I wasn't gonna post this yet, but I'm going out of town in a few days, and I won't have internet for awhile, and there's another chapter I want to post before I go, and then I guess once I get back I'll decide if this is something I'm going to continue. Big thanks to everyone who has reviewed and been encouraging, you guys are fantastic. I really do like writing this story, it's nice to know there are people enjoying it.

Warning, there's some sex here and foul language/light homophobia.


There are days like this, when his spit is sour with the taste of stale latex and he has sweat that isn't his dribbling onto his naked back, that Carlos really hates his whole pinche vida.

"Fuck, yeah, yeah, you like that?"

He shifts, spreads his thighs wider, balances on his knees. The sheets have the musty stink of cheap soap and body odor to them; a hundred thousand bodies in this bed before him. He doesn't like to think about all the sweat and come that is in the sheets.

"Oh God, yes." He moans, faking appreciation, pressing his overheated forehead into the cool skin on his forearm. Carlos used to love all his parts in school plays, but this here? This is his finest performance. "You're so good." Really, the guy is pretty terrible, fumbling about, sweaty and greedy half-pushes that aren't deep enough for true penetration. He fucks shallow, like he doesn't know what he's doing, and God, Carlos feels bad for this poor dude's wife. He can only hope the john works his energy out on prostitutes before he goes home and forces his unfortunate, innocent wife to endure this torture for free.

"You fucking slut." Technically he isn't a slut. Sluts give willingly; he negotiates until he's found a decent price. He's a different kind of entrepreneur, specializing in illegal trade. He took a business and economics class at community college before he had to drop out so he knows life is all about supply in demand. If he's in demand, people gotta pay up before he'll supply. It's simple business strategy. He thinks he could have passed the class if he'd been allowed to finish the semester. "Tell me you want it, say it in Spanish."

"Uhn." He makes a little panting noise low in his throat, squeezes his muscles. "Chingame." He could say almost anything he wants in Spanish, he doubts the guy'll know the difference, but he never knows for sure. He tried that once, told one man to go fuck a duck. He didn't get paid that night.

There's nothing worse than when a john comes. This guy is the type who likes to see his work, pulls out and orgasms on his lower back. Jizz splatters hot on his skin, thickens to a slow, lazy drip that slops off him in a club when he wipes it off with the corner of the sheets. It's really fucking gross, no matter how many times he's seen it or had it splashed across his face, his back, the insides of his thighs. "That was great." Everyone says you have to lie if you want to get the most cash, the highest tip. Carlos lies because he likes to see dudes walk away with a smile. If he's gotta be less than happy about this whole thing, it doesn't mean they have to be. "You come back anytime." Smiling afterwards makes it easier, brightens his day. He bounces back pretty quickly. His mamá calls him her ray of sunshine, says that he can cheer up the world with a grin. "Call this number if you get lonely, just ask for Chulo." He used to get called papi chulo all the time, especially by his mamá, who would croon it to him while she pinched his cheeks and fixed his hair. He's a fucking pretty boy and that's why he's in this whole mess to begin with.

It's too hot outside to want to take a real shower; the heat is stifling even in the room, even with the slightly functioning air conditioner working at full blast. The heat leaves him feeling damp and sticky, wets the nape of his neck, gives him a devastated, fucked out sheen that isn't very appealing. Guys can't pull off looking sweaty, not like girls can. He rinses off with water that's almost cold, scrubs with the hard, yellow bar of soap down between his legs, the one place that never really feels clean. Hygiene is important and he's heard that cleaning regularly helps keep you from getting STD's.

The sun is setting on the Minneapolis skyline when he leaves the motel and the sky is a washed out pink and orange that bleeds into purple and blue. He loves watching things like this, gets a simple pleasure from them. He's not very hard to make happy; a hug from his parents, ice cream on a warm day, a smile from a pretty girl, a lick from a puppy, that's all he needs. He's not complicated; it's what he likes best about himself. He's only ever Carlos, whole and imperfect, simple and goofy and silly and adorable Carlos.

"Mira, check out the pretty, pretty mariposa over here." He doesn't understand why people always have to bother him. He's just trying to make enough money to bring his family to Minnesota. The coyote says it's five thousand dollars per person, plus the cost of food and gas and shelter along the way. On his worst days, when he doesn't think he'll ever feel happy again, and his chest is carved out and hollow, he wonders how he's ever going to come up with that much money.

"Leave me alone." The guy isn't much taller than he is, only by about an inch, but he looks tough, and the blue of his tattoos stands out on the dark skin of his arm. Carlos can take him in a fight if he has to, he's not afraid. "Chale, no me jodas."

"Fucking maricón." He's not; he just looks like one in his tight jeans and tight, sleeveless shirt. He doesn't dress like this because he wants to, he doesn't have a choice. The insult burns him, somewhere down deep, in a place he doesn't know, a dark, horrible pit that sadness lives in, bubbles and grows alive.

"Hijo de gran puta." Shit, that only gets him pissed, but Carlos can laugh at the angry spark in the guy's brown eyes, the smug warmness of pride blooming in his belly. He runs then, before the dude can get too upset, laughing to himself as he darts down the street, giddy with fleeting excitement, the prospect of being chased. No one follows him, they never do, so he slows to a walk and takes out the square of paper that is poking painfully into his hip. He didn't give it much thought when he got it, happy to talk to someone who wasn't paying for his company. His abuelito always said that making friends with strangers is what makes life interesting.

He's never thought about getting roommates before. After his family got deported back to Mexico he got used to living on his own. He has an apartment he's rarely ever in, most of his nights he spends outside or in motel rooms, on his back or on his knees. He could always use some new friends, he doesn't have too many of them anymore. Not unless he counts his regulars, which he doesn't. Real friends would want to go with him to the movies or chase pigeons in the park. A cheaper apartment could help him save up his money faster and he'd have someone to talk to in the mornings and keep him company late at night.

"Good evening Mrs. Wilson." Mrs. Wilson is asleep at her desk, snoring into the crook of her arm. He feels sort of bad leaving like this. His lease isn't up for another three weeks and Mrs. Wilson's always been so nice to him, offering him fresh baked cookies on his way past her office in the afternoons.

"What can I do for you Carlos?" Mrs. Wilsons asks, rubbing at her eyes with the backs of her hands.

"Nothing, I'm moving out, I'll be gone in a few days, as soon as I can pack up all my stuff."

"Did you finally find a nice girl to settle down and move in with?" Mrs. Wilson smiles at him, reaches through the little window in the glass and pets his hair.

He laughs louder than he meant to, loud enough to hurt.

"Not yet."


Reviews feed my soul. haha