Adelina Anthony: Cowboy

I am, to my father's dismay, more like the passive women in my family than the men. The women form a long chain of paper dolls, and I am half a doll at that. But I am my father's only child-his miracle one. When I think about it, he was more of an embarrassment to la familia than I ever was. Hell, I saved his reputation. Impotent, they would whisper at fiestas. Shake their heads and say, Chingao, what a waste. I get the same reaction from the girls. They see my sculpted body, the Spaniard complexion-you know the one, beetle-black hair against ivory white skin, the kind Don Juan must have had, and the girls go ga-ga. Girls and their locuras… I see them eye me discreetly and sometimes not so discreetly.

Tonight, as I saunter past the Crockett Hotel, the girls gaze in astonishment. They've spied the huge bulge my black leather pants try to contain. El viejo used to show me his chorizo in the bano and say, "Ya ves, mi'jo, when you grow up, this is what you can thank your papi for. It's gonna drive the viejas crazy." Gra-cias, Papi, because you were right, a man is nothing without a big dick, especially in jotoland.

But why think about that culero now? Maybe because my balls are shriveling from this chilly breeze while I wait to dance my buns to warmth inside the Bonham. Old historical Bonham, the only decent thing about San Anton' on Saturday nights. How many nights did I freeze my ass off that Thanksgiving el viejo kicked me out?

At least three, before my great tia Tita took me in like her own son. I grew up hearing la familia whisper about her, saying she would never get married and have kids because she was "one of them." A tortillera. Back then I didn't understand what eating tortillas had to do with her not getting married. My mom ate tortillas and she married my dad. It seemed the whole fucking town of San Anton ' ate tortillas, even the gringos. It wasn't until Tia Tita showed me albums of all of her "comadres" that I got the picture.

Almost twenty years ago, and I still remember el ataque de corazon my parents had when it was my turn at the table to be thankful and I said, "I thank Jesucristo for letting me know so early on in my life that I think men are groovy." Thinking it was a joke, Abuelo Rufus laughed aloud. Almost choked on the turkey leg he had shoved in his mouth. But when I looked at our neighbor Jim Stonewall, a closeted fag, and said, "Tell them, babe"-a battle bigger than the pinche Alamo transpired. And just like back then, Mexicans were fighting Mexicans, and the pobre gringo got pulverized.

Ten more vatos to go and I'm inside. I hate it when the line gets stalled; you'd think they could card the jailbait a little faster. The music is already pumping so loud I can hear my dreamy Ricky blasting through the speakers. Tasty. N'ombre, I was into him when he was just a Menudo boy. And even now that his star has waned, I'm still his biggest fan. You see Junior, you can be loyal to a man. He's just gotta look like Ricky or George.

Not like the average joto I see standing out here. Carajo, I don't see anything worth a stroke. Just the regular faces. I think every guy in this line has already given me a blowjob. That's the daddy's girl in me. I still let the men do the picking-up. But it doesn't mean I'm a bottom. And that is definitely the macho in me.

Regardless of what el viejo said about me back then-that I'm a long-haired sissy joto who will never be a man or his hijo 'cause you like to take it up the ass like a pinche vieja!-I've discovered it's really not my style. It's like no one ever tells you that if you take it up the ass you can't really enjoy it the first few times. How? The whole fucking time it feels like you're gonna crap. That grosses me out. They can blow me, give me a handjob and I'll gladly fuck or suck them, but those are my boundaries. I don't think it makes me less of a joto.

The only one who ever did me doggie style was Orlando, and that's just because the puto was stronger than me. If the struggle hadn't turned me on so much, I would've called it rape. After Orlando, I've always made sure to only let smaller putos pick me up. Too many psychos out there.

Speaking of locos, ay, mi virgencita, I don't believe my eyes, pinche Gerald is here. Que apropos, here I am going down memory lane and the only cabron I let treat me like his perra is here. At least, he's at the end of the line. Maybe I can avoid him. Damn. I thought he moved to Irving five years ago when he started dating that Dallas Cowboy player. He must be here visiting his sister Gweena.

That must be his boyfriend hanging on him like a sweaty workout towel. Gerald always enjoyed being worshiped. I wish I could say he looks like shit, but he doesn't. For a brother, his style doesn't change much though. Black slacks and a white tank top to show off his Olympian chest and arms. Delicious, but my worst relationship. What did I expect from a gym rat? I mean, I work out, but chingao, I got a life, too.

Now he's looking arrow-straight at me. I don't think he recognizes you, Junior. How could he? I was in my blond ambition stage when we dated. He never saw my natural look, well, except for my nest where the pajarito sleeps. C'mon Gerald, get a good look you pinche puto, because your slutty hands will never touch me again. Look at him grinning, what a flirt, always on the hunt. He's definitely got that guy dick-whipped.

Hello, honey, are you going to give me the regular special? C'mon, give me the smile, papi chulo. Stamp my hand. In I go for free and in return a nice squeeze to the ass to keep him caliente the rest of the night. Since Edward started manning the door, I can't remember the last time I paid to come in.

Ay, music throbbing, I can barely hear my thoughts. This is nice. A packed house and it's not even eleven yet. I love the holiday crowds: out-of-towners and their fresh faces. I should write a book about playing the game at clubs.

First thing any professional clubber does is cruise the entire scene as soon as he enters. Even if he's a drinker, the cerveza can wait once you get an idea of what kind of house it is. Actually, I rarely ever buy my own drinks, so I don't even worry about stopping at the bar. Tonight it's a rather eclectic crowd. I should have no problem getting laid.

Let's see, we got the young freaks who wear nothing but Hilfiger, Nike, and Adidas in the video hip-hop room. This is usually where I run into my ex-students. I used to get embarrassed and terrified the first few years this happened. "Coach Rodriguez? What are you doing here?" No, I should be asking you that, quarterback Joe, lineman Johnny, or running back Ricardo. Tough baby jotos. I let them squirm with vergiienza and then say, "Your mama asked me to find your joto butt and take you home." Their mouths opening with fear, just wide enough to take my cock, I think. And then I laugh my ass off and grab their balls.

And the truth is, if they are over twenty-one, I usually do take them home, or at least to my car. Any teacher who says they've never been turned on by a student is a liar. But with the new law San Anton' passed about teachers and students involved in sexual relations, I'm going to have to start checking their I.D.s. Make sure it's been at least seven years since I last spanked them.

It's not like I think teachers should be sleeping with their students, especially, if a kid can come back up until the age of twenty-one and sue your culo. Just gotta be more careful. Gotta be cool in the young face of temptation. I feel sorriest for the straight teachers. Some of those young girls are serious putitas. If Coach Hernandez isn't careful with the third-year flunky, Melissa Gallegos, he's going to have some major problemas down the road. Everyone says she keeps flunking eighth grade to stay in his P.E. class. Girl is way past the training bra stage. But there you have her, jumping jacks in the front row, where Hernandez can see her chichis jiggle like Jell-O.