Welcome Visitor: Login to the siteJoin the site

A young Cuban boy pays for his father's sins. The Patron takes the young boy into his home, bed and heart. The trial of what is right and wrong is blurred.

Submitted:Jun 3, 2014    Reads: 213    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   

I was startled when my father opened the front door and walked in the house. It was a Friday afternoon, I was home from school (I was in the eighth grade) lying on the couch watching a rerun of Gilligan's Island. My father was never home this early.

"Shut the fucking tv off," yelled my father in his thick Cuban accent as he bounded through the door. From past experience, I jumped up and did what I was told.

My father was born in Cuban in 1943. His family moved to Miami when he was four year old. His name was Alejandro Vicente Fuentes, but most people called him Alex. He was a short stout man only 5 feet 6 inches tall, thick but not fat. He had jet black hair, green eyes and fair skin. I really didn't know what he did for a living; odd jobs like most of the fathers in our mostly Cuban neighborhood just west of downtown Miami.

Sometimes the area was called "Little Havana" but that romanticized the neighborhood. We lived in a poor community with small single family homes that lined the pothole streets. Hurricane fences enclosed our yards that made the houses look like rows and rows of prison yards.

I have no memory of by mother. There was one small framed photographic of her in our living room. In the photo, she has a sweet smile, but it's always her eyes that I notice. At least in this photo, the only photo I have ever see of her, her eye has a sad, far away look in them like she is longing for something else. I would look in the mirror to see if there was any resemblance of my mother in my face. I didn't see much, I just prayed I didn't look like my father.

I was always told that my mother was living in Cuban. She had gone to Cuban to visit her family and couldn't get back out of the country. I was just two or three years old at the time, depending on whom you talked to. I always imaged that she realized (what I knew too well) that her life with my father in America wasn't what she dreamed it would be and she just left us. I didn't discuss my mother, not with my father or my grandparents (his parents) who lived two blocks away. She never wrote or called. She just didn't exist in our lives.

My grandmother was my care taker when I was younger. You would think that we would be close and I would have fond memories of my "abuela"; but I always thought she didn't like me. After about third grade, I stopped going to their home after school. I would only see my grandparents when I needed something like when my father would go missing for days and there was no food in the house. I dreaded the two block walk and the knock on the door. I was greeted with a nod of the head and walked straight to the kitchen. On these occasions she or my grandfather never asked about my father or even how long I had been alone. She would fix me something to eat.

My grandfather was a housepainter. He didn't talk much but always had a kind smile. He wore all white clothes with splatter pain on them. He worked for a Cuban man that hired several fathers in our neighborhood including two of my uncles.

My father was the youngest of six children (five boys and one girl). My father's closest sibling was ten years older than he; so all my cousins that lived in Miami were all older than I. There was some type of strain on my father's relationship with his whole family. It wasn't until that day that I realized what it was.

"What's up?" I coolly asked my father.

"We are going out," he replied. "You need to shower, now."

"Going out?" My father never took me anywhere. I wouldn't even call our relationship a father and son relationship. We were more roommates with him paying all the bills. I never remember a tender moment with my father, not reading a book together or throwing the ball in the yard. He did his thing and I was in the way. I had no expectations of him or him of me. I'm not sure where I got my sense of right and wrong, but I always knew that my father was wrong; wrong in his approach to me; wrong that he drank too much and did drugs; wrong in his relationship with his family and mostly wrong with my mother.

My father did physically abusive to me once. He ignored me most of the time. He did take his belt to me when I was ten. He hit me too hard and too many times. He was drunk. He had told me to mow the yard. Our yard was made up of weeds that chocked each other out. We had an old gas push mover. I remember trying to start it and couldn't get it to turn over. I remember not trying too hard. The mower was like everything else in the house, old, given to us by someone else and broken.

He stormed in the house saw me on the couch. As he rushed towards me, he was pulling off his belt and yelling at me in Spanish about not mowing the yard. The belt swings in the air and strikes me on the chest. I roll up in a ball with my back towards him and he continues to swing the belt at me. The first hit to my back, I said to myself, "I hate him." Another hit, "I hate him". Another, "I hate him." Another, "I hate him." Another, "I hate him." Another, "I hate him."

I'm not sure why he stopped. There was silence in the room. He turned as he threaded his belt back around his waist and exited into his bedroom. I sat on the couch, tears pouring down my face. My back was burning and throbbing with pain. I wanted to kill him. If there was a gun in the house, I would have used it. If there was poison, I would have used it. If he passes out I was going to bash his head in. There is that question about whether you would have the ability to kill a person. I answered that question that day, I knew I could. Even as adult I remember that hate and pain that darkened my soul that would give me the ability to kill.

I got up from that beating and walked outside. I pulled and pulled on that mower. It finally turned over and I mowed the yard. I think I cried the whole time. An hour later, it was dark when I finished. When I went back inside, my father was gone. I showered and the cool water felt great on red back. I didn't see my father for four days. He never hit me again. It was never discussed. I don't even remember him asking me to mow the yard again. I mowed it every Saturday morning weather permitting whether it needed or not.

My father giving my directives on this Friday afternoon was causing my head to spin thinking about what was going on. I could tell by his actions and demeanor that he was high on something. I learned that talking to him when he was high was never a good idea. My father wasn't high all the time. I had convinced myself that he wasn't an addict. At the time, I wasn't sure what type of drug user he was.

"Be sure to wash your hair and clean yourself, he commanded"

I walked towards the only bathroom in our small house. He followed me.

"Hurry up!" he barked.

Once in the bathroom, I removed my shirt and my father passed behind me to pee in the toilet.

"Do you need help?" he questioned me.

It was always awkward in the bathroom with my father. I never entered if he was in there. He would bound in on me at anytime. And far too often, his friend that he entertained from time to time at the house didn't have any bathroom boundaries either.

I turned that water on in the shower, turned my back to my father, unbelted my pants and quickly entered the shower and pulled the curtain closed. The toilet flushed and he pulled the shower curtain open. His eyes were wild and red. There was a panic on his face that I hadn't seen before.

"Do a good job or I do it for you," he screamed over the sound of the water rushing over my body. He didn't pull the curtain close or close that bathroom door as he exited the bathroom. I wanted to cry at that very moment but didn't know why.

I shampooed my hair digging my nails into my scalp. My hair was either extremely short or out of control. I think I got a haircut only a couple of times a year that was usually from a neighbor who would take pity on the mop-headed child. At this point it was long and wavy almost loose curls. Parting my hair was useless. I soaped up my body, rinsed and soaped up again. I was in the eighth grade just two months shy of being 14. I had made some transition from puberty. I still had a baby face but hair had grown in my armpits and about my "private area."

The shower curtain pulls back again. My father had changed clothes.

"That's good. Rinse off and get out," he commanded.

He watched me like a tiger ready to attack.

"Dry off."

I could feel a well of tears and fear in me but I knew better than to let it out.

Then his ranting began half in Spanish, half in English. Faster and faster he talked. What I remember him telling me was that I was a good boy and I wanted to make him proud. Be nice, don't talk too much, and don't say no. I will be okay whatever happens. As he continues this rant of instructions, I am standing nude in front of the sink. He lifted my right arm and sprayed Right Guard. I turn my head because he was a bad aim. He moves to my left pit and sprays some more.

He opened the mirror medicine cabinet and pulls out his BRUT. He pours some in his hands and then wiped them on my face and neck. He then reaches around and wipe his hand between my belly button and pubic line. He then rubbed his hand on his own neck and shirt. The smell was pungent.

He told me to brush my teeth and exits the bathroom. I quickly pull a towel around my waist to cover myself. I brushed my teeth and walked out of the bathroom into the hall. My bedroom was to the right at the front of the house and my father's room was to the left at the back of the house. The bathroom divided our rooms. I quickly looked in his room and he wasn't in there. I took two steps into my room and my father was pulling clothes out of my closet. I walked over to my drawers and pulled a pair of underwear out.

"No!" my father barked. "No underwear. Put theses jeans on. Right now!"

I looked at him questioning. He looked back with those crazy eyes that explained he didn't want to hear what I thought.

He exited the room. I dropped my towel and put on my jeans without underwear on. I zipped them up scared to death of what my father had cooked up for me.

He returned with a shirt that I had never seen before. It was pure polyester with a blue and green wild print on it. He threw it at me.

"Zapatos" he muttered under his breathe.

He returned to my room with a pair of his shoes. "Put these on." he barked. "Let's go."

I placed the shoes on my feet without socks. They were at least two sizes too big. I heard our front door open, my father leaving the house. I stood up and walked a couple a steps. No underwear, wild shirt, big shoes and the smell of BRUT, I had the sense that this was not going well for me. I turned as I exited the room and look back. I wondered if I would every see this place again. Too dramatic I sure, but I did have a sense of dread.

I locked the front door with a key that I had on a small chain with a charm of Saint Francis of Assisi. My father had already started our car. Our pea green 1960 two-door Ford Falcon; no air, no radio and, torn seat covers and rust around the wheel well. While some of our neighbors took extreme pride in their cars, my father didn't give a shit. In fact that that was is life mantra, "I don't give a shit."

As we drove away from our house, I was more mad than bewildered. I was mad at my mother. I knew that if she was still here this wild afternoon would never have happened. If my mother was here we would be sitting down for a family meal. If my mother was here I would have had a brother and a sister. If my mother was here my father wouldn't be on drugs. If my mother was here….

We drove in silence. The warm humid air rushing through the car was the only sound. My father broke the silence, "Remember what I told you."

I remembered nothing.

"You are a good boy. Be nice to everyone. Don't be a smartass. Do what they tell you to do. Now is the time to be a man. Tell them you are 17. Por Dios, no llores (For God sakes, don't cry).

We stopped at a building that I had never seen before. It was a white restaurant surrounded completely by palm trees. The trees encased the building. A black sign with white letters announced the name of the restaurant - "Casa de la Palmas". White marble steps led to brass doors. It was everything that I wasn't - beautiful, proud, impressive.

My father stopped in the car in the middle of the street, threw it into park, left it running and jumped out of the car. A car valet met him before he hit the sidewalk. My father leaned into the valet and said something to him in his ear. He then turned to me and whistled loudly and jerked his arm as an indication that I should too exit the car.

He waited for me at the bottom of the step. He said in Spanish, "I need you to do everything I told you to do. This is very important to me and what is important to me effects you too. Don't make a fool of yourself or me."

The door was opened by a man. We entered the restaurant - red carpet, magnificent crystal chandelier, white table cloths on the table that sparked with gold rimmed china and crystal. I had only seen a place like this on television. I never knew that Miami had such a place.

My father talked to the man at the podium. The man pointed to the rear of the restaurant. My father jerked his hand again to motion for me to follow. As we walked through the restaurant, I felt like to whole restaurant turned to look at my father and me; me with out underwear, smelling of BRUT with a crazy shirt and shoes two sizes too big.

As we neared the back of the restaurant, I could hear music and laughter exiting from a closed door. My father opened the door and the music and laughter and smoke poured from the room. It was dark and it took my eyes a few minutes to adjust. There was a large room with one long table that could seat sixteen to eighteen people.

Everyone was so engaged in their conversation, that no one noticed that we entered the room. My father walked over to the table and pull out a chair that was the last chair on the side from the end. He pushed me to sit down. There was no one to my right or left, but a young man in his twenties sat across from me. He looking at me and then continued talking to a man to his right.

My father walked to the head of the table. A man was sitting there and he was definitely holding court. My father kissed one of his cheeks and then the other. He lean into his ear and told him something. The man looked at me. Our eyes caught each others, he smiled and chills went up my spine. The man shook my fathers hand and my father turned walked towards me, started at me as he walked and then walked right pass me and exited the room.

A waiter removed my napkin from the table and placed it in my lap. He looked down at me across his long nose. "Would you like something to drink?" he inquired. I stared blankly at him. "A coke?"

"That's great."

My mind was racing. Was my father coming back? Could I get up and leave? What were these people doing here?" I quickly scanned the room for a familiar face. Nothing. To the right of the man sitting at the head of the table was a woman. She wore lots of makeup and her dress was cut low exposing her large breast. She looked drunk and laughed a lot. On her left and my right were two men who were clearly gay. They leaned into each other and kissed from time to time. There hands were all over each other. Both men were in their thirties.

There were six people on the other side of the table. The man next to the head of the table was dressed in a suit and seemed out of place. He sat erected and he wasn't laughing. The woman to his left seemed even more out of place. Her dress was a conservative tan suit with white trim. The next was two girls and two boys in their twenties very fashionable. They seemed cool and hip compared to the older crowd.

Finally, the guy across from me asked, "Cómo se llama?"

I looked at him and place my hand to my chest and said, "What?"

"What's you name?"

"Oh? I'm Panfilo Fuentes."


"Yes, Panfilo, but people call me Pan."

"I am Miguel. What bring you here today?"

The waiter returned with my coke. "I'm not sure. My father brought me here. Do you know Alex Fuentes?'

"Yah, I know him. He is your father? I didn't know he had a son or family?" He paused for a minute. He then pick up a bottle of wine and poured me a glass of red wine. "I think you are going to need to drink a little."

I must have looked confused because he said, "Its okay."

I felt someone watching me. It was the man at the head of the table. He wasn't really staring at me but watching my interaction with Miguel.

I took the wine glass and drank half of it down in one gulp. My mouth exploded with robust sensations and it burned down my throat. Miguel smiled and chuckled at me and filled my glass. I had drunk beer that my father had in the house, but this was the first wine I have ever had, except at church.

My father and I didn't attend church too often. We would go with my grandmother on special holidays, Christmas Eve, Mother's Day, Easter, and Cachita Sunday (the patron saint of Cuba celebrated in September). I didn't mind church but always enjoyed the good food that went along with these holidays. Traditionally, someone in the family drank too much and there would be yelling and fighting. My father was the center of most of the commotions.

When I turned 12, my father made we attend Catholic Catechism classes. Everyone in the class had a better understanding of the church teaching and bible verses. There was a Bible on our bookshelf at home, but I never saw anyone read it.

The priest who taught our classed was old and boring. He never took the time to remember our names. I knew he knew some of kids in the class, I figured that they saw him on Sundays. I enjoyed Catechism. There were 145 questions and what was most remarkable there were 145 answers. I lived in a world where there were always more questions and fewer answers.

Question 1: "Who made you?
Answer: God made me

Questions 2: What else did God make?
Answer: God made all things

I tried to memorize all the answers to the Catechism questions. I couldn't remember the Bible verses that "proved" the answers, but I'm not sure the priest even knew them or cared.

Cuba was always a central theme in our community and family. I learned early that not all Cubans were equal. We were Spanish. There was always some talk about being part of a Spanish land grant from Queen Isabella, but it must not have come with any money. All of my family's stories were always about how poor we were and the struggles our family had to endure. There was some story about a Dutch colonialist victimizing our family. I assume that is how we got our green eyes and fair skin.

I had downed my second glass of wine when the food arrived, large platters of food, boiled shrimp larger than my fist, steaming yucca con mojo, Congri, grilled pork and fresh Tomato and Avocado Salad. And then the desserts, flan and Tres Leches Cake. I ate food like I haven't eaten in days. Everything tasted so fresh and good. My taste buds were a live experiencing new favors.

Miguel would time to time look at me as to say are you okay. I would smile back and continue to eat.

The older man at the head of the table said something and everyone stood up when he did. I had a fork of cake in my mouth and didn't know what to do. Miguel signaled to me to stand up.

The man walked around the table stopping to talk to people as he passed. I got a better look at him as he neared me. He wasn't as old or big and he seemed sitting at the head of the table holding court. He was older than my father who was 31and younger than my grandfather who was 63.

The man possessed a present about him. He was very handsome with his thick full jet black and twinkling black eyes. He was about six feet tall.

Our eyes met and he smiled at me. I quickly looked down and had forgotten that my shoes were too big for my feet. He touched my shoulder and he walked up to me and said, "You are Fuentes' son."

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Ride with me," he commanded.

Everyone else was gathering themselves and walking behind us.

"I'm Panfilo Fuentes," I boldly said.

"Panfilo…Is that an Italian name?" he questioned.

"No!" I said firmly. "It's Spanish. I was named after Pánfilo de Narváez, the famous Spanish Conquistador and Explorer."

"Oh, he must have been named after an Italian."

I felt flustered and defensive. Maybe it's was the wine but I spoke back to him. "No sir. It is not Italian. Panfilo is an old Spanish name. Pánfilo de Narváez was born in 1478 in Spain and came to Cuba in 1511. I read all about him in a history book."

He chucked at me as we walked down the stairs of the restaurant. A big black Lincoln Towncar was parked in the street in front of us with the rear door open. He extended his hand and to let me enter the car first.

"Where are we going?" I questioned.

"To a party. We have lots to celebrate. I wish Pantilo, the Spanish Conquistador to join us," he bowed slightly with his hand extended towards the car.

I felt foolish to make such a deal about my name. I looked around and Miguel was two people behind and he nodded his head indicating that I should enter the car. I entered the car and slid across the leather bench seat to the other side. There were two jump seats that dropped down from the bench of the front seat. He entered behind me and slid almost to the center of the seat. The guy seating next to Miguel at dinner began to enter the car too and the man waved him off. The door was closed by the driver.

"I am Luis Vélaz," the man said as he slid closer to me. "Did you enjoy meal? Get enough to drink?" He pulled a joint out of his coat pocket and lit it as he was talking.

He didn't wait on my answers. He took a long drag and then handed it to me with his left hand. I hesitated. He placed his right hand on my thigh and said, "It okay. You should smoke with me."

I took the joint from him. He didn't remove his hand from my leg. I raised the joint to my mouth and inhaled. I coughed and tried to hand it back to him.

"Try again." he told me. "Slowing breath in and hold your breath." I did and he smiled. He took the joint and took a hit and blew the smoke back into may face. I took two or three more hits.

Almost immediately, I felt differently. There were a million ball bearings moving around in my head. I would turn my head and the ball bearings would swing around to catch up. I felt every bump in the road and could feel his hand still on my thigh. I didn't notice where the car was taking us.

The car stopped. The driver opened his door and got out of the car. He opened the back seat door. The fresh air filled the car. I felt like I could sit in that back seat forever. I didn't move. Don Luis leaned in to my face and kissed my lips. I was stunned, but didn't move.

"Do you dance?" he asked after his lips parted mine. "Come on Conquistador."

Don Luis exited the car and then reached back in to help me get out. I was drunk and stoned for the first time in my life. I remember that the pavement seemed soft. Don Luis propped me up until I got my balance.

"Miguel!" don Luis yelled. My old friend came over. "Take him inside."

"I know you," I slurred.

"It's best to be quite," Miguel advised.

The whole entourage and then some had joined us. We were standing in front of some building with flashing lights and music blaring from the door. We entered the building and the music was deafening. "Lady Marmalade" was playing. People were dancing the lights were flashing.

I realized that Miguel was holding me up, tugging at me and pushing through the disco. He used my body to slam into the men's room door. The door opened and bright white lights hit my face.

"Go take a pee," he barked at me and he released me with a short push to the stall.

"What's your problem?" I asked as I moved to the stall to pee.

"What a dumb fuck your father is. What was he thinking?" Miguel mumbled under his breath. "What the fuck am I going to do? What the fuck am I going to do? What the fuck am I going to do?"

I exited the stall and saw Miguel at the sink with a worried face.

"You don't have to babysit me."

"The fuck I don't. You are a lamb to the slaughter you little dumb fuck and you are too stupid to know it."

"Fuck you." I don't know if I had ever said that word to anyone.

We stood there silence for a few minutes, staring at each other. Miguel broken the silence, "Listen kid, but your dear old dad has gotten you mixed up with things over your head. You are doing out there and tell don Luis that you don't feel well and you need to go home. Don't go with anyone else. I will volunteer to take you home."

It was hard for me to listen to him. My head was still floating around. I kept looking at my feet. I kept forgetting I wasn't wearing my own shoes.

"Look at me," Miguel asked implicitly. "You are not feeling well. You need to go home. Tell don Luis. You got it."

"Sure I've got it. How do you know my father?"

"I'll explain that later." He pulled on my shoulder to exit the men's room. I had never seen the inside of a real disco. There were people everywhere. Half dressed women and fancy dressed men were dancing. Smoking and drinking and the beat of the music filled my head.

Miguel led me to a corner of the disco that had half walls to form a smaller room. Metal beads filled the space between the short wall and ceiling. In the "room" were two large couches, a big coffee table and several chairs to enclose the circle with the couches. Don Luis was sitting in the corner on one of the couches. Once he saw me, he hit the leg of the man next to him indicating for him to leave. He lifted his hand and motion for me to some forward to him.

I had to snake around several chairs and the coffee table which was filled with drinks and ashtrays. I stood in front of him and said, "Thank you for dinner, but I am not feeling quite right. I think I need to go home."

He rose from the couch and towered over me. He leaned down and said, "I think you will be okay. You just need to sit." And he turned my body and gentle but forcefully sat me down where he was sitting. "Get him a coke. You like Coke?"

He plopped down beside me and the cushion pressure caused me to bob. His arm went behind me and a glass with ice and coke appeared in front of me.

"Drink. You feel better." It wasn't a question it was a commandment.

I scanned the crowd for Miguel but didn't see him. Don Luis seemed different, not as loose and calm. He was almost hyper. Someone guy seated two down from me on the other couch snorted what I assumed was cocaine from the coffee table. I assumed don Luis had snorted some too.

Don Luis handed me another drink. This was filled with some type of alcohol I took a slip and don Luis cocked his hand in a motion for me to knock it back. It was stronger than the wine at dinner. The burn flowed down my throat. Everyone was laughing and talking and having a great time including don Luis. I sat there and finished my drink. Don Luis called over a young lady, whispered in her hear. She then grabbed my hand and exclaimed, "Let dance."

Don Luis pushed my back and she pulled my arm. She led me through the crowd and I tried to tell her that I didn't dance. Once of the dance floor she released my hand and began to dance. "Come on baby, dance."

The dance floor was so crowded. Even if I stood still I was moved crossed the floor. I tried to move my hand and hips to the music. I dance around my bedroom at home, but never in public. My school would have dances, but I never attended. The young lady would from time to time grab my hands the twirl around me.

I saw don Luis watching us. He was smiling. He lifted his glass to me. I looked for Miguel again, but couldn't find him. The music never stopped. That song ended while another song began. A glass of something appeared; she took a drink and then handed to me. I drank it. The young lady would pull me deeper into the dance floor; then other song and other drink, other song, another drink. Somewhere along the way we got separated and I was "dancing" by myself. I stopped and looked around. I was all turned around. I walked off the dance floor and looked around again. I saw the men's room where Miguel had taken me earlier. I walked in half expecting to find Miguel waiting for me.

I peed at the urinal. I walked over to the sink and saw myself in the mirror and didn't recognize myself. My hair was wild looking. That shirt was crazy and my face seemed distorted. My eyes were red and I had a hard time focusing on anything. I turned on the water, wet my hand and raised my wet hands to my chin and lips. I didn't realize how hot I was. The water was cool. Some guy washing his hands asked if I was okay. I nodded that I was.

Then there was a hand on my shoulder, "Don Luis is looing for you." I had a vague memory of seeing this guy before. He stood me up and asked if I could walk. "Sure." He took my elbow and lead me out of the restroom and though the disco and then down the stairs. The outside air filled my lungs and I could taste the salt in the air. That black car was waiting for me - back door open. The guy released my arm at the car door. I folded myself in side to see don Luis inside smoking a cigar. He grinned and the door closed behind me.

The car started moving immediately and don Luis immediately wrapped his large arm around my shoulder. My head was spinning. I definitely had too much to drink. He leans into my ear. His tongue wets my lobe. I pull away.

"Didn't you have a good time tonight?" he asked

"Are you taking me home?" the words stumbled out of my mouth. He arm still around my shoulder.

"Relax." he said as he pulled me closed to him.

As I leaned in, I closed my eyes. I just needed to close my eyes. The rhythm of the car lulled me to sleep. The next thing I remember was being the back seat and the driver helping me out. My shirt was completely tucked and unbuttoned. The driver was asking me to stand up but my body was like a noodle. He dragged me into a house and then up some stairs. I remember trying to focus on the large inlaid design of the entry floor. He plopped me on a bed. I immediately pulled myself up to the pillows, turned to my side and passed out.

I woke in a panic thinking I am about to have a wet dream. The room is dark with only a light the must be coming from a bathroom. I'm completely nude on this huge bed and about to erupt and I was not alone. Don Luis was between my legs and had my penis in my mouth. I push on his head to move him at the same time ejaculate in his mouth. I was breathing so hard, I couldn't speak. The intensity of the orgasm was greater that anything I had experience. Don Luis placed his hand on my chest to push me down on the bed. I tried to move my legs but he has then pinned under his body. I push my head into the pillow and try to figure out what was happening to me.

My penis was still hard when he removed his mouth. He crawled up my body added his body weight against me. I could hardly breathe. His hand engulfs my face and he turns me to meet his face. He places his lips on mine opening my mouth with his tongue. I can taste myself in his mouth. His tongue rips my mouth open and plunges deeper into my mouth. I thought I might throw up. He moans and rubs his body against me.

When I struggle he laughs a little and claims he likes that. When he came up for air from invading my mouth, I manage to said or whisper "Stop."

He removes his torso from my upper body but still had my legs pinned under his. His large hand run across my chest and stomach massaging me. "You really liked that. I love to hear you moan." he said. "Look at your cock, a wonderful cock, its still hard for me." He grabbed my penis and starting rubbing/pumping it.

"Stop!" I asked. "You shouldn't do this."

I knew in my heart that he was wrong to do this to me. I felt violated. I couldn't understand the feeling of the orgasm and the feeling of violation. Was he right, did I like that? I knew that he had stolen something from me that I would never be able to get back.

My thought sprang to my father and to not the abuse that just happened and would continue to happen to me. My father was worst than a pedophile. He sold me don Luis, his own son. My father knew what as happening to me and I prayed at the moment he would die and go to hell. Tears ran down my face. My emotions were raging. How could he betray me?

Don Luis's hand wiped my face and he hugged me. He was tender to me. He turned my body toward him and I sobbed in his chest. He patted and rubbed my back and told me that it was okay. He said that he was going to take care of me. I fell back asleep. When I woke up I knew that my world had changed forever.

I didn't return to my father's house. I didn't go back to school to finish eighth grade. There was only two months left of school. The next year I attended a catholic private high school and graduate in 1980. I was a good student. I laid around the pool a lot and tried not to be notice. I lived in the shadows of don Luis's house and life.

Don Luis was my patron, abuser, lover, sugar daddy, parent and confidant. He was also owed several fashion boutiques and a large pawn shop in Little Havana. I am sure don Luis was also involved with drugs and gambling. His abuse of me was also my savior from the poverty that I was living and non-existent family that I had. It's amazing to have such diversion of opinions about some one. I hated that don Luis stole my childhood, forced sex on me and loved the life of things and opportunity that he provided.

Miguel was my mentor. He taught me the ropes. He and don Luis became lovers when he was just a freshman at University of Miami. He was gay and enjoyed the attention and things that don Luis provided. We never talked about it, but I knew he thought that don Luis was wrong to take me into his clan. He loved don Luis but hated that don Luis shared his bed with other men. The house and don Luis bedroom was a turnstile of men. I never saw or met anyone as young as me.

Miguel did explain that my father had run up a debt with don Luis. I had this vision of don Luis' goons beating up my father in some back alley asking for their money. My father offered me instead of cash, cash that I'm sure he used for his own drugs. I wished at the time that the goons would have just killed him instead, but if he died there would never be a payment.

Miguel assumed my father thought it was a one night thing and I would be home the next day. If that was true he never came looking for me. I saw him a couple of times from the car driving around town or at least I thought it was him. When I graduated from high school, I sent my grandparents an invitation. I didn't know at the time that my grandfather had died two years earlier. None of my family was there.

I was sixteen when I celebrated my birthdays again. My 14 and 15th birthdays went by with out a word. Don Luis made sure I got my driver's license on my 16th birthday. I was never sure how he managed everything without being my legal guardian or having my birth certificate or any legal rights. He paid for high school and college, all my clothing and living expenses. While in college, I told everyone that my parents had died and as cliché as it sounds I told everyone that don Luis was my uncle.

After several months, I moved from don Luis's bedroom to a bedroom on the other side of the house. Miguel and I shared a Jack and Jill bathroom together. Other men would stay for a while, but Miguel and I were that consistence men in the house. We were his concubine; on call for him.

I traditional get three questions when I tell this story: 1) why didn't you run away? My response is "run to where?" The abuse I was exposed to was more than just physical. I was broken mentally and emotionally. My mechanism to deal with the abuse was to in some form fall in love with don Luis. He never hit me or tied my up. He really was pretty gentle and kind with me. Now he is a sick bastard for going this to a 13 year old boy, but my reality was I thought I was loved, too.

The second question is do I see don Luis today. No he died in 1989. Once I left for college, I saw don Luis less and less. After college I move to Atlanta and I would see him maybe once a year. Once he was diagnosed with AIDS, he asked, "Conquistador, did I treat you right?" He was thin, gaunt, pale and was smaller than I was when we first met. I told that I was too young for him to "start a relationship" with me, but that he was always kind and cared for me. He told me he loved me and I shook my head that I knew, but I didn't say I loved him back. When I got the call that he had died, I wept. I attended his funeral and it was nice to see so many people attend. I saw the people who helped rear me. Don Luis provided $10,000 in his will for me. Miguel who was his true love got the house and the pawn shop; the boutiques closed years ago.

The third and most personal question is am I gay. For nine years, I was in a gay relationship with don Luis. I never had sex with Miguel for those who wonder. That muscle in my brain that I was gay was used for nine years. I can tell you that before I met don Luis I don't remember feeling or thinking that I am gay. I can tell you now as an adult and have had sexual relationship with men and women, that the physical relationship with men is much more powerful, familiar and comfortable. On an intimate level, I don't know how to be intimate with anyone and that is the next chapter in my story.


| Email this story Email this Short story | Add to reading list


About | News | Contact | Your Account | TheNextBigWriter | Self Publishing | Advertise

© 2013 TheNextBigWriter, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Policy.