Ambientes: New Queer Latino Writing

The Unequivocal Moon

84 The Unequivocal Moon    You’re still working on that?” he asks. “Still,” I reply, as I sip the margarita he just made for me. It’s my second one already, and he’s only been here for an hour. His wife knows that Ray is getting high with me. As usual, I’ll give up an evening of writing, he’ll give up three hours of sleep. Our occasional tête-à-tête (my word) is always a blast (his word), a place created by and for the hombres amigos that we are. He brings the booze, I provide the entertainment: food, music, and a late-night rerun of Star Trek: The Next Generation. It’s a show we both enjoy for different reasons; predictably, Ray likes the ships and gadgets, whereas I go for the mind trips. He tells me that there’ll be a full moon in two weeks, on the fifteenth. “We should make plans,” he suggests. “Like the last time . . .” “Oh, Ray,” I say in jest. “The moon is such a hackneyed symbol.” “Hackneyed?” he mispronounces. “Trite, overused, meaningless.” “It’s not meaningless.” “The moon is a parasite,” I decree, feeling playful. “It depends on the sun for its light.” “Bullshit!” “The moon belongs in the Land of the Dead, amigo mío.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” 85 “Wrong. I know everything. Have you forgotten?” “Not everything.” “La Luna is a treacherous monster, both a loving mother and a demon.” “Maybe the moon is all those things you say . . .” “It is.” “But you sure loved it the last time, up there, with me. Didn’t you?” His eyes are retelling the story of one recent night, when up on the roof of my condo we got high on weed and Dos Equis. And we almost kissed. “It was a full moon,” he recalls. “So beautiful. We toasted to its light.” He’s laughing. “And you wanted my body!” “No, I didn’t,” I lie. “You kept touching me, holding me.” “I was cold!” “Yeah, you wanted some heat, that’s for sure.” “Are you drunk, Ray? So soon? How about some quesadillas?” Ignoring my questions, he decides to lift the coffee table with his legs, as he lounges on the futon, his favorite spot. “Ándale,” he boasts, “sit on the table. I can take you!” “That’s OK,” I say, unwilling to comply. “I know you could take me.” He lets go of the table and touches my thighs. A timid caress. “Other men,” I tell him, “are afraid of this kind of intimacy.” He smiles. “But we’re not like those other men.” “You know what makes us different, Ray?” I’m right on cue. I imagine he’ll say something like . . . the fact that we worship the moon. But his response doesn’t surprise me. “The size of our dicks,” he replies. I seize the opportunity: “Let’s compare.” Ray sticks his hand in his Bermuda shorts and fondles himself. “Like the baseball players,” he says. “They shift their dicks around all the time . . .” I make an effort to stay cool, not to let my ganas—longing, hunger— show: “Their pants are too tight.” And I go on, nonchalant, “Mine is seven point five.” “Seven point five? What kind of a size is that?” “You know what I mean. Seven and a half. How about yourself ?” “I’ve got a big verga. And I don’t need no comparison to prove it.” “Who cares, anyway.” Ray’s not deterred by my indifference; he can tell I’m faking it. The Unequivocal Moon 86 “You know, last weekend,” he announces, “on our way to Big Bear Lake, Luisa sucked me off while I drove. For two whole hours! You know she gets wet just looking at my dick?” He looks at me, between my legs where my hand is moving back and forth. I’m sitting on the wicker chair. Ray stares, “Is that your boner, what I’m seeing?” I must disappoint him: “No. It’s my thumb.” “Big thumb.” “You’re drunk.” “Is your verga bigger than your thumb?” “I told you my size already.” “I forgot.” “No more margaritas for you.” “Come here.” He grabs my wrist, pulls me to him. I trip and fall on his lap. He’s fondling himself again. “You can help.” He seems annoyed by my inertia. “Get into...