Rough Trade (26 page)

Gabriel learned a lot from the
turistas.
He had learned how to let an
Americano
teach him words and then suck his dick and squeeze his balls and lick his ass for a hundred pesos, maybe more, maybe less. They liked the lessons, these
turistas,
liked the idea that they were making something out of this boy from Tijuana who they could imagine tending their gardens or cleaning their pools, shirtless, his skin slick with sweat just ready to be licked off by an eager
Anglo
tongue. At twenty-two, tall and lean with the muscled body of a laborer who split rocks at the quarry all day long, with the deep, glowing bronze tan of a man who stood baking against the harsh white rock from five a.m. until four in the afternoon with barely a
siestina
at midday, with the sleek black hair that fell across his forehead and the eyes so dark they seemed to have no discernable pupils, Gabriel had learned just how to ply his language-learning trade, had learned that men thought him rough, but beautiful. And he learned what it meant when they said to him that he was a gorgeous animal, a sexy beast, learned that they didn’t really see him like themselves, that he was like something they found along the seaside—a shiny bit of glass, a pretty shell—he was treasure, but treasure that didn’t need to be protected or even coveted. He was something to ooh and ahh over for as long as it took to have a drink, get hard, and get off. No more, no less.

Gabriel had learned the language, all right, had learned just how much he liked having his cock licked and sucked by strange white men he’d never see again. Learned how to say in his roughly accented English,
Wait, not yet, don’t let me come yet,
and he would pull his cock away from the
gringo,
breathing
por favor,
and hold it tight for a minute, press his fingers to the head and pretend that it ached not to come, but that he could take it, this strong
Mexicano
could take it, because he knew that little bit of play, using their words back at them, taking away his big, Latino cock, made them want to shoot right then and there, made them want him more, made them want to pay him more, made them grab for it back and then they would suck him with
mucho gusto,
make him come that much harder, that much better.

But by the time Gabriel got to Fresno a few years later, well versed in his now not-too-thickly accented English and gleaning jobs for his brothers and himself, he had wanted more than strangers, wanted more than just to have his dick sucked hard and rough for
pesos
in a bar where no one ever knew anyone for more than an evening. Gabriel had wanted more than another back-breaking job in the unrelenting heat, wanted more than the endless line of
chicas
he wasn’t interested in and the yearning for man after man that he couldn’t have. When he crossed over into California he had believed his days of doing anything for a
peso,
anything to escape his grim
barrio
in Tijuana, were over.
Not yet.

Gabriel was ready to come now, and pressed his back against the rough stucco of the house, his fingers laced around his balls, his other hand stroking, stroking, stroking his cock. Thinking about Joey, about his supple, leanly muscled body that glowed, like the roses from the other farm a few miles down. Joey was tanned, but pink underneath, as if the sun had slapped him a little too hard. His hair was blond, too blond from too much sun, and short and spiky. He looking like he should have been surfing down in Malibu, not hauling flowers for Mr. Adamos, not sucking his boss’s cock for a few dollars tossed in the dirt.

Gabriel did what he used to do in Tijuana to turn his
patrons
on—he stopped himself from coming. Let his dick go for a minute while he still caressed his balls, slid a finger back toward his asshole. He saw Joey between his legs, like all those men in Tijuana, all those
gringos
who slid
pesos
and
pesetas
into his pockets, under his balls, into his hands, whatever either turned them on or made them feel better. He saw Joey on his knees, this time in the orchard, saw Joey run his hands over his jeans, rub his hands hard against the outline of his cock, then do the same thing to himself. He watched as Joey took the pull of his zipper in his teeth and teasingly, achingly slowly, jerked it down. He felt his long, hard cock push against the opening of his jeans, push to meet Joey’s mouth as he pressed first against the bulge in the fabric, then nip just a little at it with his teeth through his underwear, then pull it out, still teasing, still way too slow, so slow it hurt, with his long, tapered fingers, tapered just like the stems of the carnations.

Joey’s mouth was like one of the flowers that peppered the fields surrounding the countryside where they both worked—it opened pink and soft in front of him, the lips like petals as they caressed his pulsing cock. Gabriel saw, then felt Joey take the entire length of his cock into his mouth, the tender warm wetness of his mouth enveloping first the head, then the whole shaft. Then he took it out, his tongue languidly licking over the head, his teeth teasing an imprint along the foreskin, that tongue running down to his balls, each being sucked into Joey’s hot, wet mouth, then held in the long fingers, one finger slipping back and just barely entering his asshole, just barely making him gasp.

The images of Joey were palpably real, real as the sweat streaming down Gabriel’s chest, real as the dawn starting to pinken the horizon just beyond the house. Gabriel ached to have the man’s hands on his body, his cock, his balls. Yearned for the sweetly petaled mouth to press hard against his, smelling sharp and flinty, like carnations and raw earth. Gabriel closed his eyes tight enough to keep it dark in the rosy half-light, his cock now about to spill into his hand as he wanted it to spill into Joey’s mouth, into the ass that he knew will be just as hot, just as pink, just as welcoming, pulling in his pulsing cock, letting him thrust and thrust until he couldn’t stop, he had to come, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—wait any longer. He could feel Joey under him, his legs up across Gabriel’s broad shoulders, he could see himself reaching with one hand for Joey’s cock and stroking it as he pumped hard into Joey’s ass, feeling the hot, milky burst on his hand as he came into Joey’s pink ass, felt Joey’s soft lips pressing into his, that tongue a pink petal between his lips. No money changed hands as they pulled on their clothes and headed back to work after this
siestina
of sex.

Gabriel’s hand was wet from coming, his balls ached from waiting so long to let go, his legs shook just a little. Sweat ran from his face and neck and chest, his bare legs were damp, and the jersey shorts clung to his thighs. He pushed himself forward and walked over to rinse his hands under the spigot in the yard, splashing the tepid water on his face and neck and chest. He lowered his head under the spigot and wet his hair. His head felt too hot in the stifling dawn. No time now to go back inside for another half hour of rest before he headed out to the orchards with Diego and Luis for another oppressively endless day.

Gabriel stood on the sharp grass in the tiny yard and looked out over the sunrise toward the orchards and the carnation farm and all the fields he could not see but which he knew stretched from one horizon to the other beyond where he now stood. In another hour he would be there, in the shadeless grove, working the trees with his brothers, first the almonds, then the lemons. Less than a mile away Joey would be stripping a lane of fresh, soon-to-bloom carnations and loading them onto the truck for transport.

Gabriel remembered the night they shot pool and drank Coronas together, biting into hot slices of lime before drinking the cold beers down. It was before he had seen Joey sucking Mr. Adamos’s cock, before he heard the little rush of Spanish or saw the quick flash of bills. Joey had watched him, Gabriel had felt it, but he hadn’t known what it meant, hadn’t wanted to try to press him against the back of the bar, or up against the men’s room stall, and risk being beaten later by who knows how many other workers, maybe even his own brothers. Now he tried to remember if Joey had checked his cock or given him the kind of look the guys in Tijuana had given him again and again, the look he knew meant more cash to give his mother, more cash to horde away in the sock burrowed in the center of his mattress. He could see those
pesos
now, could see the men counting them out onto one or another part of his body. Remembered the one guy, Gabriel had liked him, wanted to see him again, but had said nothing, stuck to his routine, gotten himself and the
gringo
off with a little more intensity than usual—they had kissed, kissed hard, and it had made Gabriel’s prick throb and ache and he had grabbed the man and pushed him back against the wall of the men’s room in the club and pulled out his dick. They had rubbed their cocks together and it had felt so good, the hardness and softness all at once. It was then Gabriel knew he’d had enough, had enough of anything to learn another word or phrase or idiom, had enough of gritting his teeth for a grimy peso when he didn’t even want to come anymore, maybe ever, he was so tired of doing it for something other than his own pleasure. He remembered how that particular
gringo
had run his hands over Gabriel’s whole body, had touched him after, tucking pesos here and there—under his arms, under his balls, in the webs of his fingers. Each note he would kiss first. The last one he had rolled tight and smooth, as if he were going to light it and smoke it. Then he slid down, opened the cheeks of Gabriel’s ass, and slipped the money inside. He had stood and run his hand along the line of Gabriel’s jaw, had taken Gabriel’s chin in his hand and had kissed him one last time and then exited, just like it was some movie he had seen. Gabriel had left then, too. He hadn’t gone back to the club again. A few weeks later the three brothers had left for California.

Gabriel thought about Joey, wondered where he had learned to suck dick and why—since he already lived here, already knew English, was blond and sleek—he took money for it.

Dawn was brightening into sun-drenched day as Gabriel walked back to the house, his head throbbing dully from lack of sleep and misspent desire. If he walked to the carnation farm now, if he got in the truck with Joey as he headed out with his haul of fresh flowers, could they leave Fresno, leave Mr. Adamos and Diego and Luis and all the
chicas
and bills tossed into the dirt and head north, beyond the delivery point for the carnations, beyond the Central Valley, up into the hills where it got cool at night and where they might lie in each other’s arms and open their mouths and asses for each other with no money changing hands?

Gabriel dressed for a day in the fields, dressed in silence as his brothers yelled and joked with each other, making the small house smaller still with heat and noise and the harsh scents of cheap coffee and overdone
huevos.
Gabriel dressed and said good-bye to Diego and Luis, told them he’d see them later at the grove, that he needed to walk this morning, watched them both shrug and tell him
adios
and mumble about his mother’s
loco hijo.

Joey was deep in the field when Gabriel reached the edge of the carnation farm. The bright colors of the flowers—oranges, pinks, reds, yellows—swirled before him as he walked right up to Joey from behind, walked right up behind him and wondered what it would feel like to grab his hips and pull the boy’s ass back against his cock. In the stark sunlight he could see how burnt Joey’s skin was, how deeply red and freckled at the back of his neck and his arms.
“Por favor,”
Gabriel said softly as he came up beside Joey cutting down carnations the color of sunset.

Joey turned slowly, his hand still holding the heavy shears, his one hand gloved, the other glove stuffed in his back pocket. It was only six a.m. but already streaks of color bled across his white T-shirt. He looked at Gabriel and licked his lips, lips full and bruised from the sun.
“Hola,”
Joey responded, snapping the shears shut and standing up, the cascade of flowers in his arms.

Gabriel looked hard into Joey’s eyes, squinting in the sun, pale green, like sea glass. He wasn’t sure how to ask for what he wanted. Wasn’t sure he knew how to do it without money changing hands.

“When do you leave Fresno?” he asked, and ran the tips of his fingers along the zipper of his jeans. “Why don’t I go with you?”

Joey’s pale green eyes had followed the tracery of Gabriel’s fingers on his cock, had gone there at the same time Gabriel had led him there. “Another half hour,” Joey said, re-opening the shears and heading for the next stalks of flowers. “I’m nearly done here. You want to ride with me?”

Gabriel pulled his wallet from his back pocket and held it out. “Do I need this?” he asked softly.

“Nada, amigo,”
Joey said in his lightly accented Spanish, shaking his head.

In the truck they rode in silence out through the fields. Gabriel could smell the carnations, sharp and flinty throughout the cab of the truck, and wondered what his brothers would think when they didn’t find him at the almonds or later at the lemons. When Joey took the turn off the highway half an hour in and headed onto a small road once used to drive cattle, Gabriel slid down in the seat, feeling dizzy suddenly from heat and desire.

“There’s water under the seat,” Joey told him and Gabriel reached under and pulled out a bottle for each of them. Ahead a small grove of old orange trees that looked like they hadn’t been tended in years thickened over the road. Joey pulled up into them and the leafy greenness enveloped the truck. Joey stopped and turned off the engine. He leaned back hard against the seat and looked straight ahead. Neither man spoke.