In the Plaza Santa Cecilia, located in Centro Tijuana under the silver slash of the Millennium Arch, there are sidewalk cafes with their open tables. Here the old American queer sits entertaining up to four or five boys at a time. These decaying fags giggle and shriek and roll their eyes at each other in vain attempts to impress their American friends at how popular they can be with younger men. The boys sit and smile and laugh at the right times, waiting to rob these festering old vampires of every penny they've got.
The hustler boys of Plaza Santa Cecilia are in a class all by themselves, and I have never seen their equal for insolence, persistence, and all-around obnoxiousness. They are infallibly attracted by the uncoordinated movements of the tourists in a strange medium. The least show of uncertainty, of not knowing exactly where you are going, and they rush at you from their lurking places in the side streets and cafes.
"Want nice chico, meester?"
"See bullfight? Donkey Show?"
"Want mota?"
"Nice boy? Show you a good time?"
"You like beeg one, meester?"
I called in sick from work today and spent the day in the Plaza with a few friends watching the parade of boys go by.
Oh, by the way, on calling in sick at work. You've heard of calling in sick. You may have called in sick a few times yourself. But have you ever thought of calling in well? It'd go like this: You get the boss on line and say, "Listen, I've been sick ever since I started working here. But today I am well and I won't be in anymore. " Call in well.
But, I'm getting sidetracked.
In Plaza Santa Cecilia, one of the queers that I did enjoy hanging with was a Mexican Indian by the name of Luis Vega. A mid-forties, balding, pixiesh queen getting a little wide in the hips. His thing was to pick up on homeless men or recently released convicts and to seduce them back to his apartment nearby and to coerce unspeakable congress with them.
The other cruising fags would sit with us lounging in the shade and they would coo and screech, flipping wrists and rolling eyes, tearing each other apart with their gay double entendre.
There was a parade of hustlers to choose from. All circling the Plaza with the attitude of aroused Tom cats. One that I became friends with was a tall, handsome farm boy from the Mexican state of Sonora named Victor. Victor was one of those unfortunates who were confused about his sexuality. He claimed to have this mysterious wife and kid but because of his Adonis-like physique, he was constantly hounded by the Plaza Santa Cecilia queer sect. And almost all of them had tasted Victor’s Forbidden Fruit.
I recall me, in my apartment, Victor and I lay in bed naked after a bit of Greek Wrasslin'. Victor sighed and covered his face and confided to me, "I don't know what to do. Everybody's talking shit that I'm gay."
I lit a joint, "Have you thought of stopping having sex with men? That might help."
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