Dancing Queen

From all the authentic Mexican restaurants to choose from, I had lunch at Burger King on Ave. Revolucion. I am an American, fer chrissakes! At the register was a most handsome Mexican boy. A native Indian with green eyes and a great smile. He had black shiny straight hair parted down the middle and copper-colored skin. He was slight of build and very obviously gay. We struck up a conversation, he speaking fluent English, said his name was Giovanni Torres, and flat out asked me to join him for dinner after he got off of work. I usually don't go after feminine men, but this little guy was really adorable.

Later, after freshening up at my apartment, I met Giovanni at a sidewalk cafe in front of the Jai-Alai Center, a huge ornate sports arena set in 1930s art deco. Talking over a brief dinner of a delicious grilled beef burrito and soda, afterward, we visited several discos; Mike’s, Toro Toro, Equis Palace. We danced and had a good time. Queer joints usually depress me, Mexican or stateside, but I made the exception.

My first impression was the dance clubs here in Tijuana were very small compared to the mega-discos in Los Angeles, California. Here the discos consisted of almost the same motif: mirrored walls reflecting the light show, itty-bitty tables and chairs in which you and beverage precariously perched, a bar, and if you're lucky, video monitors. At all the discos around midnight, the boogie frenzy grinds to a halt for the inevitable corny transvestite lip-sync shows.

Gads what a boring mess! Ugly and bloated drag queens belting out sordid Mexican love ballads. Not at all the humorous romps of West Hollywood drag shows. When dancing did finally commence again after these talentless productions, the music was an odd mesh of Top 40 and Mexican Ranchero music. Giovanni and I both hit it off very well. We gyrated on the dance floor until four in the morning.

Outside I waited with him as he tried to hail a taxi. Giovanni told me that Mexican gays love white Americans and if they acquire one they use him as a trophy to parade around in front of their friends. Wow, imagine me...a status symbol. A cab rattled up to the curb. We shook hands and said our goodbyes.

I returned home as the sun began creeping over the horizon.