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The Cholo On The Elevator

Dan O’Neill

    His name was Jose, but everyone called him Pepe. Except me. I refused to use such a ridiculous name, with someone I was fucking. He was in the United States now and should become Americanized. He wasn’t really a Cholo. He just dressed and acted like one. Plus he had disgusting tattoos. I just called him that. He lived in south Los Angeles with his mother and two sisters. He wanted to be an engineer and was studying at some junior college. I called him my very own vato loco. My friend Carl said he was my summer project.
    You may remember me. I’m Mike O’Brien, 6 foot 2, 180 lbs, a macho white dude, with a ripped body. I made the cover of “Men’s Fitness” magazine. Unlike a lot of Hollywood Stars, I never use a body double for sex scenes. I want to show off a lot work with my trainer. Unless you’re a character actor, who plays fat slobs, there is no excuse to let yourself go. Liposuction and gastric bypass are for lazy people. Hard work, diet, and self control are the answer. I do have a fetish for hot, young Latino guys. But I’m in therapy now trying to deal with this. Not that I really think it’s a major problem. But to make some of my friends and my business manager happy tried dating other races and older men. Mostly boring business, banking, attorney types I even got a sex Wrangler named Jeremiah Jones, who would get you dates, after a thorough screening. He promised no troublemakers, good health, emotional stability. No drugs or psychos. And, if there were problems, Jerry J would handle it, so there would be no bad publicity. It sounded safe but boring. And the guys he set me up we’re pretty boy model types that put me to sleep.
    I was working on my television show “Assume The Position” when I met Joe. I was playing the good cop and my partner was a bad clown cop, who had left the circus because they made elephants roller skate and bears ride bicycles. I had wanted the part of the clown, but they said my all American boy looks worked against it. Clowns can’t be handsome and sexy? I was hoping they could find some darker, more twisted sides to the character in future seasons.
    Joe was the parking attendant at a garage across the street from the studio. I used to be going home when he was on his break. Always smoking. I figured he had one bad habit; maybe he had others. He was very well built. I wondered what his baggy clothes were hiding about how hung he was and if he had a bubble butt. He always walked with me to my red Porsche. He claimed to keep a special eye on it. So I always tipped him. Even though the show was on cable Joe claimed to have watched all the episodes. And, guess what, he wanted to be an actor. He was from Oaxaca, which he said that besides mole, was the home of real Mexicans. He kept asking me if I was married. I said no and when he asked why I said, “Just lucky I guess.” He said he had a lot of girlfriends, because he loved pussy. Then he asked me if I got a lot of pussy from fans. I said no. When he asked why I told him I was gay. He looked at me and said, “Serious guey why?”
    I replied in Spanish “Me gusta verga and culo”.
    His eyes lit up and he said he knew a shortcut to my car on the elevator. When we were inside the elevator he took a silver key out of his pocket and put in in the panel and turned off the elevator. He turned to me and asked.
    “You like me for sex?”
    When I shook my head yes. He said.
    “Cause I like you too much guero”
    Then he took off his pants and plaid boxer shorts. exposing a fully erect cock that was almost as big and thick as mine. It was kind of like a jack in the box that sprang out. I thought, wow where the hell did that hunk of chorizo come from? He had low hanging balls that were the blackest I had ever seen. We 69d right there for almost an hour and it was fantastic. Pure lust. It took me back to when I first started having sex. After that, we would fuck nearly every night in either the elevator or his van.
    At the beginning he said no kissing, on the lips, and I could do anything I wanted to him below the waist, but nothing above. His idea of romance was to say”, “You wanna, motherfucker?”
    Obviously, I wasn’t going to put up with macho, posturing bull shit. He was going to change, because I was addicted to the sex and he was going to be my bottom.
    Carl said, “Are you fucking crazy. You want to get arrested in a garage and go viral? At least take it to a motel or your house, bro.”
    So, I took Joe home with me. He didn’t seem like the stalker type. I wanted to be able to fuck him whenever I wanted. Since I played a cop on tv, Joe liked when we role played. He was a young punk I caught breaking into my car. I handcuffed him and told him to assume the position. I would ask for his green card. He said he didn’t have one. I replied that if he didn’t have one he would be deported. He would cry that he loved this country and didn’t want to leave. He would do anything to stay. When I penetrated his ass, he whimpered like a kid, “Fuck me daddy”. Where the hell did that come from? I sure didn’t want to hear a rape horror story like mine, with my father’s Marine buddy. It was both creepy and sexy. It made me harder and able to go longer than I ever did before.
    Joe and I used to have several hour sessions. When I would come home from work I would tell him to set up with the pillows and rope. Joe liked to watch porno movies at first and I indulged him. It might give us a new idea. I was bigger than most of the so called porn stars so there wasn’t any competition or jealously. One night Joe grabbed a video he thought was porno. It was a sixties rom com “Barefoot In The Park”. I told him it was funny, but there was no sex. He was so horny he didn’t care. He played it. And our sex was hotter than ever. He really didn’t need to see people having sex. It was like he just wanted some witnesses to our fun in the dark.
    He liked to kiss now and I taught him how to worship my tongue. I had access to every inch of his body. I discovered that he loved spankings with a razor strap and a ping pong paddle and was into whips. I started to make him beg for sex. He would implore “We play hide the chorizo now?”
    I would say “No, you haven’t done anything to deserve my cock. You think everyday is Cinco De Mayo? You have to suck me for at least an hour, before you get a chance at a fucking sausage fest You can start by sucking my toes, and licking my feet and then work your way up to heaven.”
    While he was sucking me. I would tell him to enjoy his lollipop, it was good for his health. I liked him to take me all the way in and it gave me an electric like shock when he gagged.
    I told him afterward, the tattoos had to go. They were too vulgar and ghetto. They were going to make my dick limp.
    “You want people to think you’re a gangbanger?”
    He had one of his mother, the mexican flag, a former girlfriend and our Lady of Guadalupe. I took him to a tattoo removal specialist. He was most upset about the erasing of his mother and the Guadalupe bitch. I told him his mother would understand that he was trying to clean himself up and not be a low life. As for the Lady of G, Mexican hysteria, I never understood the pathetic holy mommy of God mania in the United States, either. I told him it was superstitious shit he had to overcome. I informed him Mexicans had to outgrow the Catholic Church in America and stop being sheep. If I could survive the corrupt Catholic church, so could he. I told him he would never get good roles as an actor, with his body defaced like that. I said if he loved me. He would do it. And, even though it was painful he did it saying “For you guerito”
    I realized Joe needed a lot of work. From his table manners (which we’re atrocious), to his appalling ignorance of pop culture. How could these people segregate themselves in this country and miss out on so much? What kind of relationship was it when I was always saying, “Google it” to most of my references that left him looking dumbfounded and shrugging his shoulders. If I had lived years in Mexico, I think I would have picked up a lot more just by osmosis. I tried to get him to read my favorite books, and see my choices for best movies and TV. He showed some promise when he told me he didn’t like “Catcher In The Rye,” because Holden Caulfield was a whiny ass bitch.
    I bought him a new suit that he could actually wear to some special event I took him to. I picked out a blue Tommy Hilfiger number, that he seemed to like too. I guess I was thinking of the Rafael Nadal ads for Hilfiger underwear and suits. But, Joe, to put it mildly, was no Rafael Nadal. To me he looked like he was wearing a Halloween costume. He appeared to like it though. He was looking at it in mirrors a lot and smiled more than usual and actually mumbled he loved me. I just smiled and patted his head. I realized I’d rather be fucking Nadal. I wondered if I could upgrade that high. Maybe I had set my sights too low and wasted too much time with Joe. When I had sex with him now I thought of Nadal. Joe was boring. He did look better without those vile tattoos, though. I found myself criticizing everything he did. I usually ended up screaming at him over something trivial like his leaving the toilet seat up or putting butter stains on the refrigerator or how he burnt the huevos rancheros he made for me and served me in bed. And, speaking of bed. He really didn’t know how to make one properly. I guess his mother and sisters had spoiled him.
    The only thing I really liked about him anymore was the way he shined my shoes, put them on me and tied them before I went to work.
    I decided to take him to a party with some of my friends who had met him before. Most of them treated him like an exhibition in a zoo. They did think he had great teeth and a great body. They smiled condescendingly when he told stories of his life in south Los Angeles, how he wanted a lime green muscle car, and wanted to be an actor like me. He was hoping we could do some kind of superhero movie together. When he said he wanted to make the Mexican “Citizen Kane” some of the guests laughed out loud, thinking it was a joke. Joe would try to keep up with the conversations, but I could tell he was lost, when his eyes started glazing over and he kept shaking his head like a robot. I was afraid he was going to start crying. I felt like crawling under the sofa.
    Carl told me later that most of my friends thought what I was doing was wrong.
    “Look,” he said, “there are a lot of Latino fuck buddies out there for you, so do them and move on, but this guy isn’t relationship material. You can’t take a cholo and expect him to behave like Nick Jonas.”

    He said it reminded a lot of people of our ex friend, Martin a writer director, who was in a sexual fantasy relationship with a black man he called the slave. In the fantasy, Martin was a rich white plantation owner in pre civil war South Carolina and his sexual partner was his slave. Once at a party, high on Molly, Martin began to tell tales of their master/slave sex, and most people were shocked. They held an intervention and said he had to stop this sick afternoon depravity. Martin refused to halt what he called a consensual relationship that wasn’t hurting anyone. Someone leaked the story, complete with the party videos. Martin’s career was over.
    Carl suggested our friends were thinking of exposing my current sexual project in the same way.
    It was unthinkable. I didn’t want my career to end, it was too important to me and my audience. Joe was a lot of fun, but his 15 minutes were up.
    So, I basically ghosted him. Told him I had to go to go out of town on a shoot and work was going to be done on the house, so he couldn’t stay there. I had Carl give him some money. I also arranged for him to get some extra work and some auditions. It was best that I cut if off quickly. There was no use in keeping his delusions alive. I had made him a first class bottom, who could find a lover more compatible with his quirks. In the future if I took another lover and came out I thought maybe I could get someone like one of Marc Jacobs boys. I could parade him around to call kinds of social events and be proud of him. Though some of the big gay performers who had come out, like Kevin Murphy, the singer, dancer, impressionist, who performed with sexy male dancers, he called the booty boys, and Marco Gonzalez, the gay chef, who had recently married his on air assistant, Paco, both told me to stay in the closet. They both proclaimed, “Why limit your audience? Why limit your fun? It’s not our jobs to be role models for some 12 year old boy in Des Moines, Iowa.”
    At first, I received a lot of texts and voice messages from Joe asking where I was, saying he missed me, my deep voice, my funny stories, and his culo was craving my verga, etc. He sounded desperate, alone, afraid like the stories he told me about when he was a boy who never learned to swim or ride a bicycle. When one of his last voicemails said “What’s up motherfucker you forget your Joe?” It made me choke up and cry a little. But, I realized my decision was the best for both of us.

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