I live in the slums. This is my home. I grew up here. And the slums grew and spread and rotted with me. Though it is not my choice. I had my dreams too. I have my own version of living, once. I was able to study, you know. Basics and not much, but still a school. Nevertheless, my education was not enough to make me successful or rich. This is my home now, and somehow, I learned to live and survive in it. I also learned that to be successful and rich, one has to be different. In some ways, different. Perhaps, I am different. I am a freak when I am outside my territory. No one knew me, and I know no one, in return. I grew up here tough, calloused and numbed to the hurt, the insults, and the poverty. I am a freak perhaps to those who do not know me. And that is to say, everybody else outside my territory.
My friends call me Cap. I am their leader in our comic book worlds. Here in the slums, I am a leader, too, of sort. Often, we would crawl under the stairs and sit and talk in the dirt about our make-believe worlds. A place where our fantasies, adventures, and flights of ambition fill our heads with action, fights, money, and girls. Just like on TV of some of the neighbors. Perhaps if we have money—lots and lots of money–we can go to the movies. We want money. Yet, if we have money, we don’t know how to use it. Whatever comes along, whether stolen, given, or won, were immediately spent on food—bread, soft drinks, candies, cookies, or fruits—and later, on cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, and bets. We never had enough for girls. We always need to save for the girls. So we fantasized a lot. And we talked and we covet. We masturbate.
It’s the girls I really like though, more than alcohol, gambling, or drugs. I don’t want to be dizzy when I fuck. I don’t want to be disoriented or high while I have sex or enjoying myself. We do it often here in the slums. It is the only thing free and free time is abundant. When your time is abundant, the only thing on your mind is sex. We do it with the sexy girls from comics, magazines, TV stars, or sometimes, the neighborhood sluts. Yet the whores are not my type. What I like are the girls in white going to church. Or those in school in clean uniforms and immaculate socks.
I grew up, but my education lagged behind. I dragged it with me like a loose shoe, untied. Unable to jerk it off, yet found it necessary in my life. I hide. I am ashamed of myself. I am ignorant and too poor to show I’m hurt. I cried, instead, a lot. When everyone else is asleep at night; when they will not hear my whimpers, or be disturbed by my whines. I am ashamed to cry. Remember, I am Cap.
I became an introverted teen. Shy, timid, stupid, and afraid. My pimples peppered my face; a sand paper, my second skin. The water here is dirty. And I am nervous, tense…always aroused and on edge. There is no money, no girls. Not ever enough, even for a cleansing cream. In the slums, you’re fucking crazy if you throw money for luxury. Better on dice, on Kent, or a pack of Juicy Fruit. I have to live with what the slums gave me, what it made me, and what it turned me into, eventually.
I revisited my childhood dreams often. I find comfort in it; a consolation of sort. Although they are now mostly blurred; faded fast to obscurity and senseless reveries. I cannot even see myself in it anymore. I became a stranger to myself; a zombie in the fog of memory. I am anonymous; an unknown entity. A fool groping the girls for identity. Except here, perhaps, in my reality; in my filthy, smelly territory. Where I ruled the neighborhood of my childhood. I am Cap still, and in my head, I am the Boss.
Yet, most of my childhood friends were already dead, in hiding, or imprisoned for life. Either by accidents, shot, or were caught: stealing, gambling, pushing, pimping, or for joining activist groups. This was then a fad, of course, in our isolated neighborhood. It was an offer in the slums many kids cannot refuse: to make a change, to make our lives matter, where it is needed most. Yet many did not return; or were heard from ever since. Either lost in the gutters, or shredded by bullets in random, multiple raids. No news, no words came back. And no one bothered to look.
We are the slums and our lives have no value or worth. We are in the slums, and we can only hate; shake our heads and spit on the graves. I kept to myself. I relived my adventures, my childhood escapades. Only a thing or two remained: the sex, and our stories, naïve and passionate, told clear and vivid underneath the stairs. Of course, in the end, we all masturbated.
I became a loner. I realized later I was sad. My friends were gone now, one by one. Those who remained got their girls early and have their families. No house, no marriage, no job, no life. Everything was an adventure; all of what we ever dreamt about. Still, they got by. A grim and grimy head start to the ends of their miserable lives. Man, let destiny do its fucking job for us, just this once! They gambled, drank, pushed, pimped, and muscled their ways until caught. Then, after a while, became proud, way too loud: the police are now on their shitty side.
But I am a coward. I am only strong and brave in my fantasy world. I am not into that kind of dangerous life. Many times, I was approached. They offered me a job. Simply drop the brown bag filled with “rocks”—the poor man’s cocaine, this side of the grave. I will get paid, they said. Get all the chicks I want, and still have enough. No sweat, Cap. And they all laughed. Sarcastic, absurd, drugged. I refused. Shoved my finger up their nose.
My interest and likes are more of something soft, warm, tender, and wet. I want the sluts in school uniforms crossing my side of the streets. I am drowning; sinking low and below, overwhelmed and weighted by my sexual needs. Which on occasions, I cannot stop or control, even in public places. I peeped. I watched. I paid just to watch, and paid again for a few minutes of love. Yet, I wasn’t content—never felt happy or fully satisfied. I am disgusted to say the least, most of the freaking time. Man, I paid for the ugly fucking chick with tattoos on her arms!
I want to look first…to take my time and appreciate the sex. Free to ogle, imagine, and sneer. To enjoy the lust of seduction, the fire of temptation; to see everything else undone, exposed, unraveled slow in my eyes before I fuck. Usually, it can happen only in my mind. Do you think I am sick? I heard the whores once called me a pervert.
I am disgusted. I felt deprived, degraded. I experienced hatred, sadness, and loneliness, while I masturbated.
I am sick, or was told. I am sick of myself and I am cold. I cannot look at any woman without getting aroused. Be it a picture, a drawing, or on TV. More so, if real, and before me. I will feel my erection stretching, stiff and straight and angry. Bulging obscene, malicious and pointing in front of me.
I hope no one sees; no one notices, as I cover my face. I bowed my head low, allowing the pleasure, the swelling elongation take its full measure. All of eight inches and maybe in a half more. My stupidity, my temerity, now grand, absolute, and not funny. My sickness pulsing, warming as if I’m on fire. I cannot stay even in church without getting an arousal. The scent and the sight of women praying all around burned my heads, up or down. Votive candles now with massive lights fiery, fierce, and disturbed. The heat all-consuming, flickering, annoying…more so, if I sat next to one.
And more often, I got the ugly ones. No problem. Everything I do in church or in a crowded place were all calculated and intentional. I inhale their warmth, feel their softness and caress their wants with my eyes while I cradled and cuddled my arousal all at the same time. I am drunk, intoxicated with dirty desires after every Mass. For I would stay like a repentant fool, but more than once. This is me, and I cannot be another one. I know for sure, even if I tried.
Perhaps, I looked timid and dumb with my head always bowed. My dirty gaze out in the corner of my eyes. Maybe, I looked attractive that way—a stupid, poor innocent guy. A fool who had wasted already most of his young life. A promising, fulfilling, fruitful life in the slums, jesuschrist!!
But maybe, I am really attractive, too. An interesting specimen; a sweet vulnerable kid with the shyness of a lost lamb. I was surprised to get the attention of a girl from the neighborhood school, five years younger than I supposed. I saw her looking at me, giving me the eye, when I played basketball in the streets. Naked, sweaty, dirty; down to my worn-out shoes and faded shorts. Perhaps, it wasn’t even me she was looking at, staring at. But I saw her again; caught her eyes watching me where I hang out: a lamp post with busted bulb near the schoolyard.
I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to stay home. I don’t want to hear poverty screaming at me in the four corners of our boxboard home. I don’t want to see my mother slaving herself washing clothes so we can have food. I don’t want to see my father trying hard without results to pump water from a broken, leaky pipe outside. Nor do I want to see the rest of my elder brood who do nothing, think of nothing but sleep. To sleep off their highs while they soil the mats with puke, urine, and sweat. Making love unabashed with their whores still on drugs behind a curtained blanket while my mother washed clothes on the other side.
I don’t want poverty to embarrass me further each time. No water, no electricity, no window or space to lie down. We took turns, here in the slums. The pungent odor of the mats enough to make me vomit and passed out. I don’t want my family to remind me of shame. I don’t want to think of myself as poor. I don’t want to be home, that’s all.
So I hang out. I stayed out and hang around until I’m too sleepy to stand. I stayed in the streets until even the dogs looked at me, embarrassed. I am as wild and hungry as they are; as poor and dirty as they have been; and yet, more deprived than any of them. I have no sex to brag, unlike them.
I am more dog than any of the snarling strays. But I have my switch blade: seven inches long, wide and straight. I have gutted one who attacked me for staying once too long on her pee-post. It is my territory now, bitch. Since then, the other dogs looked at me with respect, with their tails curled as if I am a ghost. I smelled like a dog-killer in their sensitive nose. No problem, boys, just move on quietly now, okay, or you’ll drag behind your balls up your nose.
I light my smoke. In the flicker of the match I saw her alight from the car. Late again, for the past two nights in a row. It’s becoming a habit, and I don’t like her dude. Though she never noticed me in my pee-post. Never once looked at me, as if I’m non-existent and invisible. Even if, we buy beers side by side, in the neighborhood.
Her name has a sweet melody to it. I heard it when her fancy boyfriend called back to say “take care”. It left my tongue parched with desire each time I spoke her name when I’m alone. Yet she now hurries home. The heels of her shoes clicking on the asphalted road. Her boyfriend stayed in the car. A fucking stupid rich asshole with a car and a girlfriend here in the slums. Who’s taking advantage of who, boss?
I flicked my smoke away. Blew from my nose as it exactly landed two feet from her quick strides. She smiled to look, and saw my shadow or me leaning on my pee-post. Which means it wasn’t for me at all; that she never really bother to find out who it is, before she smiles; that the smile was an anomaly; a muscle spasm only of the beautiful and sexy; an accident of nature for someone so damn hot and crazy; and given free to fools who still littered the streets this late; a few alms for the needy, like me.
I crashed the butt with my slipper. The sole as thick as the callous on my foot…
“Walk you home?” I asked. Without a smile, without looking, and with my head bowed to take in the perfect swells of her breasts riding, clinging underneath the soft, smooth fabric of her blouse with each breath. She smiled at me, rehearsed. Caught my eyes and pointed maliciously with her lips, an eyebrow arcing to emphasize the boyfriend in the car. Still there waiting for her, so she will believe the fuck really cared, even for the rotten ones in the belly of the slums.
I gave her space. Lifted my foot to let her pass. She walked away, relaxed. Swaying her ample butt. My gaze followed her dance, her butt, as if music were suddenly played. Take it off! Take it off!! shouted the stupid crowd behind my head. Perspiring like me in the perverted heat. Pushing and scrambling like demons at my back to get a closer look; to have a better chance to ogle and remember her up close. But I shrugged them all off. This is my girl, assholes, and I am Cap!
I turned to look at the dude in the car. He was swallowed in the street by the night. Only the dogs remained waiting, salivating. I assumed back my pose; declared my authority on the territory with a long, languorous pee. Hopefully, some hot-cunt will come to sustain my erection so I can go home.
Several nights and I had no luck. Days into weeks and still I felt bad. I was hot and raring for a fuck. Yet there is no one here but the dogs. Then from far ahead, the click of shoes on the asphalted road. She’s not in a hurry, or inside the car, riding the rich son of a bitch. She’s all alone, and walking home. In her arms she carried a box. Full of dirty clothes that look cumbersome, even in the dark…
The laundry woman’s child. Taking home to mother another job. As plain as rain, as dark as the asphalt, with a pimpled face like mine. A beggar’s bouquet, nevertheless, at this time of night. She saw me at once walking towards her even before I say “Hi!” and avoided me quite as fast, as she lowered her eyes. Maybe, in my long lonely wait, I have grown some fangs. Or perhaps, sprouted horns wagging in my shorts. She hurried past me, and almost fell, on the run.
A girl of thirteen, mixed up, lonely, and trapped. No school, no fun, no love…Yet her boobs beckon to me as she cowered and hide. A sorry child of the slums without future, hope, or life. A head full of fear, a body full of doubts; so full of hatred, anger, and self-pity at her ripe age now. And here, hiding from me in the dead-end alley. Waiting for me to move on, to let her be, so she can get her box full of laundry.
I picked up the box. I approached the dark. Offered it to her with both hands; with a smile she cannot see or understand. My erection thumps, my desire burns, my eyes widening to see clearly. She grabbed at the box and pulled away from me. But I held her wrist fast, and with the other I groped; squeezing hard and savouring the mounds of her breasts, her pussy, as she melted oh, so sweetly…
I saw the girls in the church…Those in school with their white socks. I felt their bodies quivered, trembled, shook…Their teasing smiles opening their mouths in surprise. Delighted, as my hands travelled free, up and down, all over her soft, warm body… Her fear stopped her heart. Her scream caught and swallowed in her mouth. The sexual surprise glazed in her eyes. Her lips frozen in fright. She was rigid as ice.
In the dark, I was afflicted, mad. Nothing else mattered that moment for me…Like a raving animal, I drank. Like a monster, I licked, I sucked, I swallowed and rolled whatever my gaping mouth and burning tongue can hold. Then I entered without a knock. Pushed myself hard and pulled just as fast. Quick strokes and absurd…No care, no pity, no second thoughts. In seconds, I was out; a thief in ecstasy, insane with delight, gloating with pride. Exploding, fuming in hate, anger, and shame as I realized my stupidity…
”What now, Cap? What will happen to me?” A whisper, a plea; my agony, my delirium subsiding quickly. My desire, my conscience, the little girl talking to me! Limp, shriveled, cold, the fire doused simultaneously, as I stumbled out of the alley. Her whimper, trailing, hounding me.
I crawled to my pee-post. To where the dogs await me. Lingering, circling, smelling the odor and warmth of sex drying in my body. My confidence coming back, slow and easy. I saw the girl leave the alley with her laundry. To do it again, to try it once more, to be choosy and picky, to have a second round, to enjoy it more next time, these horrible thoughts coursed all over me like warm, caressing fingers as I marked out my plans. I am Cap, and this is my story.
Certain connected conditions, circumstances, consequences, and coincidences may all conspire and combine to conjure and create casual instances for us to commit or carry out what many consider abnormal sexual behaviours or preferences, and it is up to us, the choices we make, whether to succumb and absorb, or reject and avoid such tempting, malicious propositions disguised as our very own opportunities—a good luck—prepared only for us and no one else, when in truth, they are but a series of calculated and insane misfortunes that will lead us to a disgusting, abominable existence.