaka Khan suddenly lit up the stage with a purple sequence two piece midriff suit and a beehive painted with purple and red glitter.
Chaka’s first song was nothing that anyone was interested in. Some generic tune that seemed to mimic the essence of herself.
The men, who tangled their arms around each other’s waists like vines on a fence, waved their hands for you to follow them.
You laughed and rolled your eyes, a flirting technique, then grabbed the cocktail man as he was passing by with small science beakers
filled with Jagermeister. You paid your four dollars, dumped the syrup down your hole and pushed your way through the crowd of teasers,
careful not to lose track of your targets.
You met them in a corner of a back room where few people existed, most of whom were waiting on the main floor for Chaka Khan to belt out her songs of old. Eighties hits. The shirtless men started in on you undoing half of your silk shirt, mouths on nipples and wandering hands. You looked up and saw the disco ball making its revolutions, spinning out sparkling lights, diamond stars. Cheers from the main floor supplied an energy to the threesome.
Leaning against the wall, you felt the beats of the next song. One-two, one-two-three, one-two, one-two-three. You moved your hips to the vibrations singing through the black wood. Your teeth clenched and your toes curled in your wing tips gripping soft, smooth leather.
Two boys walked by, hand in hand, heads shaved. Thin and lanky. They covered their mouths and giggled.
Chaka kept bringing it on and the men bit incessantly.
Your forehead wrinkled and you thought, who am I? What am I? You immediately felt a whirlpool spin cycles in your stomach. A conglomeration of bad drugs and too much to drink. You tried to push the men aside, your elbows hitting the back wall, your feet tripping on air. You attempted to move again and only ran your knee into a barback passing with a bucket and empty bottles. You heard a ringing start in your left ear and pin prickles pain tickle your lips. Kicking your foot out, you accidentally tripped the branded man who's fallen thud reverbertated in your thighs, giving you momentum to run, half-tripping your was to the bathroom.
You made it to the urinal, stuck your head in its basin and released. Air fled from your nostrils. Your eyes jumped open, red with exhaustion and pain. You spit the remaining chunks that hung on your lips, into the American Standard. You dropped your head above the urinal, breathing in stale urine, but not able to remove yourself from the nausea.
You felt a hand on your back and then another on your ass.
“You okay,” the branded man asked.
“Sure,” you said.
The men helped you up, leaning you against the chilled tile wall. Then they started in on you again with more force and want. You looked forward to the mirror mounted on the wall opposite you. Purple bags blew up like balloons under your eyes and spittle drained from the left side of your mouth. Your pants came undone and down. You pushed the men aside and pulled your pants up only making it to the knees before they were down again. Your body slid along the wall to the floor, hitting your temple on the urinal handle on the way down.
The branded man laid you flat backed on the floor and sat on your chest. The man’s pants were undone and he grabbed your head ripping a few hairs on the way up. The nipple ring man “yee hawed” as he flung your legs over his shoulders.
Your flesh split.
You didn’t flinch.
Your hands felt the resonance of the music. Chaka Khan’s big song, I’m Every
Woman. The audience cheered and you tried to smile, mouth full.
A cracked urinal dripped piss on your head, seeping into your cut forehead. Stinging. Ringing.
• • •
“So that’s what happened baby. They fucked me over you know. I don’t like all that shit and that’s why I’m here baby. It’s better here, you know what I mean. It’s safer out here baby. No one ain’t gonna touch you baby.”
You get up and brush your pants of what dirt you can. The cigarette is now burning his fingers so you toss it to the ground, leaving it to die out.
“You okay baby.”
“Sure.”
“Okay, well, I’ve got lots of cleaning and stuff to do baby. I’ve got lots to do. So much. I got to feed my cat baby. He calls me ‘mrow.’ Uh, huh he does. And remember me baby. I’m Boccacio. Yeah. Come here cat.”
You turn to walk away.
The man waves a quick good-bye and crawls back into his box.
You look around for any clue of anything.
The red disappears from the sky and a blue-gray haze takes its place.
Copyright © 2005 Matthew R K Haynes
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