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| Image by: Juan Navarro Carillo blueeyez009.blogspot |
Anastasio lifted the last of his
boxed belongings and walked out of his Korea Town apartment. Forever. Leaving
behind his ex-partner in love and madness of the last twenty years, his dog
Rogelio and cat Marisela not to mention the countless memories that fluttered
between those walls like papalotes in laughing skies.
When Anastasio was twenty one,
protesting and sitting-in against increase in students fees and homophobia,
racism, sexism and others kinds of privileges on campus along side Kal, his in
lak'ech, he never imagined this day would come. He thought their love would be
united forever, strong like the Four Hundred Southern Stars across the
sky. Anastasio recalled how he used to
pounce on Kal, and growl “Me Jaguar y tu my Aztec Principe,” in his ear. Kal who was a bit taller and
had broader shoulders would easily toss Anastasio off flipping him on his back, Anastasio
would try his hardest to fight back accepting the challenge from his strong
Principe, not wanting to be seen as weak in warrior spirit. He would fight back, till his back got sweaty, palms slippery, breath to
no avail, he struggles like a June Bug on its back. Then Anastasio would use his smarts, always feigned being
accidentally kicked in the nuts and would guilt Kal to “sana, sana, colita de
rana,” his cock with those thick lips of his, those conch blowing lips with the
power to summon the ancestors out of their graves to grace their earth. To
grace their love, brown bodied, two spirited indigena minded jotos doing it for
el amor ultimo, amor a su raza; loving thy brother with conch blowing lips
wound around his cock.
“Take my atunas in your hands,” he’d
say and Kal would cup Anastasio’s warm, hairy hanging balls, perfect like two
prickly pears in a leather felt sack, in his hands. “I feel you, such calloused hands
from defending your empire, sword swinging,” Anastasio would turn up the
poetics to turn up Kal “cut me open like the fruit of the gods you have in your
hands,” Kal would stop sucking Anastasio’s cock and lick the seem down the
droopy felt sack. “Feel my tiny thorns digging into you my Principe, they thirst
for your blood, the song in your heart. Kal, mi Principe, burry me in your
temple- deep inside that Aztec heart of yours. Love me like you love the
movement.” Kal would respond to Anastasio’s demands by puffing out his chest,
widening his throat like a gallo about to wake the whole world with his cries.
Anastasio thrust deeper into the pulsating sauna. He had won the Principe over,
conquered him with words. Kal was a fool for Anastasio's wit, his way with words
his “flor y canto.” That’s what Kal dubbed their fucking, “you are my
flor….llena de canto,” he’d tell Anastasio and kiss his forehead.
Anastasio was always left
breathless; politics, poetry and role playing was the salve that made their
relationship work. Yes, when he was twenty-one he never imagined that this day
would come, that the love he had for his Principe would be a cause for dia de
los muertos. “This one right here Stas is going to require an altar the size of
Chichen Itza,” he said as he scanned the apartment one last time, turned around
and stepped out the door. He dropped the key inside the mail slot and walked
away.
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