A Gay Christmas with Hector.

Was walking through downtown Tijuana late afternoon about 4:30, the fog was thick and the streets bustled with shoppers culminating in a frenzy of consumerism when I ran into my old friend Hector. Handsome in his grey turtleneck and black leather jacket, always the sharp dresser. He was coming out of Dorian's department store with several bags full of Christmas cheer. We popped into a cafe nearby and over double mocha espresso went about with whatever happened to so-and-so. He invited me to a Christmas party at one of the big houses on the hill. It was a very elegant hacienda with hanging gardens and water fountains and red mosaic tile owned by an old rich American and his ancient nelly Mexican lover. Two piss ass well-to-do old queens. The party turned out to be this big social event complete with a live Mariachi band. The guests were all rich Mexican lawyers, doctors, and such. I don't know how Hector knew these two old love birds, but I'm guessing the old Mexican was his uncle or cousin or something on the family tree. I think his name was Kiki or Fufu or Nuni? But, the goofy thing was that Hector was acting bitchy towards him all night and I don't know what he did to upset him. All of us were drinking pretty heavily; this old Mexican queer in tight black clothes with a red pompadour was fan-dancing to mariachi music as the guests giggled and cheered him on. Hector glared at Uncle Fufu with obvious distaste. It was a very elegant party, and being the only gringo there I was the center of attention. These old vampires cooed and purred around me like aroused tom cats. But I really became drunk and caused a scene. At some point, this regal-assed Countess of Tabasco or Xtelopec or something showed up. She was a grand old thing that apparently was liked by everyone. I had no idea who this shriveled-up lady was. She clopped around in diamond-sparkled grandeur greeting and socializing with all that met her gaze. "It is the custom to kiss the Countess' hand in greeting." I was told by one of the old liver spotted fags that stood next to me. "I'd kiss her cunt if it were proper etiquette." I quipped drunk off of I don't know how many tequila shots and I think she heard me. The rest of the night people avoided me like the plague. Around two in the morning, the party was over and the guests left. Hector and I were invited to stay the night and we were shown to our room. It was a fags dream bedroom. Gold gilded furnishings with purple velvet curtains and a huge Victorian-style overstuffed bed complete with purple silk canopy covering the bed. I felt like freakin' Liberace! The old Uncle Fufu tucked us in and kissed us goodnight. (Ever had an eighty-year-old quivering queer slobber on your cheek? Disturbing.) Uncle Fufu then turned out the lights. Hector turned to me and gave me a kiss on the lips. "I like you." He said and smiled. "Hey, skinny, wanna screw?" I looked up into those big brown eyes. "Okay." That night, as fireworks exploded in the distance in celebration of the Virgin Guadalupe, Hector and I lay under the same stars, under the same clouds, under the same blankets, under the same spell. Like political candidates, we frequently switched positions. In the campaign of 69, the polls didn't close until dawn. As dawn's famous rosy fingers grasped the life preserver of the horizon, the early birds rising overheard Hector say, "Every time I tell you I love you, you flinch. But, that's your problem." He lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling. Answered I, "If I flinch when you tell me you love me that's both our problems." (Cue the music!) The rest of the day we slept in each other’s arms. At 11:30, Uncle Fufu came into our room and served us breakfast on a silver tray. It was juice, fruit, and toast. Hector demanded coffee. I wonder why Hector hated him so? Around three in the afternoon, I bid my farewell and took a Taxi Libre home.