Tyler rolls up in that old car, cherry red finish gleaming in the summer noon, smoke pouring outta cracked windows. He's James Dean handsome, with dark eyes and a long mouth, a cigarette perched between fine lips. Hollow cheeks, a strong jaw, the sorta brow that's always furrowed, and slicked platinum hair: he's got me quickening my steps up to the monster purring in my driveway, his metal steed leaking oil. My knight in goddamn leather, and he's driving his daddy's antique, the one he stole, the one he looks so good in. "Gettin in, faggot?"

I lean in to kiss him, and he holds the back of my head, fingers lewder than his mouth. They tug my curls, dip into the collar of my shirt, squeeze my neck like they're seeking shelter. I know I'm his passing fancy; last night, he coaxed me between the sheets and said so. That he wouldn't touch a fucking spic like me by the light of day, that he'd deport my ass if I didn't let him fuck it so good.

S'got a fat cock. Makes up for the bullshit he's prone to spouting because the sun beats down on us both, and his arms look golden, shining with blond hairs. I can't get around to the passenger's side fast enough, can't pry that door open too quickly; I'm settled, and he's kneading my thigh.

Big hands. Strong palms. "Y'wun me that bad, donchu?" He chuckles, and Papi would slap me, letting a gringo treat me like this. But he's got my blood boiling, seething, tenting loose shorts. "Thinkin' bout last time, ain't yuh spic?"

Spic. Spic. He ain't real creative with the slurs, and it's got me grinning. Got me writhing and pushing at his hold that's getting too high. "Learn to speak fucking English, you goddamn hick."

That almost kills us, the way he slams on the breaks, and the couple behind us hardly manage to stop. He moved to Chicago three months ago, but he's the sorta trash Indiana spits from trailer parks and sounds like the worst of them. Makes him real sensitive if you bring it up, makes him want to grab me and throw me in the back and take me now. Drown me in heat and velour-

Ain't gonna. He just drives with renewed fervor. Over the speed limit, around corners like a lunatic, and blowing stoplights. He don't live far, and when we pull up to his, he's breathing like a racehorse. I glance down; he's making a wet spot in his pants, obscenely hard, making me harder. Making me want to tail him like a lost puppy.

We're outta the car, up rickety stairs that hardly bear our weight, into the sweltering attic apartment. He told me he can't afford no air conditioning, and I told him he's big, for a nineteen year old kid. He told me he ain't no kid because I'm younger, and I didn't care to correct his fallacy. I just wanted him. I just want him.

I relish the way he shoves me tight to the door, aligns our hips, our heat, our mouths with crushing power. Mashing lips and gnashing teeth and scraped tongue, grinding against him and sweating. He tugs my shirt, I tug his, and we press skin to skin. He takes my face in his hands and squeezes; my cheeks are sore. "Spic. Fuckin spic. Ah'd fuck yer daddy, yuh faggot ass bitch."

"Tyler."

It means fuck me. It means use me. He's peeling his pants off like they're a second skin, pooling around his ankles when he shoves me to my knees. Boy knows how to get what he wants; he ain't gotta ask, and I got him in my mouth. His length ain't much to brag about, but his girth bruises my lips, chokes me and has my dick weeping. I gag when he bucks, when he grabs my head and holds me tight and hisses, "Don' fuckin bite me," and takes my mouth like he'd take my ass.

Lucky I like to be treated bad.

I gotta pinch his thigh when I can't breathe, scrambling back so quick my head hits the door, and I see stars. He kneels in front of me and gets this look. It's one I know, the one I knew when he was drunk and told me I was beautiful and sucked my cock the first time. He says it again with his hands, callused from work in the garage, and he says it again as he traces my contours, grips what he likes and shucks my shorts off. "Yuh wun me t'fuck yuh?"

I can only nod, and he lays me on the floor, bites a junction of neck and shoulder as he throws my legs over his back. He lines up with my hole, and I yield- told me once I was looser than other guys he's fucked but didn't mean it as a complaint. He likes bareback, no lube, sinking in with friction and hardly minding me. I cry out, I grip his back, I plead, "Tyler."

He grunts, finds that brutal pace with the perfect angle, and he knows I don't mean it when I tell him to stop. He knows I don't mean it when I drag my nails down his back and call him a rapist. He knows I don't mean it when I dissolve to Spanish cusses, when my cock is aching on my belly and sobbing its salty protest all over my abdomen. Shivers wrack up my spine, the burning lends intensity-

"Spic. Fuckin wetback. Fuckin faggot cunt."

His tongue's all over my chest, his bites hurt and break me, he's got me quivering like it's end of the world, and I cum between us when his hand crushes my waist. Spurt on my belly, on my chest, a bit on my shoulder that tugs a breathless laugh when he laps it up. His lips seek my neck as he rides into my convulsions, covets my hips. He ain't got words anymore, except, "Soun's pretty when yuh talk Mexican."

Jerks into me and warm flooding: at once, the sensation of throbbing, the white lights in my eyes and his. His sweat drips on my face, his hair is soaked on my forehead when he tips forward. He pulls outta me, shaking and collapsing and putting too much weight down. He's a heavy bastard, and I hold the meat between his shoulder blades. I caress his spine, and he pulls my hair, gentle. Says, "Spic."

Marveling musculature beneath tan skin, I know I'm a passing fancy.