Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 3

after. Hung out around a tourist area, scoping out postcards, polyester woven blankets, and mass-produced metates. He ate an ice treat, said he was immune. I bought a canned soda. One run-in with the bug was plenty for me. We ran into a gaggle of queers—peacocks. One had an eye for Tomás; tried to pick him up.
    That was cool by me. It wasn't as if Tomás and I had been walking close. We didn't look like lovers, more like casual friends. I backed off a ways, let the twink try his luck.
    Tomás flirted a bit, graciously, but then, firmly, said no. He got snippy when the rejection wasn't taken at face value, lifting the twink's hand from his arm like he might a soiled diaper. Kept walking down the beach, leaving me bemused and the queer boys calling names after us. Flouncing in outrage.
    "You could've had him." Fuck. I'd've taken the guy up on it. Try for a three-way, if guilt seized me.
    Tomás stared at me. So now I knew what he looked like pissed off.
    "I'm just sayin'. He was good looking. Had it bad for you."
    He shook his head like I was crazy. I dunno. Maybe I am. "He's not for me."
    Right. And I was . And yes, before you ask, those were his exact words.
    "Besides, his heart flits. You, your body flits, but you're solid...," Tomás smacked a closed fist to his chest, "...here."
    There. My opening. He simply was not getting the message. "You're wrong," I said. "I'm here for fun, I'm fickle as hell, and Tomás, baby, I don't know what you have in mind, but I am not a good bet as a boyfriend."
    "Who told you that?"
    Okay. It wasn't as if he'd said it all that aggressively. Just with a mild annoyance. But still. His words pissed me off. I mean, I say my eyes are brown, does he say, "who told you that?" Hello . I've been told my eyes are brown since I can remember. When I'd look in the mirror, I'd think, so that is brown . I'd see shit on the lawn; someone would say that was brown. I'd make the connection. My eyes are shit-brown, I am flighty. What the fuck kind of question is, "who told you that"?
    I didn't say any of that, of course. I did what I do; I rolled. "You're eyes are astonishing, you know that?" They were. Up close like this, in the sunlight. Sienna, with flecks of olive and gold, rimmed by a mahogany band. Amazing. So much beauty in the concept of hazel.
    It worked. Discussion diverted. We found a sheltered cove down the beach, traded blows, and then went our separate ways. I spent the rest of the afternoon on my board.
    ****
    The weekend was...well, it was . I worked. Tomás didn't show, but I didn't expect he would. I figured he took my warnings to heart. By now he was probably on the road to Tijuana, continuing his vacation.
    One quid pro quo handjob in the men's room on Saturday night, but other than that, I struck out. Wasn't trying hard, I'll admit. Head on wobbly. Forgetting that I wasn't the type to fall for smooth men. I'd get my mojo back; I wasn't too concerned.
    Alex continued to be a hit behind the bar, a real fashion show, leathers and mesh and ribbons and gloss. The boy was flash. And hunting; I could tell—he was all carefree, but would get this serious look at odd times, usually after closing—a sort of blank stare as he scrubbed his hair free. He was a nester at heart.
    That morning I dreamed. Which was weird, in and of itself. I don't dream much, or if I do, not vividly. Just flitting impressions of mixing drink after drink, or whatever other crap occupies my mind. Crap, heh. Last month I dreamed I was hunting for a toilet, found them all of overflowing, only to wake up realizing I badly needed to take a shit. Such deep thoughts characterize my dreams.
    Sunday morning was vivid, however. And surreal. And I know—you're thinking that you're about to learn of a mystical premonition or some other woo-woo significance. Nope. Sorry. This isn't that kind of story; there are no gods sending me messages.
    Sometimes a crap is just a crap, and if Erik dreamed he got fucked like never before, maybe it was because...he wanted to get fucked like never before? Yah. That'd work.
    So yep, in my dream, Tomás was fucking me, and the sex was rich and full. Surrounded by water—that was surreal. Because by surrounded , I mean under the water, warm ocean filling my nostrils and lungs so I couldn't talk, couldn't make any sort of noise at all, but it was okay, and the smell of him filled me, sun and sand. I could touch that aroma, drink it, as though his essence was a tangible presence. He entered me