Mundo Cruel Read Free

went in and saw the place he said to me:
    â€œDamn papi, this is nice. With AC and everything.”
    He took it right away and told me that if it was okay with me he’d move in the next day. And that’s what he did.
    The night of the move—two plastic bags full of clothes, a box filled with sneakers, and a videogame system—I made him a delicious dinner. The poor thing, he brought beers from work and a box of cigarettes for each of us. He told me that he came to the city because he couldn’t find any work in Moca, his hometown, and that a guy he met in Isabela offered to pull some strings and get him a job in a store. The guy brought him home but then wanted to fuck and he—and I quote—“had respect for everyone but wasn’t into that shit.” I felt so embarrassed for the other guy that I blushed, but he immediately added, “Bro, no worries, I know not all of you are like that. You’ve done right by me and you’re not gonna regret it.” Good God, he saw right through me! But how could he not? I’d put curtains in the studio for him for heaven’s sake. I excused myself at that point and went to my room thinking that it was time to develop a little self-respect and to stop acting like a ’60s fag, that we were now in the twenty-first century and love wasn’t something you bought.
    I was so alert to the silence coming from the studio I almost didn’t fall asleep.
    The next day, determined to stop all the tricks and shenanigans, I went over to bring the boy some breakfast, not to take him to bed, but to feed a human being. The night before I had said to myself, “Enough of this, going nuts for a man.” I knocked on the metallic door and he opened right away. Good God. He was in boxer shorts that were all snug around his thighs and he had a hard-on. He had a bit of a beer belly from standing on that corner so much and drinking cold beers, adjusting his package every time a hot mami passed by. He had a tattoo of the name Yomaira crossing his chest and sticking out from his armpits were some blond hairs, which really turn me on. I forgot my plan, called in sick at work for the second day in a row, and invited him to the Plaza Mall to buy him whatever he needed.
    And so the days passed. My friends in the bar gave me up for dead. Then la Carlos came by to visit. I was with the boy on the balcony when I see him park across the street. He gets out, opening the door and looking at the young hunk and looking at me says as fruity as she can be:
    â€œCan I come in, or are you busy?”
    The boy excused himself and the queen looked me up and down with a straight face and said to me: “Girl, what are you doing with that macho?”
    La Carlos never changes, I thought and was happy to see him. We laughed our heads off that night and he convinced me to go with him to Tía María.
    Tía María, my second home. And I say this honestly. I love that bar. The two pool tables, the jukebox playing Lissette, Lucecita, Yolandita, and la Lupe. I hadn’t gone back there since the boy had moved into the studio. It was really good to see the usual queens, especially since I hadn’t been there for a while. I felt like fresh meat and in that trade that was a plus. Everyone found me thinner.
    And then a little macho hustler, a bit like my tenant, came by and la Carlos looks at me and says:
    â€œAnd the kid? Does he fuck?”
    I said no—real serious-like—that I had rented the apartment to him, that he was from Moca, that he had a daughter named Yomaira and was easygoing and a hard worker. I said besides that he didn’t interest me as a man. La Carlos, who doesn’t waste any time, interrupted me:
    â€œSo then, I have carte blanche, right?”
    â€œI don’t care. . .” I lied, shrugging my shoulders and feeling that icy sensation in my bones that we call “jealousy.”
    One night I was on double shift and when I