Monday, January 02, 2017


Contact me to publish part of all this book.

Pencil Dick

Memoir of a Gay Gringo


By Cal Avocado



Foreword
I am the Gay Gringo facing old age and looking back on my history through many romances, especially one. I arrived in Mexico bursting with dreams for love after 25 years in San Francisco and New York as the AIDS epidemic began and burned through. Fulfillment came but not as I hoped. My conflict is not wanting boundaries for love and sex in a world of homophobia, disease, poverty and the nature of men, full of boundaries.
I planted my desires into Paco like a container that would take them. Each event between us leafed into possibilities and problems. My thoughts grew seeds of doubt and hope into vines, and rained and shined over them. He might not recognize himself from my point of view and feel insulted as will others described. These are my opinions. I’m not a camera. I’ve changed names of the men to blur their identities. Most people will prefer a portrait of themselves as a beautiful flower or a god, myself included. I present details but not with the vanity or consideration to hide ugly. I could fictionalize to be safe, but wanted the dirt stains of real places on my pages. We name streets after ideas we support, not diseases we suffer, but both are equally guides to our lives. The empathy of biography has a familiar smell, like actual bodies, sweet or stinking. Autobiography is musty paper crumbling apart in your fingers recalling its original oils, delivering an unrepeatable, nostalgic experience fiction cannot.

Sunday, January 01, 2017

The following are last 2 chapters from the book, Pencil Dick. By Dr. Avocado
Anyone interested in publishing all or part part, contact me.


Final Words

This ends my x-ray history, a homosexual born in 1957 in California growing up in a homophobic world, coming out in two American gay capitals and then seeking middle age renewal in Mexico. I’ve analyzed my condition through musings about Mateo, a man who returned my stare with drunken interest in a busy cantina. A stare that set off my pursuit of him like the search for utopia for 13 years. His calm freedom appealed to my controlled anxiety and I persisted because he kept in on our occasional dialogue.
Over the last couple of years, discouragement has slowed my interest in him to a shuffle without stopping it. At a crawl, it’s a safe side show in my life and I’d welcome more like it. If he rushed at me with interest I’d raise my expectations for him again, but he’s not likely to. He’s had a relationship with Ángel for 4 years as he proudly mentioned in his last note, saying he’d like me to meet him. He’s pessimistic, too interested in alcohol, not enough in health, education, or the future to care for my harder standards. I don’t know what specifically he dislikes about me and don’t ask, and he doesn’t tell. To ask presumes too much of our fragile bond. He got hooked on me for a few weeks a few years ago, for the second time, and called a few times and then it was over. Like the first time, I picked up the trail when he dropped it and felt awkward when he didn’t respond. We haven’t spoken for two years. He writes and I answer and have little influence but to accept our small share as it is. An email every 6 months.
I haven’t forgotten my illusion of him as a partner, although it’s mostly faded. He wrote from the beginning of his passion with Ángel, and of someone else that entered and quickly departed. I’ve had enough disappointment to give up, but his letters and the thread of attachment they signify please me. Short of a big betrayal, he’s still attractive and I fantasize seeing and touching his skin and his face. I want to fuck him now. I never did before. I don’t believe someone better will come. At my age, I don’t much want anyone, and after 40 years finally understand and value the privilege gay men have for sexual quickies with each other anywhere, NSA, no strings attached. The freedom to get sexually aroused and satisfied in the moment with a stranger and bored with him the next. In 20 years in Mexico, prospects I wanted appeared and disappeared. Mateo and I remain tied by mail and time. Our first and last dramatic starbursts are dust, but not all settled.
Blooming Man

I.

Your fire next to me
On a chilly morning
Gets in me like a small sun
As we hike away from suffering
Two hermits burrowing
In free green mountains.

We begin as distant friends,
I get to know you deeply
As the day passes.
We pursue a welling spring
Giving its trickle,
Into a creek,
Then a waterfall.
Chanting for our climb
The furious water
Warns its danger.
And takes us.

We puff ahead
In surges of inspiration
Up through early mountains
Melting from green to violet,
Stopping by clear pools to drink, 
Wading knee deep in swirling ponds.
Bees dusted in yellow nectar
Bum honey from flowers.
Oil of pine scents our fingertips.
Your sharing starts mine.
Our hearts merge in a single star.
Shining white for hours.

Saturday, July 30, 2016

HAVANA, CUBA - CIRCA JULY 2016: People walking along a historic street in Havana, Cuba afternoon by a shiny classic old American car
Havana, Cuba 2016

Friday, June 24, 2016

Thursday, June 16, 2016