Beantown Cubans

by Johnny Diaz

  “I’m on the third floor!” I instruct over the intercom. I bounce up and down out of pure excitement.

  His footsteps grow louder in the stairwell. I open the door and wait as he comes toward me. He changed shirts from work. He’s wearing a tight black T-shirt under his green coat. His dark blue jeans are snug in all the right places. Our eyes lock the entire time he ascends.

  At the door, we hug tightly. We start to kiss. I taste the salt on his lips from…who knows. I don’t care. I lick his lips and shut the door. I place one hand on Marcello and the other on his bum. We kiss repeatedly, an exchange of tongues and moans. He drops his coat on my wood floor. My hands creep underneath his T-shirt. I feel the tautness of his stomach. I massage his shoulders. I press his biceps as my tongue wiggles all around his mouth and rubs against the inside of his teeth. I haven’t felt this alive in so long. It’s intoxicating. With our eyes closed, we manage to kiss and walk over to the sofa where he collapses on top of me. My tongue explores his nape, which smells of his grassy cologne. He must have sprayed enough on to cloak the restaurant stench. My hands burrow into his hair, and I play with it. I pull off his T-shirt fast and hard. I press his lean, tan body against mine and squeeze his hard butt. I repeat Ay, Marcello! several times as I slip my hands under his jeans to squeeze his hairless, tight butt. It feels so good to be touched, to be desired.

  “Carlos, you are super bello!” he says. “I have not been able to stop thinking about you,” he says in his broken English. His hazel eyes peer into mine, piercing my mind and penetrating my soul.

  Marcello pulls off my sweatpants, and my dick pokes out from my underwear. He pulls me forward and takes off my T-shirt. My hands explore his hairless tight chest and tickle his small, dark nipples. I slink my hands into the front of his jeans and feel his hard cock. It’s a little wet. I get up and forcefully lead him to my bedroom. We throw each other on the bed and continue this sexual dance. When I look to my right, I see the framed photo of me and my mom. The image starts to weaken my impulses.

  “Hold on a second!” I lean over Marcello and place the photo inside my nightstand drawer.

  “Sorry, Mami! You can’t see this.”

  Marcello grins. For the next two hours, we kiss, suck, grab, lick, massage. Name the action verb, and we performed it. Our bodies engage in a rhythmic cadence, flowing and pumping as one. At one moment, he sits up on top of me and grinds his smooth ass against my throbbing, uncircumsized, Cuban cock.

  “I want you inside me, guapo,” Marcello says, his eyes half opened and closed as if he were in a lustful trance.

  “I want you so much,” he continues. Hearing those words, I grab an ultra sensitive ribbed condom and some lubricant stashed under my bed. Within a few minutes, I’m inside him, feeling the warmth and wetness of his core. A delicious, forceful, tingly feeling fills my entire body, a stimulation I have longed for. I don’t want to be anywhere else right now. As he rides me, I keep my hands on his chest, squeezing his muscles and pulling on his nipples. Our bodies move, fluidly entwined. When Marcello and I come, it is with a barbaric and primal intensity. He collapses on top of me in a sweaty stupor. Breathless, we lay in my bed in a sweet lulling state of ecstasy. I carefully remove the limp and wet condom filled with my creamy liquid and toss it into the waste basket near my desk.

  I turn to my side and spoon with Marcello. I lick the sweat off his neck as his breathing slows. God, I want this guy so much. I want him to stay the night and hold me. I want to wake up with him in the morning and prepare him breakfast. I want to show him how I whip up café Cubano, just as Mami taught me. I want him to be with me and take away all the loneliness that invades me when I’m alone at night. In the brief moments I have shared with Marcello, I have felt good about myself. I don’t want the feeling to be fleeting.

  After half an hour of relaxing, Marcello yawns and slowly rises. He takes his clothing and goes to the bathroom and washes up. I lay in bed and wait for him to return. Maybe another sexual romp? Ay, Marcello. I want to do this again and again until my skin is raw.

  When he reappears, he is already dressed. He tucks in his shirt and sits on the edge of my bed. He begins to slip on his socks.

  “You’re not staying?” I ask meekly and confused.

  “I’m sorry, Carlos. Or as you say in español, lo siento. I must go.” I lean closer to him and rub his back to get another feel of it.

  “But why? Stay the night. We can have so much more fun. There are more things I want to do with you. I want to make you breakfast. Do you have to work in the morning or something?” I embrace him tightly from the back and feel the hard edges of his deltoids.

  “I work later in the afternoon, Carlos, but I must go. Remember, I have a roommate.” I suddenly deflate. I know he has that older guy roommate-boyfriend, but I know Marcello is not in love with him. The guy just gives him a place to stay. I just want Marcello to stay at least the night and keep me company.

  “But you said he’s not your boyfriend?”

  Marcello gets up and pops his back. “He is not, but we have some rules. I just need to stay with him until I move out next spring. I don’t want any problems,” Marcello explains.

  “So if you like a guy and want to be with him and spend the night, you can’t? That’s one of your rules?”

  I get up and stand before Marcello, face to face. His curly hair is all messed up from our sexual encounter. He notices me looking at it so he tries to fix it.

  “Carlos,” he says, brushing the side of my face with the back of his hand. “I want to stay but I can’t. Please understand. I am in a complicated situation,” he says, using the same tone an employer would use to reject an employee for a promotion. He tries to sound reassuring, but he’s not. My heart sinks. Tommy was right. He suggested that I mess around with Marcello but expect nothing more. What was I thinking? I’m such an idiot. Here I am, standing naked with my penis flacid and pleading with a guy to stay with me. I’m pathetic. I’m the same loser-dork I was in private school where everyone made fun of me because of my accent and wiry frame.

  “Okay. I guess I understand.” I slowly put on my underwear and my sweatpants as if my internal batteries were running on low.

  Marcello gives me another long kiss, but somehow, I’m not feeling it. I was just a Cuban conquest to him. I hoped for something more. A new friend perhaps? I walk him to the door because that is where he obviously wants to go.

  “You are so handsome, guapo. Thank you for coming to the restaurant and for tonight, but I need to go. The subway stops at midnight. Maybe I can come over again another night?” He puts his coat on and weakly smiles at me.

  “I don’t know. You should get going before your boyfriend, roommate, or sugar daddy gets upset,” I say.

  Marcello waves, and I shut the door. I look around my small apartment. Despite my sofa and desk and bar stools, this place feels empty. I feel empty. I walk to the bathroom, gargle, and brush my teeth. After I’m done, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Tears creep down my face. I wipe them away, but more form. I blow my nose. I wish things were the way they used to be in Miami. If they had been, Mami would be alive. I would still be teaching at Braddock High. I’d feel more complete. Maybe moving to Boston was a big mistake. I remain a stranger in this city even though Tommy has done his best to inject some fun into my life. And he has. Yet, I don’t necessarily feel all that happy and complete. I don’t know where home is. I just know that I can’t shake this depression, this loneliness. The last few weeks since winter arrived, I have wanted to stay under the covers and not go to Dorchester High and deal with reality. Sometimes, I cry for no reason. An unexplainable void lingers inside me. I want to be my old self again, but Mami was a big influence, and she’s gone. Her death showed me how things can change in an instant even though I saw her slowly fade away over the last few months she was alive. Sometimes, I feel weak, scared, depressed, and confused. A heavy depression pins me down no matter how hard I try and get up.

  I want
to be more like Tommy, so optimistic, confident, and happy. Tommy is a mystery to me. I don’t know his secret to his joie de vivre. I am hoping that by hanging out with him, I can catch some of it, because I desperately need it.

  I grab my cell phone and text him. Maybe he can talk now and cheer me up.

  Hey Carlos, que pasa? I’m out with Mikey, Tommy messages back.

  Nada. Just wanted to talk. We can talk later. Have fun with Mikey.

  Are you sure? If you need to talk, I can go outside for a second.

  It’s late, loco. Let’s talk later in the week.

  Okay, we’ll go to El Oriental or something and chat. Take it easy!

  I place the cell on my bar stool in the kitchen as I dry my tears and amble back to my bedroom. I lie on the bed and stare at my popcorn ceiling. My arms cushion the back of my head. I remember that I left my favorite photo of Mami and me in the drawer. She wouldn’t like that. So I take it out and place it back on my nightstand. I roll over on my stomach and rest my head against my pillow, facing the photograph and the bedroom window. I hold the photo and say, “I miss you Mami, so much.” I caress the glass cover and kiss her on the cheek. As the snow falls outside over Cambridge, I fall asleep, holding the picture, hoping that I may see her in a dream. Alive or dead, Mami knows how to make me feel better. I just want to feel good again.

  10

  Tommy

  “The chocolate brownie, Tommy?” Selena greets me at the Barnes & Noble café.

  “Yeah, plus the hot chocolate. I need to warm up.”

  “I’ll add some whip and chocolate shavings. You’ll be set to go,” she says, as the machine hisses with bursts of steam that warm up my drink. As I wait by the lip of the counter, I take a 180-degree inventory of the store. The café is packed! College students bury their heads deep into their textbooks. A group of suburban women gab about their book club pick of the month. A teacher mentors a frustrated high school student in trigonometry. Other coffee drinkers browse People, Time, and Consumer Reports. I like the quiet frenzied rhythm of this place. It reminds me of the Daily newsroom where everyone is ensconced in his or her own world. It suits me. When my eyes return to Selena, she says, “Psst! There’s your cute, blue-eyed friend coming in,” and winks.

  “Oh yeah?” I turn around and see Mikey at the front entrance, dusting off the snow from his jacket and tucking his light brown hair behind his ears. “Thanks for the heads-up.” A smile spreads across my face.

  Mikey spots me and nods up my way. We hold each other’s gaze. It’s Friday night, and we’re meeting up for another coffee chat.

  Selena sets my drink at the counter. I turn around and grab it, feeling the heat penetrate the cup and my hands. Mikey heads my way and peels off his brown scarf.

  “Hey, you!” he greets me with a hug.

  “Hey, yourself! Good to see you. Do you want some coffee to warm up?” I return the embrace.

  “Yeah, but I’ll get it. Why don’t you grab us a table, cutie. I’ll meet you over there.”

  With my brownie and drink in hand, I gingerly walk over to the green table in the corner, which has become our meeting spot in the last few weeks. Instead of Club Café where we used to meet up once upon a time, we’ve been meeting at Barnes & Noble. Instead of Diet Cokes and vodka and Coronas, we drink coffee and hot chocolate. I kind of like this, the casualness of the place and easy conversation that flows between us. I look forward to our meet-ups. They remind me of what could have been.

  After Mikey grabs his regular house brew coffee, he scans the café area until his eyes meet mine again. He heads to the sugar table and grabs some cream and sweetener. He then twirls his caffeine concoction, takes a sip, and tops it off. He casually walks toward me.

  “So…how was your night at Club Café last night, cutie?” he says, inquisitively.

  “It was fun. Rico and I had a good time catching up, like old times.”

  “Ya know, I don’t miss that place at all, Tommy. Too many bad memories or at least the ones that I remember. Most of my nights there are blackouts. I was such a mess. No more Club Café for me. Those days are over,” Mikey says with relief. His thick Boston accent treats “over” like “ovah.” Although he doesn’t remember some of his nights there, I certainly do. There was his sloppiness whenever he walked with a beer in each hand. I recall the nights after our breakup when I would see him with Phil the pill, who had to carry him out of the bar. I think of the times Mikey and his friends Patrick and Will stumbled over guys and nearly started a brawl with other patrons. On second thought, I’d rather not remember. I’d rather have one of Mikey’s blackouts to block those memories. I prefer to see him the way he is tonight.

  “Well, maybe when you’re ready, you can go there and have a Coke or a Sprite. You don’t have to drink alcohol at a bar. It could be like being here at the bookstore. We’re drinking and talking but with coffee,” I hold up my cup.

  “Cheers,” he toasts back. “So, Tommy, tell me, did you drink last night?”

  I take a bite out of my chunky brownie before I answer. How do I tell an alcoholic that I drink and really enjoy it? I’m not sure what the protocol on this is. I don’t want to come off insensitive.

  “Um, yeah. I had my regular drink, but I wasn’t drunk or anything. I usually stop after two or three drinks. Remember, I have to drive home. I’m not the world’s biggest drinker. I’m a lightweight.”

  “And the cutest lightweight,” Mikey says, sticking out his tongue and playfully biting down on it. “So, Mr. Cute Lightweight, did you meet anyone?”

  I’m a little puzzled by the question. Does he really want to know that I made out with a cute publicist named Noah? Should I even tell him? It’s not really his business, and it’s not something I normally do—suck face in public. I take another bite out of the brownie and slowly chew to buy some time to come up with an answer. Friends confide in one another, but Mikey and I aren’t just friends. There’s a level of fondness between us that delves deeper than friendship, yet I don’t feel comfortable spilling the beans about my public display of sluttiness. Mikey stares at me and waits for an answer. I start to laugh.

  “What? You think just because I had a few drinks that I hooked up? Give me some credit, Mikey. I was there with Rico, and we had a good time.” I wonder why I’m explaining myself.

  “And yeah, I met plenty of guys. I get story ideas by talking to people. I’m a reporter. We have to be social to get information about what’s going on. Most of my ideas come from either people suggesting stories to me or from my own local observations as a Latino in Boston.” Mikey gives me a suspicious I’m-not-buying-your-story look. I don’t know what’s worse, telling Mikey that I did make out with a guy or that I stopped kissing a guy because he kept appearing in my head while doing it. When in doubt, change the topic. Deflect. I take another long sip and do a topic switcheroo.

  “How was your day at school, Mikey?”

  He twirls his coffee and takes a nice big swig, which leaves some coffee on his lip.

  Mikey lights up as he explains his day at work.

  “School was great. I had some productive counseling sessions today. I love my kids. I know their quirks, their personalities. I can read them pretty well. Today, I met with Melvin again, and he showed me some improvements from our last session. He’s a low B student now, up from a D average. And I found a bilingual math tutor for Vanessa to help her improve her grades. Her mother signed off on twice-a-week after-school tutoring sessions. My heart goes out to Vanessa and her mom, who’s here from Honduras and never finished school. Vanessa felt embarrassed asking her mother for help on her math homework because she knew she couldn’t read the word problems in English. Tommy, I tell you—these kids are wonderful. They just need a little direction, and I’m glad that I can do that for them.”

  Listening to Mikey talk about his students makes me say “awww” internally. I enjoy hearing his school stories. Something fills inside me when I see his passion for his work. He enjoys what he doe
s. Counseling centers him. His work is a positive arena in his life. It’s a turn-on for me that goes beyond the physical.

  “Well, if I ever have a problem with math, I’ll be sure to make an appointment with you at your school.”

  “Hey, you got my number. Call whenever!” he says in a flirtatious tone.

  We spend the next two hours at the bookstore. We browse the magazines and compare the various music and movie rankings. We stroll up and down the fiction section, talking about our favorite authors.

  “Are you still a Nicholas Sparks fan?” Mikey asks, as we stand in the “S” section of the aisle.

  “Yeah, I’ve read all his books back to back. I’m waiting for the next release. For now, I’m reading Danielle Steel. She’s addictive.”

  “Tommy, you’re so cute. You’re such a romantic. Most guys wouldn’t admit they read romance novels.”

  “I’m not like most guys, Mikey. I wear my heart on my sleeve,” I say, flexing my tiny bicep.

  “And that’s one of the things I always…liked about you,” he suddenly stammers. “You’re your own person with quirks, ticks, beautiful qualities, and small biceps.”

  “You must check your vision. They’re not that small. I work out. Me muscle man. Me lift weights. Ooga ooga.”

  Mikey rolls his eyes at me. “Ok, Mr. Ooga Ogga. I get the point. You have huge biceps. Oh my gosh, you should enter a bodybuilding contest. You’d beat everyone,” he says, flexing his thin arms to humor me. “And now back to reality, have you ever thought about writing your own book? You write for the Daily, and your writing has a nice conversational rhythm to it. How different can it be from writing a novel?”

  “I’ve written short stories about growing up in Miami but never a book. I don’t think I’m that good of a writer. I don’t even know where I would start. I can write 1,000-word or 1,400-word articles but a book? Mikey, that’s like 90,000 words, 300 pages, months and months of writing and rewriting. In a nutshell, mucho trabajo!”