Jaime Guzman, apartment 2A, dusts the seven crucifixes which hang on the walls of his apartment. The flickering illumination of the votive candle on the small altar he has set up in the corner of his bedroom burns beside a plaster representation of the mother of Jesus. A flickering shadow of the weeping Virgin is cast upon the wall. The 3-D picture of Christ, whose head is crowned with thorns from which bloody rivulets flow, alternately closes and opens its eyes as Jaime passes in front of it.
Jaime wears nothing except a black jockstrap against the chocolate brown of his skin. He is only five feet tall and his body is reminiscent of what it was when he was an infant; a slight bulge to his stomach – without being fat; a wonderfully round, pleasingly protruding ass; a slight definition to his pectorals. There is no bulging or sculpted musculature to Jaime’s body. No, his body remains as infantile as when he nursed at his mother’s breast.
Jaime’s bedroom closet door will not pull shut. There are simply too many gowns; too many sequined wraps; too many fake fur coats (and, one genuine fox shoulder drape that he picked up for a song at Value Village). The floor of the closet is covered with multi-colored high heels and flats. The shelf above the clothes holds several Styrofoam heads without eyes, each covered with a full head of luxuriously thick brown, red or black hair.
Jaime Guzman dusts his crucifixes as Donna Summers blares from his stereo; as he takes his infant steps throughout the apartment; as he mouths the words of Ms. Summer’s song, Enough is Enough; as he makes the sign of the cross each time he passes the altar where the Sweet Virgin weeps.
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