FAN CHA PHAW PRESENTS:
 
"THE BUS BOY"
 
 
I was not looking forward to the bus ride. It had all the markings of
being just like the last one, bad. Eight hours of being cramped into a
bouncing bus filled with poorer Mexicans, those who could not afford the
"Plus" service. I had difficulty adjusting to so many poor at first. I was
still uncomfortable, certainly sad, but I had adjusted to not being able
to save the world. Almost half the population of Mexico is mired in
poverty, 41.3 million of a population of 85 million. 17.3 million of those
fall into "extreme poverty," receiving less than $2.70 a day. My traveling
companions rarely looked past tomorrow and never a gift horse in the
mouth. 
 
The class didn't bother me, but the noise of children's mayhem did.  All
this because I had waited until the last minute to get my ticket and the
"Plus" service was all sold out. The "Plus" service is a big Mercedes with
comfortable, reclining seats. Movies are shown and soft drinks are gratis.
The toilet, not even available in some of the lesser rides, is larger and
nicer, not to mention the smell. All in all, not unlike an airplane flight
(tourist class.) Well, that may be taking it a bit far, but it really
isn't bad and worth an additional fifty percent fare. With the "Plus" bus
sold out I had to take the "Express" which isn't express at all.
Fortunately they no longer tied the chicken coops on top. I was less than
enthusiastic. It seemed a hell of a way to start a vacation. 
 
I stood outside the bus finishing a Benson and Hedges, delaying the ordeal
as long as possible. The smell of diesel hung in the air and was even
visible in small clouds of black puffs when buses started or impatient
drivers revved their engines. Even the Benson was a mark of some
extravagance as the locals smoked Commanders or some less costly
cigarette. Of course, to an American, none of the cigarettes were
expensive, even the dollar a pack Benson, but Mexico is a poor country.
Actually it is not so much a poor country as one filled with poor people.
There is an upper class that does damn well. Let me hasten to strike the
image I may be developing of myself as an extravagant. I allow some luxury
of course but the extravagant would have cut the crap and flown. I allow
some excesses but think I keep everything in perspective, that is some
things. If you aren't the lead dog on the sled the scenery never changes,
now that's perspective. 
 
People continued to get on and off the bus. There was fat ones and skinny
ones, but considerable more skinny ones. There were short ones and shorter
ones. At slightly over six feet I seldom encounter a tall Mexican. I
watched them mill on and of, dragging their kids, until the driver
appeared in his white shirt and I figured we were about ready. I should
know better. About ready in Mexico doesn't mean much. Giving him my
ticket, I stepped on the bus, wondering who I would have to move out of my
assigned seat, that someone would be in it was a given. 
 
As expected, it was occupied. There were two young boys, one asleep on the
arm of the chair, the other laying against his brother.  They were
obviously tired little puppies, having arrived with the bus and continuing
on to God knows where. I felt a twinge of compassion and looked around to
see if any other seat was available so they could continue together. There
were none and my compassion wasn't such that I was going to stand for the
next eight hours. The boys belonged to the lady in front of my seat. She
also had a little girl asleep beside her. The lady didn't stir but I
doubted she was asleep, more like hoping I wouldn't bother her. After I
nosily cleared my throat, he woman acknowledged me standing by the seat
and asked if I wanted the boys to move. I said, "yes, I do want to use my
seat." For a moment there was a pleading look, then she shuffled the
little girl around and, after waking the smaller boy, managed to get him
in between her and the little girl. I hated to see them jammed up that way
but she obviously had not paid for four seats and I was not going to ride
the next eight hours with three people in two seats built for midgets,
although I admit I considered the idea briefly. They appeared to be good
looking boys, so far as the dimly lit bus would allow, and either well
mannered or just worn out, more likely the latter. We finally finished the
round of Mexican musical chairs and I settled into the isle seat. The
driver walked down the isle satisfying himself he had everyone or at least
all he wanted and we were underway. Underway is like about ready. He got
off the bus and I went back outside for another Benson. When we entered
the second time he did indeed start the bus, backing out in our personal
fog of diesel smoke. 
 
It took us about thirty minutes to leave the city. This was not so much a
function of distance or traffic, as it was horrible streets. At this time
of the night traffic was light but the streets had pot holes that could
compete with the Grand Canyon. As the driver picked his way through the
craters, I studied the boy beside me. He was settled in and looking out
the window. The passing street lights and neon lit shops illuminated a
smooth faced boy of delicate features with typical black hair. In the
strobe of passing lights I could only tell his eyes were dark. Most
Mexican's eyes are black and readily sparkle with emotion. He was slender
but not skinny in the way of street children. The opening and closing of
his eyes was more from the exhausting ride he had from Mexico city than
from actual sleep.  Indeed, he was typical in all respects, as I would
later discover. 
 
The bus was still warm inside but the air from the open window was cool
and blew directly on the lad. He drew himself into a little knot against
the cool air. Being from a cooler climate I was still quite warm and had
taken off my wind breaker. I would get warmer. I asked him if he was cold
and offered my jacket. He said, "yes" but rather than accept my offer he
reached in the overhead rack and found a light jacket in a travel bag.
This time he did not draw up his knees but settled back into his seat,
pulling the jacket around his shoulders. 
 
I was becoming more aroused, that is not sleepy, and really didn't want
the enchanting night crawler next to me drifting off either.  Realizing he
was not likely to start a conversation I got the ball started by asking
his name. He replied, "Marcos," returning my smile. I figured he was
intimidated by my size and my being an American so I ruffled his hair and
told him Marcos was the name of a good friend of mine in the states. He
asked my name and I told him my name in Spanish was Jose which wasn't a
direct translation but close enough. We talked for a while about school
and what grade he was passing too. He moved his head "yes" when I asked if
his grades were all nines and tens, the equivalent of our A's and B's. I
had the feeling he was fudging just a little on that one. As we talked I
sensed he was comfortable with me and patted his leg, telling him I was
going to take a nap. My hand remained on his small firm thigh. The
initiated will understand of course. The incoming telemetry data was
indeed rich. Marcos said he would nap too. I reclined the seat and he did
like wise, then put his head against my shoulder, delighting me he was
this bold with his American friend. I squeezed his thigh again, testing
for the muscle tension that would indicate any discomfort with the hand
that now caressed his inner thigh. He seemed quite content and if
anything, seemed to further relax. I patted his leg again but did not move
my hand. He responded by rearranging his jacket to better cover my hand
before moving his leg slightly in my direction, which had the effect of
sliding my hand toward his crotch. My little computer circuits were fairly
glowing with the increasing probability mutual eagerness.  The probability
coefficient was "hot" but not quite 100%.  Cautioning myself against haste
I relaxed. There was still a lot of trip ahead of us. I would wait for the
100%
 
We rode in silence for the next half hour, his head on my shoulder, my
hand more or less on his lap. That is we didn't talk but that is not to
say we didn't communicate. Mexican highways are notoriously rough and we
were constantly being jostled against each other. His leg was relaxed and
pressing against mine, the bouncing motion of the bus shifting my hand
across his lap. Like a Ouija board, it's seemingly random movements were
in fact quite purposeful. My fingers slid across his lap, finally resting
atop the fly of his jeans. I pressed slightly, making little circles with
my fingertips, until I had laid out the perimeter of the ridge hardening
inside his jeans. He stirred in the darkness, rearranging his jacket,
again covering my hand. His small hand fell between us and pressed against
my thigh, matching the pressure of my hand on his firmness. I took his
small hand, feeling each of his long, thin, fingers. I cupped it easily in
mine, rubbing his palm with my fingertips. When I wrapped his fingers
around one of mine, there was a gentle squeeze. It was very subtle but
enough to quicken my already shallow breathing. Needless to say my pulse
was up a little. 
 
We were exploring, probing, looking for boundaries of comfort, limits of
permission. A universal ritual, ageless, changing form but never content.
I wanted inside his pants and he knew it. He too was anxious for the
encounter and in his unsophisticated and juvenile was trying to tell me.
The power of my emotion raced along trembling nerves, synapse crackled, as
I forced myself to deeper breathing and restraint. A surge of swelling in
my crotch announced the almost pre orgasmic passage from exploration to
confirmation.  He knew I wanted to fondle him and was doing everything but
pulling down his pants to help. He wanted the two meter American's anxious
hand around his prepubescent stalk, the titillation of my fingers
caressing his marble sized balls, and inquiring probes into the warmth of
his crack. I swallowed to wet my throat which was dry from my breathing
through my mouth. I reminded myself I was on a diplomatic journey. Who am
I to impede cultural exchange. 
 
With a probability coefficient of 100% I moved with more boldness. 
Bringing my hand to a point where his legs joined, I pressed below the
double layer of his fly and could feel the small but swollen ridge just
before it became a sprig of throbbing meat. Alas, the increasingly elusive
juvi-prick defied definition. Considering the probably size of the object
under discussion it was like trying to retrieve a dime while wearing
Arctic gloves. Still, I was undaunted (more like frantic) in my efforts. I
explored the area completely, searching for a crevice, any opening that
would let me rub his nubbin directly. There was none. It was buttoned up,
well hidden beneath the thick double ply fly of his jeans. I was not
willing, yet, to literally assault his fly and spring the trapped trouser
mouse. I wanted the assurance of Marcos over participation but it was time
to move along, so I inserted my little finger between the lower two
buttons of his fly. It was a tight fit and I had to wiggle my finger back
and forth until I could get it inside his pants. I was rewarded with a
turgid little root, separated by the thin cotton fabric of his underwear. 
 
Having but one finger inside his trousers I could only rub his distended
appendage on first one side then the other. I could rub most of it's
length and feel the slight bulge of the glands, even the end skin of his
uncut scepter. Restricted by his underwear, I could not tell how big it
was but it felt about the same diameter as the finger that was exploring
it, maybe slightly longer. 
 
The bus had entered Tepic, a fairly large city, and both oncoming traffic
and occasional street lights served to illuminated Marcos' face. He
pretended sleep but I knew he was very much alert. As expected, he
relegated the pace and progress of our game to the adult. I did not
realize the pace wasn't fast enough to suit him. My arm and hand were
covered by our jackets but the now steady city lights were illuminating
the bus, arousing the passengers. His mother, in the seat in front of him
stirred, in turn arousing his brother and sister. When I returned my gaze
to Marcos he was indeed awake and watching me. The eyes of a ten year old,
trusting, friendly, questioning his new friend if everything was OK. Had
he done good? Was his new amigo, Jose, pleased with what he had found? I
smiled and winked... you betchem Red Rider. The interior lights flashed
off the white teeth of his smile, our eyes still held. 
 
Withdrawing my finger from between the buttons of his fly, I squeezed his
leg reassuringly and told him I was going for coffee, did he want
something? He replied, "no." As I passed her mother I asked if she wanted
something to drink. She too replied, "no", obviously to exhausted from
wrestling with the kids for the past ten hours, counting the time from
Mexico city. 
 
The bus had pulled into the depot for a ten minute stop. It had stopped
several times but normally we did not have time to get off.  Considering
the likely state of the on-board toilet I didn't want to miss an
opportunity and headed for the "baso". Anyway, there would be time for a
quick cup of coffee and a Benson. I was met with cool night air as I
stepped onto the parking lot but I hardly noticed. My circulation was
peaking, raising my skin temperature.  My goose bumps were not from the
chill of the night air. Taking a deep breath, I felt the RPM'S come down.
My mind however was anything but slowing down. I finished the Benson,
impatient for us to be underway and the inside lights off. I was aware of
the edge of excitement I was feeling. It was like a treasure hunt or maybe
hide and seek, but with special rules.  I saw the driver leaving the shop
signaling time was up. Finished the last swallow of coffee, I tossed the
cup at the nearest container... close but no cigar. Oh well, Michael
Jordan did his thing, I did mine. I stepped up and into the bus... and a
pleasant surprise. 
 

I sat down beside Marcos. He was awake and turned toward me, 
smiling like a Cheshire cat. I pulled my jacket over me and waited 
for us to get underway, trying not to show undue attention to my 
little passenger. Marcos was sitting straight in his chair though slid 
forward, covered by his jacket. We observed each other from the 
corner of our eyes. The bus backed out and the driver turned off the 
inside lights, restoring the darkness but for the street lights. I 
slipped my hand from under my jacket to under his, resting it as 
before on his leg.
 
We left the compound and followed some clandestine route back to 
the highway. The outside lights became intermittent as we exited the 
city, the blanket of darkness returning secrecy to my exploring 
hand.
 
Marcos moved his leg against mine and, understanding, I moved my 
hand upward along his leg. Squeezing his small thigh reassuringly I 
moved to the top of his fly to insert my finger inside. Damn! The 
little Booger was way ahead of me. All the buttons open except the 
top snap. An open invitation to exploring the privacy of his 
underwear. I had just got the checkered flag. It was balls to the wall, 
full speed ahead, damn the torpedoes, and all that stuff.
 
Even with the buttons undone, the opening was small. I spread his 
fly open as far as possible and tried to extract his rigid member but 
his pants were to high on his waist. Given the size of his cock, it 
was impossible to retrieve more than it's head and even this was 
impaired by his underwear which I could not get back into his pants. 
I wanted it. He wanted it. It was time to cut the crap and get on with 
it.
 
Moving my hand to his belt, I tugged at it a couple of times, then 
placed his hand on the buckle. When I returned my hand a few 
seconds later I found he understood completely. Well almost, he had 
undone his belt but the top button of his pants were still fastened. 
Now in other situations this would not be a problem. I could undo it 
with my teeth, or given my present state, bit the damn thing off. Not 
so on the bus and my left hand wouldn't bend all the directions 
needed to unfasten it. I tugged at the button a few times but gave up 
and placed his hand where his buckle had been. When I felt again 
his pants were open. I slid my hand down his stomach and inside 
his underwear, feeling for the first time the full length of his rigid 
penis. His pulsating penis was matched by the shivers going up my 
spine. Was the pupice tipped rod of boy meat worth the quest? Does 
a fat dog fart? I masturbated his rigid digit and knew it was not 
enough.
 
As usual for Mexican boys he had not been circumcised which I 
personally find delightful. Granted it does get a little cheesy 
sometime but nothing soap and water can't cure. Slipping the 
foreskin over the corona of his glands, I rubbed the olive size tip of 
his dick then smelled my fingers. I was delighted to find the 
contrasting sweet and pungent smell of his cock light to the nostrils, 
stirring my salivary juices. My mouth watered. I slipped the sheath 
of skin down over the head, continuing my fingers to the base. It 
had the firmness of youth and the promise of bigger things to come. 
Liking the musty aroma around the pupice I again withdrew my 
fingers to savored the aphrodisiac of his glands. My hand went to 
my crotch to rearrange my engorgin' organ before it exploded my 
501's and wiped out half the bus with the shrapnel.
 
His jeans were pulled tight up into his crotch and with difficulty I 
was able to place my fingers around two small balls. This just 
wasn't working. I wanted the freedom to explore his crotch, to feel 
his emerging balls loose in their juvi-sac, but his pants were just to 
tight.
 
I glanced around the bus at the sleeping passengers. His mother's 
head was turned away, leaning against the window. It was three 
o'clock in the morning and those that were not asleep were trying 
too. The only noise was the diesel motor of the bus and an 
occasional passing vehicle. Traffic was light. Almost nothing travels 
at night but busses and trucks. We were well cloaked by both our 
jackets and darkness. FIDO (Fuck It, Drive On) My awareness 
returned to the warm moist flesh I cupped in my hand. I wanted it 
all.
 
Placing my hand under him, I lifted, then tugged downward on his 
pants. Moving to the other side I repeated the motion, then waited 
for him to respond. Marcos was a boy after my own heart. 
Knowing I wanted to completely liberate his privates, he eagerly 
responded by arching upward. I tugged at his pants but working 
with only one hand I was not successful at getting them down. I put 
his hands on each side and tugged again. He understood. I could 
feel the backward pressure of his head and shoulders on the seat as 
he lifted himself. When his activity had quieted I felt again. His 
pants were past his buttocks to mid thigh. His private parts were 
now covered only by his jacket as I placed my hand between his 
legs. He spread his legs to the limit of his pants.
 
Now his liberated swollen cock stood above his hairless mound. I 
moved my fingertips over it then to his balls. Pressing downward 
on the crotch of his pants, I moved them down several more inches, 
almost to his knees. He opened his legs and arched his hips 
forward. He was eager to share his tender youth and I equally 
anxious to pleasure him. I could feel his tiny cock poking against the 
palm of my hand, like the main pole of a circus tent, better make that 
a pup tent. It's youth only added to it's delicacy.
 
I brought my fingers together at it's base and stroked upward. It's 
diameter was encompassed nicely by my thumb and three fingers. 
The head slid through my fingertips as I massaged the pupice up and 
down over the hard glands. Having to improvise as best I could, I 
applied spittle to my fingers. His rigid shaft now moved smoothly 
through my slick fingers. Contractions run it's length, swelling it's 
stiffness, then relaxing before the next wave of rigidity. His pelvis 
thrust forward, trying to push it's trembling member deeper into my 
palm. I could feel him pushing against the seat with his shoulders 
and although I could not see his face, I knew he was rigid with 
effort. He was in the grips of orgasm for several seconds before I 
felt the relaxation. He turned his body away from me and I assumed 
he was satisfied, that he was pulling up his pants. I was wrong.
 
Pulling up his knees, he rolled so as to push his buttocks against 
me. He lay still and at first I didn't understand what he wanted. 
Slow me. Then I caught on and was more excited than ever. Rolling 
to my side I not only hid him from view but also brought my right 
hand into play. I felt over his smooth bottom. It relaxed and 
inviting, knowing exactly what it wanted. The firm orbs were taunt 
from his knee's being drawn upward. I rubbed each cheek in turn, 
tantalizing the surface with my fingertips. He did not move. I 
massaged his anal opening. It remained relaxed. He wanted me to 
perform more magic. I considered scooting toward him but decided 
that would be pressing circumstances a bit much. Even so my stones 
ached to know him completely.
 
I continues rubbing his butt, it's smoothness sending a chill up my 
spine. Occasionally I extended my finger between his legs, to his 
ball sac, as I caressed the curved mounds. Sliding my finger up the 
crack, he did not contract at it's pressure against his sphincter. It 
was warm and moist, silky in it's hairlessness. In the darkness I 
pictured the pinkness of his flower, between his spread cheeks, like 
a sea urchin, beckoning to explore it's secrets. It's entrance was soft 
and enticing but resistant to my finger. The ringed muscle did not 
tighten against my pressure. Marcos was ready but too dry to 
penetrate with my finger. He wanted me but the mouth of his anal 
orifice was simply to dry.
 
Applying spittle to my fingers, I could smell his scent on my 
fingertips, not strong, just the personal fragrance of a young boy. It 
was the body odor of the private parts of a youth, a gamy yet 
delicate odor that activated my juices. Returning my finger, I went 
immediately to the offered opening. It yielded readily to my wet 
probing finger. I penetrated him to the first knuckle of my ring 
finger, then rhythmically massaged the orifice snuggling itself 
against my finger. Wanting to offer only pleasure I slid in and out 
but never past the second joint. He wiggled his tiny ass as though 
trying to climb my finger, reveling in the penetration of my digit. At 
one point he reached around and pulled his cheeks wider but I did 
not want to cause him discomfort and would not penetrate him any 
further. I wondered at his eagerness and the fact that not once had he 
contracted his sphincter in protestation. 
 
We continued for a few minutes more before he drew away. 
Perhaps he was drying and my finger was loosing it's lubrication. 
As he straightened I reached for his penis. It was still hard as I 
stroked it appreciatively a few more times, then withdrew my hand. 
I understood his satisfaction and accepted his readiness to quit our 
play. I seriously doubt he knew the state he was leaving me in. I 
could feel the movement in his seat as he pulled up his pants and 
thought I heard the rattle of his belt buckle being fastened. 
Straightening myself in my seat I patted his leg and gave him a smile 
and wink to show how much he had pleased me. By now it was five 
o'clock in the morning and I knew he was ready for some sleep. He 
returned his head to my shoulder as I relaxed, or tried too. It did not 
come easily, sleep that is. The other would have come damn easily.
 
I rearranged my stiffness to a more comfortable position and 
fantasized another opportunity in a different setting. It would not 
happen of course. If there was a chance then it was not fantasy but 
planning. As I drifted into the lightest of sleep, I envisioned my 
smooth friend and I in freer settings, liberated and autonomous to do 
as we wished.
 
When we arrived at the bus terminal in Mazatlan it was seven thirty 
and light. There was the noise of stretching passengers gathered 
their things. There were kids complaining and folks pulling things 
from the overhead rack. Marcos was awake and shyly returned my 
smile. I blocked the isle for Marcos and the rest of his mother's 
crew to off-load. They would re-board and continuing on, still four 
hours away from their home. I bought them all cokes while waiting 
for the innards of the bus was giving up my luggage. I wanted to get 
an address and a picture but figured the address would serve no real 
purpose. As for the picture, my camera was packed in my luggage. 
Marcos smiled readily at me and at one point almost took my hand. 
Not sure such a show of affection was appropriate for a presumed 
stranger, I kept it back but allowed myself a wide smile. I miss the 
little guy. I count our brief encounter as one of life's little asides, 
those unexpected interludes that live forever in one's mind.
 
I gathered my luggage but did not remain to see them re-board. 
There were still strong emotions lingering and I might do something 
foolish, like stay on the bus and go to God knows where. Flagging 
a taxi I rode silently to the hotel, speaking to the driver only to give 
him my destination. I was still very much energized by our 
exchange and anxious to get checked in. I wanted to get some sleep 
before the evening came and I would go down to the verandah for 
happy hour.
 
The ocean at Costa de Oro rolls in almost to one's feet. It's crashing 
against the beach is perfectly capped off with the happy hour double 
Tequila Sunrises, almost but not quite. What would make this 
evening perfect would arrive later. I did not know what time but I 
knew he would be there just as he had been every evening the 
previous summer, selling his roses to the tourist. He would be 
what, let's see, twelve this year. Rodriguez was half way across the 
floor when he spotted me. He was a year older and taller than in his 
picture. I was a year older and with longer hair but our recognition 
was instant. He smiled and I knew we were both thinking the same 
delightful thoughts. "Ven," I called, and he came to my table, and 
presented me with a rose. Just as I imagined for a whole year, it was 
still budding.