A night out with the friends. How nice.
Actually it was a great time. After the restaurant closed - the cafe that I frequent - there is also a connecting bar. So, I invited my pals Felipe, Victor, and Monica for drinks. Let me explain about Demetrio. Hot - hot eye candy. Speaks perfect English, was deported from Las Vegas a month ago. He invited himself - but him being so incredibly good looking - how can I say no? Also, from the States, Sarah made a visit. We all sat and drank and talked until Felipe had the smart idea of taking the party to Monica's apartment. Piled into a taxi and took off up into the surrounding hills that circle Tijuana.
There we all got plastered. Demetrio was stunned at first when I came out to him that I was gay - but he was cool with it. At first. He and Sarah hit it off well and was all over each other - Demetrio even threw a tirade when Sarah took off to buy cigarettes with a cute neighbor. She later confided in me that her and the mystery guy made out - I don't blame her, he was very attractive.
The night progressed and everyone was well lit. One by one, Victor and Felipe and others left because they had to work early the following morning. So, Sarah and I slept on Monica's big couch and Demetrio got the floor. But as soon as the lights went out - I look over and Demetrio is riding Sarah - his nice naked ass bouncing up and down stroking into a squealing Sarah. It was only for a moment though, they were paranoid that Monica would barge in.
Demetrio is one of those types - and oh, God there are so many in our fair land - that even though he is amazingly attractive; more and more he opens his mouth to speak the uglier he got. The type that never says the right things, you know? Thinks the world revolves around them and is basically a conniving bastard - all while using his looks to get his way. He pops up and starts announcing quite loudly that Sarah and I should go to his house and smoke some weed. We drunkenly said yes and saying goodbye to Monica, stumbled down the hill and caught the first of several taxis - because this boy lived far!
Once out on the fringes of southern Tijuana, more wackiness as Demetrio tried to hail a cab to take us up this big mountain to his house. One wanted ten dollars each - but we finally got a taxi libre for thirty pesos. More and more the obnoxious narcissistic attitude of this boy was annoying me - but we eventually got to his tiny apartment. Concrete floor, old rickety furniture, army cot for a bed. I guess I am getting the floor tonight.
Well, much giggling ensued as we toked the weed from his pipe, but I was tired and Sarah was horny for Demetrio, so we called it a night. I thought I would have to lay there and listened to their screwing - but as soon as the lights were out, Demetrio conked out. I heard Sarah whispering for him to get up and 'fuck me', but studboy couldn't hang and slept all night.
A cold morning rolls around and at 7am, both Sarah and I want to split, but Demetrio decides to lay in bed another hour making bad jokes. When he eventually does get up - to our shock, he leads us down this mountain on foot down trails weaving through burnt garbage and dust pits. Reaching the bottom, we pile into a cab to centro. Say goodbye to Sarah and she jets to the border. Then Demetrio decides that he wants to come to my place and take a shower before his work started at 10am. Fine. I had to endure more of this obnoxious character. After he showered, we walked over to his work with the boy making crude homosexual remarks. Egad - will he shut up awready?!! At the cafe - had some menudo and coffee and for the last straw, Demetrio wanted me to buy him breakfast, but was really just going to take the money - for he wanted to eat after I left - and buy more weed. Fuck this character!, I thought. I paid for my meal and went home to sleep.
Sometimes, no matter how hot a straight guy is - they are all really pathetic self absorbed lonely losers.

Life - and I think you will agree - is all about choices.

The longing I have in this turbulent life I lead is the simplest of things. As I have mentioned before: A small circle of friends, a job I can tolerate and supports my means, and a small apartment. My problem that has plagued me for years, is every time I get stressed out or bored of whatever was going on at the moment, I would roll up my gear - shun the responsibility of confronting it and leave town. Start over with sparkling insight and a new disposition. However, after a short time the same calamities would arise and I would find myself on the road and in a new local, usually some hobo infested dump - lonely and depressed, struggling to start over again and again and again.
Yesterday I was all but set to pack up and head back to El Paso, Texas. I must admit that I did have a small loathing of that change - I knew what I had to endure once I returned but the handful of benefits outweighed all the vile crap that I expected. So, in the late afternoon I visited the cafe in Plaza Santa Cecilia where the majority of my good friends work; Daniel, Victor, and Felipe. I said goodbye and after the cafe closed invited them out for one last beer. I had also text via cellphone for Alfredo and Sarah, two co-workers from Petco Park to join us.
As the night progressed and the buckets of Corona flowed, each had their say about me leaving and the general consensus was that I should stay and seek employment. All very heartfelt discussions, albeit intoxicated. So, I agreed I would stay even though I had no intention of doing so - my mind was made up to leave. Alfredo was the most adamant about me staying and hit the nail on the head - and I paraphrase: "You shouldn't leave, dude! You have friends here, close friends that think you are cool and who love you. Look at Felipe, you have known him for years - are you just going to throw that away? You have family here - you have us!"
Indeed. All this while spraying spittle and the smell of sour beer onto my lenses.
So, it seems I have attained the first of the three needs I want to attain. Felipe did a karaoke routine that he changed the words to include me and our friendship in it. Sarah - dear little Sarah, was the most of the heartfelt ones. Who knew that one of my best friends would of been a girl - a species I have loathed in disgust for all these years?
After this drunken yet entertaining debauchery we had, all said good night and as I returned home, I thought. And I thought hard. I am highly intelligent - albeit a little wacky - but I need to stop running from my problems and confront and conquer them. Returned to my crappy room and I lay there in my bed - the intoxication of the hundreds of bottles it seemed of booze I consumed wracking my body - and I decided; no...I need to stay here. I need to confront my demons here and now. No more running. No more adventures. Okay - maybe little ones - but the point is, good friends are hard to find and I hate to be alone.
So - why not?

And so it goes.

Feeling the Great Depression more than usual. I sit - no, mostly I walk around in this maze of a city with all its soot and grime and filth - and wonder: When is enough enough? When you have experienced all that I have in such a short time - what is there left to do? I have no drive, no inhibitions to do anything else. I want to just settle down and live out the rest of my life in comfort and peace. I am tired of living like I do - sometimes I am just tired of living...

Today I had an interview at some hotel in the wilds of East County San Diego, but I got lost. Like an buffoon I did not look for directions via the Internet and I got lost. On this bus ride to nowhere I came to the conclusion that what I really want is to return to El Paso and pick up the pieces of the atomized life I had left. I had a good thing going there and it was smashed to hell all in the name of love.

Love. Hrumph - that emotion clouds my reason and I do not wish it in my life again.

So, I called Juana Ortega, the manager of the El Paso Rescue Mission - and asked if I had a place to stay after the last calamity. First call was all static, so calling again she said fine. I have set the gears in motion - at the end of this week I will board a Greyhound and return to The Great Desert. Never made it to the interview by the way - went shopping instead. Bought The Best of Donna Summer CD and ate damn good food at China Two. Caught the movies and saw Hostel 2 and The Fantastic Four - both were a bore - very disappointed. I had seen the first Fantastic Four and disliked it, so I wasn't expecting much from this atrocity and I had never seen the first Hostel movie to begin with - but it was highly recommended by friends. On the weakness of the sequel of Hostel 2 - I probably will never view the original. Returned to Tijuana and visited friends - ran into and explained to my pal Victor over a couple of beers that I had decided to return to El Paso. Nothing but bad omens for me here since I arrived in Tijuana six odd months ago.

My plan, you ask? Vague - but I have one. I want to continue my mental health program, maybe find a little job and get a little apartment in Juarez City. I always liked it there and have nothing but positive feelings of the place. Perhaps even get my SSI benefits and live as I want the rest of my years.

Yup, gotta go back and get the noggin in shape before I deteriorate into a full fledged loon. Already all the old symptoms are coming back: Anxiety attacks, deep depression, lack of sleep. I even now am catching myself talking aloud - very embarrassing. No fault but my own - I have not taken my meds in over six months. And they have really helped.So, I will wrap things up here in Tijuana - say goodbye to a few close friends and leave.

This time I truly believe permanently.

All Good Things...

Another beautiful morning here in Guadalajara. I’m writing from the park. Sometimes I think I won’t be able to go back to my regular life in the States. I have become accustomed to this life style. I come to this park to write in my journal and enjoy a Popsicle quiet often. I have made friends with the woman that sells the Popsicles out a cooler at the park. I’m probably one her best customers… The weather has been fantastic! I'm truly questioning myself about my life and if I really should go back home. The people are so sweet and friendly. I have met a variety of people right here at the park including an aerobics instructor, a kindergarten teacher, a policeman and a grandpa that brings his 3 year old twins grandsons every morning. They all seem so happy with the simple things that life has to offer!

But, I do miss home. Home. That word conjures up mists of puzzlement. Where is home for me? I really want to settle down - I am getting tired of living out of a suitcase. An apartment, a job, a circle of good friends. That is my goal. No crappy relationship with stupid queers - never works out. Love is a dangerous emotion. Do not need it. So, I went to a travel agent and purchased a ticket on a plane back to Tijuana.

Tijuana - I assume is my home. I always come back and have good friends there. The people are great that I met here in Guadalajara and this so called road trip has burned out that cancer of a relationship that went sour - yes, I want to go home.

I Am what I am.

I never look back. Je ne regrette rien. Piaf. Now there was a torch singer, a true diva. Don’t get me wrong, I wish the terrible things that happened to me along the way of my life journey had never been. For the most part, though, I didn’t choose them. I didn’t make mistakes, other than to walk down this dark alley on the way home, or make friends with people who weren’t trustworthy or honourable.

The bad things in my life chose me. A man across the dance floor taking a shine. Someone seeing ‘mug’ written on my forehead and going for gold….

The test of a life, though, isn’t in how often you’ve been a victim or victor. The truth is, it’s how you respond to everything life throws at you that makes you who you are. If you’re alive today, if you’re breathing air, you’re a winner.

I would not change anything I did, or anything that was done to me. If I did, if I were able to go back in time, I would risk unravelling who I am today, losing the friends I have. I could lose everything by wiping out one abusive event, one past relationship. No way.

Why?

Because I am happy with who I am. It is good to be me. I am not only a survivor, I am the champion of my own destiny. I make mistakes but so does everyone. Here’s to me, in a sentence that may be construed as egotistical but hopefully not inexcusably so. Here’s to gayness, and my contribution, small as it may be, to the overall shape and colour of it around the world today.

Fade Out.

postscript: Sit in the airplane - far below the terrain whisks by. I hate flying. So impersonal. Touchdown in San Diego where people don't talk (only via cellphone.) - grab a bus - a red trolley clikclakclikclak to the frontier, pass the meat grind gates into Mexico - it is hellishly hot. Back in Tijuana infested region with junkies and queers and pedophiles and thieves and drunks and hookers of both species enough to turn God away. Seems I am just in time for the Gay Pride Parade down Revu. Fags and trannies screech and march blocking through traffic - boys eye me as I gawk back with a cold predatory stare. Grab a yellow cab - taxi driver mutters pinche jotos - and dart back to the building where I was renting a room. She smiles big and with warmth like a caring grandmother as my landlady hands me my keys. "I knew you would come back."

So did I.

Lonely Night Pick Up.

Leaving the smokey bar, Alfredo and I walk around the corner through trash and palm plants, no sidewalks, to a one floor shabby hotel with no name. Dogs bark ferociously out in the darkness. Door unlocked and step in room with pink cracked walls and thin pink blankets with cigarette holes hosting the stale aroma of mold and unwashed linens.

Alfredo goes to take a piss, door closed, I sit on the bed and light a joint. Alfredo enters wearing his boxers. "Don't waste no time, do ya?"

I'm pushed down on to bed, he on top, thick oily tongue probes my mouth. Before I am naked several marks are branded onto my neck. Hickeys make me hot! They are my Achilles heel.

Clothes come off and I am sucking his short thick cock, holding on to his large brown balls as his thick fingers wiggle up my ass. On my stomach, spit is applied and Jeeeeeeeesssssuuuussss! He began rutting like a overheated bull. Thwapthwapthwapthwapthwap! Our bodies smacking together rapidly in that unbearable humidity - writhing flesh began to sweat - sheets are messed, pillows knocked onto floor, bed springs overworked and loudly sing. Grunting and sweating, muscular hands brush my body, bulging muscles are kissed and stroked. The sagging bed squeaks in protest as my ass takes a pounding like I haven't had in a long time. My breath is quick, hissing through clentched teeth and behind my closed eyes I see stars. I can feel his penis growing and quivering, the thrusts becoming more frantic.

"Can I come in you, cabrone?"

"No.", I manage to grunt through clenched teeth - erection yanked out and gobs spurt onto my ass and upper back.

Alfredo lays on top of me and strokes my hair with his coarse hands. His eyes deep into my own. "You are so handsome. I like you white boys." We both fall asleep wrapped in each others arms.

Next morning, I awaken with Alfredo snoring next to me. I sit there a bit, studying his short muscular body - tattoos, dark brown torso. Clothes are put on and I slip out the door. Sun blazes in the early morning as storm clouds roll in from the distance. A taxi is called and bleary eyed I ride home. Later that afternoon, I buy a plane ticket back to Tijuana.

Yeah, life is pretty good, but for schizophrenics and manic depressives a sad one, too.

Windy Cold Twilight.

For kicks, Carlos and I drove to his hometown of Teocaltiche a hundred miles north of Guadalajara.

We drove into Teocaltiche in a windy, cold twilight. The hotel looked a hundred years old. The room had a high ceiling with black beams and white plaster walls.

Walked around the main square - a cold wind from the high mountains blew rubbish through the dirty streets. The people walked by in gloomy silence. many had blankets wrapped around their faces. A row of hideous old hags, huddled in dirty blankets that looked like old burlap sacks, were ranged along the walls of a church.

The bar was drafty. Oak chairs with black leather seats. I ordered a martini. At the next table a red faced American in expensive gabardine coat was talking about some deal involving twenty thousand acres. Across from me was an Ecuadoran man, with a long nose and a spot of red on each cheek - he was drinking coffee and eating sweet cakes.

I drank several martinis. Took the travel brochure out of my bag and read:

"...and when the twilight falls on the old colonial city of Teocaltiche and those cool breezes steal down from the picturesque mountains, walk out in the fresh evening and look over the beautiful senoritas who seat themselves in colorful native costume, along the wall of the sixteenth-century church that overlooks the main square..."

They fired the guy who wrote that - there are limits.

Last night Carlos and I went to The Cuba, a bar with an interior like the set of a surrealist ballet. The walls were covered with murals depicting underwater scenes. Mermaids and mermen in elaborate arrangement with huge goldfish stared at the customers with fixed, identical expressions of pathic dismay. Even the fish were invested with an air of startled alarm. The effect was disquieting, as though these androgynous beings were frightened by something behind or to one side of the customers, who were made uneasy by this inferred presence.

Carlos was somewhat sullen, and I felt depressed and ill at ease until I had to put down two martinis. "You know, Carlos..." I said after a long silence. Carlos was humming to himself, drumming on the table looking around restlessly. Now he stopped humming and raised an eyebrow.

This fag is already getting uppity, I thought. "Let's go back to Guadalajara."

"Good idea."

Hmmm, perhaps it is time to make tracks for different parts of the world...

Attack of the Transvestite Hookers.

The Patio Bar is a juke joint inhabited by revolutionary college students and hippy kids. The decor much like a Hollywood set depicting a Mexican bar - old posters of the city, dusty pinatas, futbol posters, a row of red Christmas lights over the long oak bar.

Took a table in the back next to the rockola and played Aqualung by Jethro Tull as I downed a cold cerveza Sol. I was accompanied by three new friends along with Carlos - Alfredo, Sarah, and the eye candy, a young kid with the strange moniker Diamond. A bucket of beer was bought and we chilled talking, laughing, joking.

Things really got goofy when this old fart of an American tourist tried to put the make on Sarah - old geezer went as far to inquire where he could score for crack to the appalled girl. We all told Dr. Moreau - cause he looked like Marlon Brando from The Island of Dr. Moreau - to fuck off. He stumbled out muttering.

The bar closed and we stumbled to a corner 24hr taco shop - after gobbling some mouth watering tacos and an obscene amount of several Tequila Sunrises, we stumbled down to The Red Zone for young Diamond was horny and we all agreed to help him alleviate his angst.

After attempting to enter several strip joints - Diamond didn´t have his identification card on him - our night was saved by a charming hustler, who got us entrance into The Mambo Room. Despite the place being empty save for about five bewildered tourists and a gaggle of tired looking hookers - I mean strippers - the dump wasn´t half bad.

As our hustler host seated our group - Carlos and I went up to the bar and got a bucket of beer much to the hustlers dismay. "Why are you buying beer from the bar?", he bleated, "You´re cheating me out of my commission."

"You´ve just been fired." I stated flatly.

"What about my tip?"

"Don´t underestimate Americans." I quipped waitering the bucket to my friends table.

Then of course we were besieged by the homeliest skank in the place. This insolent demanding cunt plopped down next to Diamond and ordered a fifteen dollar drink - at which we all refused to pay. So the twat snatched a beer from the bucket and guzzling it with one hand and pawing Diamond´s crotch with the other.

Then - oh, joy - at the command of the DJ, she stood to attention, made her way to the stage and jiggled and gyrated obscenely to Wully Bully. Diamond was fool enough to snap a dollar into her stained thong so after she had finished shaking her nasties, the bitch slithered back to our table and began to paw at Yours Truly. I politely pushed her away (She smelled like rotten cantaloupe.) wherein she viciously pinched the back of my neck - drawing blood. About to slap the fuck outta her but a waiter dragged her off into the murk - the whore stumbling and wasted, cha-cha heels dragging.

Diamond was real fucking horny by then and with the help of both the lurking hustler and Alfredo, disappeared into a back room to get Diamond a bitch and "a massage with a happy ending". It being 5:30am it was time to cut and Carlos and I left for home. Walking down the streets at dusk, three Amazonian Transvestite Hookers blocked our path - soliciting their wares.

"Not now, guys!¨I croaked drunk and tired.

"Whacha mean guys?!" honked one and slapped me on the back of the head as we passed. Don´t think so, girlfriend! I whirled around and popped her in the chops. At the brink of a major transvestite luche libre smackdown, a patrol car cruised around the corner. "Run!", hissed Carlos as we bolted around the next corner, jumped in a taxi and sped home.

I really hate transvestites!

The Melting Pot.

I am sitting at Carlos' kitchen table waiting for my damn hangover to kick in and for Carmen to finish cooking me breakfast - the smells are simply mouthwatering. I begged her to let me cook but she would hear none of it. Literally five seconds after I left my bedroom she put a glass of tejuino in my hand, the drink of maiz and lime which is renowned for being the perfect hangover cure. If I had stumbled into my own Mother's house at 4:30 in the morning she would be laughing at me when I awoke, but my surrogate Mexican mother had prepared extensively para mi crudo. Sorry Mom, but you have serious competition here.

The days just keep getting better - Carlos took me to Tlaquepaque, another suburb of Guadalajara, which contains some of the most intriguing art I have ever seen. The downtown area is small, but packed with a multitude of gawking tourists since it is probably the most beautiful area in all of Guadalajara. Many artisans have galleries here and I was impressed with one in particular, Sergio Bustamante. He works in different mediums, from painting with pastels to bronze sculpting - but what impressed me the most was his creations in papier mache. The colors are so vibrant that you would think these weird creatures are just going to spring to life. While I'm sure his art is quite pricey by Mexican standards - I couldn't help but think that these same works would be five times as much in New York or Los Angeles.

After wandering around the plaza we ended up on the outskirts of town and found a place with batting cages which is apparently the only in Guadalajara. They had the baseball playoffs on T.V. and I got to watch the Yankees lose horribly to the Tigers while amongst numerous Yankee fans. Could it get any better? You bet. For 75 pesos, roughly seven dollars in total, we each got a beer and five turns in the cage. I think that because I am American many of the spectators figured I would have some sort of natural talent when it comes to baseball. Well, they would were wrong. During the course of one round of pitches I proved with much wackiness why it is quite important not to stereotype the entire population of another country. After all this exertion a siesta was called - since I needed all of my energy for the big fiesta. A group of people Carlos met on the Internet were having a party at an apartment in the center of the city. It ended up being a really good time.

While I am not going to go into details about all the debauchery that went on, I can say that I met some fantastic people. The majority were French, but there were several Germans, a Canadian, a few Chileans and of course a lot of Tapatios, the nickname for people from Guadalajara. I had an enormous breakthrough with my Spanish and I'm pretty sure that I have the Mexican beer to thank for that. And I'm not talking about just being a drunken idiot and thinking that I spoke well, I truly lost all of my inhibitions and natural fear of making mistakes and just let the words flow out. I really do know the language but sometimes my brain forgets that fact. Anyway, I was very happy with myself and I learned several important lessons: first off, there is basically nothing that beer can't improve upon, and second, I need to maintain the same attitude when I am sober, god forbid if that ever happens, and just speak the language without trepidation.

The diversity of the guests at the party was just fantastic. I met people from so many walks of life. Santos is a clothing designer from Mexico but his designs mostly go to a company in Brazil. Helmet, a German guy, spent a year in Rio Gallegos, a small town in the far South of Argentina. This place is in the middle of nowhere, smack dab in the heart of Patagonia. I can't imagine what it was like to spend a winter there but he loved it. Being a big fan of Argentina myself we had a lot to talk about. Brian is an American from L.A. who has decided to more or less drop his career as a lawyer and set up shop here in Guadalajara teaching English, a decision that I can certainly respect.

Lord, there was no end to the string of fascinating people I met. But I did have a favorite. Alejandro, a guy my age that was born and raised in Mexico City, spent a year at a boarding school when he was seventeen-years-old in the smallest town imaginable in the middle of Arkansas. He has no idea how he ended up in Arkansas, but since he did indeed live there and had nothing better to do he became obsessed with watching movies. I have only met two other cinefiles in my life and needless to say I didn't expect the third to be a Mexican, but he was indeed and we spent many drunken hours discussing the finer points of Fritz Lang's and Martin Scorssese's careers, amongst other things of lesser importance.

And now here I am, sitting in a kitchen in Tonala, feeling more brown than white, and thanking whatever powers that exist that I found Carlos. I am going to have an easy day tomorrow and will write more about him and his family, but I will say right now that the few days I have spent with him as my guide have been some of the best I have had in Latin America. He is a tremendous person, from a family that clearly taught him values that matter. Viva La Familia Felix.

Guadalaja-raaaaaahhhhhh!

Waking up at 5am was an easier task than expected, though I have to say that it was not due to being overly excited. The journey that lay ahead of me still felt very surreal.

To leave Mexcaltitan I had to go through the same procedure in reverse: collectivo lancha to La Batanga, combi to Santiago Ixcuintla. But kinda an old pro by then and everything went smoothly. The combi dropped me off in front of the bus station in Santiago and I purchased my ticket and jumped right onto a second class bus to Tepic, the state capital. The second class bus was similar to a first class bus, except filthy. The gum thing, that I thought was just for hotels? Busses too. The little plastic cubby in the back of each seat was full of chewed gum. Which makes sense, because people want to sleep on long bus rides.

In Tepic I snagged a ticket to Guadalajara and had just enough time to run across the street to the Pollo Feliz for lunch. This is a fast-food place - they are all over Tijuana - but there is table service, which trips me out. The food is really good though, as good as a regular restaurant.

My bus to Guadalajara was also second-class - settled down for the three hour ride. Was reading Last Exit to Brooklyn which I picked up at that book exchange in Mazatlan - I have read it before but there was nothing else in the shop that interested me. The road was smooth and the scenery pretty. We were heading away from the coast and into the highlands, so there were a lot of craggy hills and winding roads. I drifted off to sleep - which is rare, I always find it hard to sleep on a moving vehicle.

Everything went right as rain - had a window seat and the seat next to me was empty, so Rodrigo and I - Rodrigo being my aisle-mate - were very comfortable. Arriving in Guadalajara proved equally easy. My luggage came within five minutes and when I pressed the button at customs, the green pase light went on and I was allowed through by the cute customs agent to whom I sent a big smile.

I was approached by several taxi drivers all on the hustle who assured me that there were no more buses to centro for over two hours and that I better use their services or god knows what might happen. The time in Mexico I have lived made me a bit less naive than I was at one time and I graciously declined their offers and managed to figure out the bus system. A bit confusing as there are two city centers, central vieja y central nueva, the old and new centers - but it wasn't too hard and two buses and nine pesos later I had reached my destination.

As I mentioned before, for whatever reason I wasn't really all that excited about what lay ahead, but on the first bus from the the Central Bus Station all of that changed. A little boy, around 12 I should imagine, came onto the bus attempting to sell Nikolo chocolate bars - rapidly spouting off about the virtues of these candies and what ingredients they contained. While he never said anything of any real importance, I was totally floored nonetheless. A flood of memories crashed into my brain. I'm not sure where they were before or why this boy triggered them, but for whatever reason I became aware of my situation. And I was ecstatic.

My goal was to meet Carlos, a guy I met on the Internet during my stay in Mazatlan - had a meet with him in a bar next to the main cathedral. I asked a woman on the bus if she would point out where this cathedral was and she assured me she would make sure I got there. She went so far as to get off at my stop, which was not her stop, and lead me the two blocks to where I needed to go, despite the fact that I could see the dark spires from where the bus let us off. Gotta love Latin American hospitality. Online Carlos explained to me that I would see a statue of a guy breaking a chain and that behind this guy there is a bar called El Fuente, our intended rendezvous. Well, his directions were good but La Fuente has no sign, or even a way to tell that it is a bar from the outside - so finding it was difficult - but I managed. I cannot fault the owners though as it is the oldest cantina in Guadalajara and a sign would likely just kill the ambiance.

I arrived early so I had time to drink a few cervezas Negra Modelos and make my first friend of the in this teeming metropolis, Chava, a chef in a local restaurant. He had spent several years in the US and we had a pretty good conversation about our respective countries. About an hour later Carlos showed up and I was very happy to see that he was a cool guy and not a serial killer or some other type of less threatening weirdo - and that he looked just as good in person! I bought some drinks and we were eventually joined by a few of his friends. Alejandro was absolutely gorgeous, but it became quickly apparent that he preferred Frederico, a French guy, to your's truly. Damn French. But both of them were fantastic and provided a lot of good conservation. Alejandro has spent the last year in Valencia Spain so we had a lot to talk about. The final friend was Rocha, who I learned has an awesome taste in music.

On the way back to Carlos' house he was blasting Mexican death metal from his car stereo which may very well be my new favorite genre of rock. The conservation was entirely in Spanish for the whole night, as I was the only native English speaker, and to be honest I am speaking it better than I had expected to. Since one of my goals on this trip is to spend far more time with locals and less with other tourists, having a good base with which to improve my Spanish is really helpful because sitting and trying to converse for hours on end and not really understanding what is going on can be frustrating - the Tourist Curse. So thank you my fellow compas for forcing me to speak Spanish this visit and improving my tongue - despite constantly teaching me phrases which are likely to get my ass kicked, and not telling me the actual meaning, I have still managed to improve and I am grateful for it.

I spent the night at Carlos' place and I intend to spend a few more days here. He lives in a suburb of Guadalajara called Tonala, though it is weird to say it is a suburb since it actually has a bigger population than the city. He lives with his mother, Carmen, and aunt, Josefina, both of whom are hospitable beyond words. They make sure I am well fed and have provided a lot fantastic advice about the city. Josefina and I even had a lengthy discussion about Los Angeles. She worked there for six months back in the 1960's, but unfortunately didn't get the greatest taste of the city since she was living in an industrial area. Hopefully she will return someday and I can show her what the city really has to offer.

So my first day was great and without a doubt the biggest reason for that was Carlos. He has done so much to make me feel comfortable here. I had high hopes in regards to using the Internet and they have most certainly been fulfilled. The wonders of the Internet never cease to amaze me. Fifteen years ago there would have been no way to arrange this kind of thing - but thanks to this wonderful invention I can find people all over the world who actually want to put me up in their homes and show me their cities, with no strings attached. It's just wonderful, there's no other way to describe it.

Today was fairly relaxing. I was on my own as Carlos was working, but that didn't keep me from going out and exploring the city. Grabbed a taxi and went to the Instituto Cultural Cabana, which is an enormous building consisting of literally dozens of rooms, only one of which has anything in it. It is very weird. There is empty room after empty room. Guadalajara is built on a grid system, so it’s pretty easy to find your way around after a day or two. I’ve never visited a place with so many churches. And everywhere you turn, there’s a plaza! It’s truly a really beautiful city. Today, I hopped onto one of those open air tourist buses. It took us out of the old colonial part of the city and right into the suburbs. Some of the highlights for me have been Guadalajara Cathedral. The interior is breathtaking. Then there’s the Museo Regional. Once a barracks and then a boys school, the 18th century colonial mansion has now been turned into a museum, housing an extremely impressive collection of regional archaeology, including a complete mammoth skeleton, a skull of a sabre tooth tiger, and western Mexican metalwork and pottery. The other highlight for me was the Palacio de Gobierno building. What did it was the mural inside by a guy called Jose Clemente Orozco, who was part of the Diego Rivera gang. The mural is spectacular. Beyond that I didn't do a whole lot other than wander around, take pictures, flirt with guys in the plaza and try a tejuino, a local drink made of corn, limes and sugar which is really pretty tasty. I had another look at the Orozco murals in the Governor’s Palace and must say they are in a league of their own … Especially Fiery Hidalgo which portrays the priest (‘Father of Mexican Independence’) encased in flames ; it is painted in a semi dome in a staircase.

Walking aimlessly in centro - with all it's imposing old buildings and open squares full of benches. The city definitely goes on my list of "Places other than NYC that I could see myself living in for a while." It's gritty from age and fumes and such, but there is no trash on the streets, and the buffet concept is very popular. It's as modern as you could want, with lots of public transport and the smell of perfumed air-conditioning drifting from the doors of department stores. Oh, and in the evenings, it's positively chilly! Like, I'm walking around and feel cold. I love it - so tranquil...I really could settle here - really digging this place. But being such a big city, it also has beggars and homeless people. There are quite a few people who sleep along the sidewalk around the corner from the 7-11.

Guadalajara's centro, with all its open squares, is great for peoplewatching. I especially enjoy sitting in the Rotonda de los Jaliscenses Illustres (aka Makeout Park) because it's so green and shady. It's hard to get a seat there because while the benches are long, there is an unspoken "two people per bench" rule. You know - because of all the making out. Anyway, sit there, or anywhere, for an hour and you'll see plenty of manly eye candy.

My first day in Guadalajara was absolutely flawless, and when traveling in Latin America those days are rare, believe you me...

The Big Seduction.

Met a tall thin straight guy named Francisco a couple of days ago in Mexcaltitan - he had invited to show me around town. The village in which I am staying is not too big - so there was not much to see - except for shrimpin´. We hit a cool little taco shop and sat and drank beers and ate as the waves crashed in the hot clear night. Francisco was getting buzzed and he kept staring at me when I talked - deep penetrating gaze with those beautiful brown eyes. We talked of his military service (He is only 21 and just got out a year past.) and movies and he talked alot about his girlfriend who was away with family on some business. His English was great and the beer flowed - eventually sex came up but I hid the fact that I was homosexual - best play it cool. Anyway, the discussion of messages came up and I told him that I was the master of message giving. (What conning fag isn´t?) Around four that morning, as he walked me back to my hotel, he stopped at a building and said he lived there and then asked if I would come over tomorrow and give him one of those world famous massages that I went on and on about. I smiled and said, "Of course - I´d be happy to." Saying goodnight I returned to my hotel room.

Woke up with a hangover me and stumbled to this little palapa restaurant and slurped down menudo and coffee whilst Survive! was on the television - the story of the futbol team crashing in the Andes and had eaten each other to stay alive. Nice breakfast...

I sat on the beach the rest of the day tanning in my black swim shorts and Wonka glasses drinking cerveza Victoria and watching the boats bob until six - returned to the hotel for a little siesta.

I got to Francisco´s place last night at about nine thirty - he opened the door wearing only a pair of boxer-briefs. I was like, "Looks like the party's already started." And he went, "You are the party." I could tell by his eyes that he was fucked up. I walked past him into the living room and looked over toward the kitchen. I didn't see anyone. I looked up the stairs that lead to the roof and the roof hatch was closed. I glanced down the hallway, past the stairs, and I still didn't see anyone. He said it. "No one else is here; it's just us. A more intimate party." "Ah." I said and sat lighting a cigarette.

Francisco came over with my beer and some coke. I said I didn't want any but he kept trying to convince me. I told him I was hopped up from my day at the beach and the coffee I just drank prior coming over and would smoke a joint if he had any. After doing two lines, he went to get some pot.

Francisco´s apartment was small and tidy. Old furniture, sea trinkets, futbol banners, bathroom, bed room. I sat for a while and watched futbol on his little black and white television - Cruz Azul ; the worst team in futbol. Francisco came back came in, saw that I had the game on, and asked the score. When I told him he did one of those straight-guy Orales! where they make a fist and bend their arm and then jam their elbow down toward their knee. I'm the rare Americas fan and was in heaven last year when Cruz Azul choked the playoffs. I ignored his outburst and turned off the TV. One thing I've learned about fans of futbol is that they never listen to another point of view and they will lord even the smallest victory over you forever.

But whatever. I needed to get him naked and that's exactly what I did. We sat and drank and he started talking about girls and how he wants to nail some broad he knows in the building and I just cut him short - "How about that message?" I led him to his bedroom where I had a sheet on the bed and my oil out, and I told him to get undressed and to lie face down on the bed. I'd be right back, I told him - let him undress without me ogling him, what am I queer or sumpthin´? When I came back in he was lying as I told him to and he had put the draping sheet over his legs and lower back. I had on my basketball shorts - I wasn't wearing a shirt and I was free-balling. Man, what a nice body he had - lean, caramel colored and hairless.

I pulled the sheet down so that it was covering his ass except for the very top - the beginning of his crack - he had the best bubble but I had seen in many a moon. He was surprisingly calm and not all jumpy like I had feared. I dribbled the oil into my hands and I began on his back. I started with long strokes up and down and then went to work on his muscly shoulders. I straddled him so that I could get a good angle as I continued to work his shoulders and upper arms. Of course I had a huge boner and it was tenting out my shorts. As I worked my way back down his back, putting pressure on his spine, my cock grazed his ass: no reaction.

Even though this whole massaging-and-molesting-a straight-guy thing is my total fantasy, and really more about my pleasure than his, I really am good at massage. He was psyched.

After finishing with his back, neck, shoulders and arms, I pulled the sheet up so that it was covering his shoulders; just his head was poking out. Then I pushed the draping back to reveal one leg and his butt cheek. I started on the calf and then moved to the foot. I worked this little trick I know on the knee that feels great and then I started creeping up his thigh. He took a deep breath and I could tell that he was getting nervous as my fingertips grazed his nutsack and I began to massage his ass. I kneaded his ass cheeks hard and spread them apart to get a peek at his pucker. He shook his hips at that point, his way of telling me to back off his ass. I listened.

For a moment, anyway: it was time to do the other leg. I repeated all the same steps until I got up to the ass again. This time I leaned down and the minute I spread his cheeks I started blowing on his hole. He jumped and I pulled back. "What the fuck?", he moaned - not hollered, but moaned; that's important. I told him to just relax and enjoy the feelings. He told me not to play with his ass and I told him again to relax and just softly stroked his butt cheeks. My cock was about to explode. It was so fucking hard I thought it might break every time it throbbed.

I told him it was time to flip over. At first he didn't move and then I picked up the sheet, so that I couldn't see anything – just like a "legit" masseuse – and told him again to turn over. When I laid the sheet back over him I saw that his cock was semi hard and that these was a small tent in the sheet. I covered him up to his neck and then pulled out each arm and massaged it. After some good moves including one that required me to press his bicep against my crotch while massaging his forearm, I gave him a short but intense breast massage and a great nipple tickle.

It was time for the fronts of the legs. Again I started at the feet and the calves and then I massaged all the way up to his pelvic area, carefully avoiding his cock and even his black shiny pubes. His rod got harder - fat and uncut and God it was beautiful. My cock was dripping and there was a big spot on the front of my shorts; my leg was a little sticky. I couldn't stand it anymore so I pulled the sheet down and grabbed onto his prong. He gasped but didn't push me away. He closed his eyes really tight like it hurt – which I know it didn't. I started stroking up and down his cock; slowly milking it with these Tantra moves some guy taught me a few years ago. His eyes stayed shut but they stopped squeezing as he rocked his head from side to side.

His cock was getting dry because I hadn't put much oil on and I could tell it was going to chafe. I switched to one-hand stroking and with my free hand pulled my shorts down. I got a little whirlpool of saliva going in my mouth and leaned down and dribbled it onto his cock head. As I leaned in to him, my cockhead hit his hairless thigh; it felt like silk. I stood up again and continued my one handed assault on his penis. With my other hand, I was jerking myself pretty hard and fast. I was only a second away from cumming. And I shot – as quietly as I could – into my hand. Some cum dripped to the floor but I was able to keep most of it in my hand.

By this time the saliva had dried up. I put both hands together over his erection and covered it in my cum. I started massaging my cum into his cock. His eyes were still closed and he was moaning slight whispers - it was so hot. I started to get hard again and it hurt. He started contracting his stomach like he was doing a sit up and then he pulled his head up, opened his eyes, and let out a load. Then another and another - white spurts splashed across his flat brown stomach and ribs. He was panting and he kept saying, oh god, oh god, oh god. I still had a grip on the base of his hard on and he looked up at me, standing over him with my half-hard cock hanging out.

"Cool guy, thanks," Francisco finally said. I smiled, "Sure. Anytime." He got up from the table and wiped the cum from his body with the sheet - then stepped into his boxer-briefs, which he had thrown on the floor. "Nice unders," I quipped.

He smiled, sheepishly, embarrassed, and pulled up his jeans. He grabbed his t-shirt and walked out into the living room. I told him I was going back to my hotel room and write and he said, "Yeah cool." He had his back to me and said it emotionlessly - playing that macho part a little heavy handed. Just before he opened the door he turned and looked at me. "Mieda, I am not a fag, okay?" He said. I mumbled for him to not worry about it, lit a cigarette and split.

I adore straight guys. Like spaghetti - straight until you get them hot.

The Island of the Shrimp Queen.

In the morning I got up too late to take the 7:00 am combi, which I really wanted, but also too late to take the 10:00 combi. I had slept restlessly in Santiago Ixcuintla. The room was full of skittering bugs of all description and that kept my guard up. The rustic 1950's air conditioner had kept me tolerably cool, but sounded like someone was mowing the lawn around my head. But even a room like that cools a bit towards morning, and the cooler air plus my exhaustion caused me to fall into a deeper, better sleep, the reason why I missed the 10:00 am combi.

I packed my bag and left the room. The lady at the desk asked me if I'd be back, and I said I didn't know. Never, I hope - though the town itself is wonderful and I would have liked to stay longer and dig the natives, but the accommodation choices are dismal and over priced. I got some fresh pastries and some drinkable yogurt from a cool little shop for breakfast, with the intention of eating in the lovely old town square, but all the good shady spots were taken by all the old folk in town and from experience those fuckers can sit all day and not move. With no other option, I had to sit in the broiling sun and sweat and eat. I'm a little tired of being hot. The pastries were wonderful though.

I had found out the previous evening what a combi is (van) and where to catch one, so I trudged to the combi station. The loading and departure of the combis is very Kafkian to say the least, and one really has to be in the know to get the right one. If I hadn't been so persistent, I would have missed the noon combi as well. The van had been fitted with seats running along the sides, rather than the forward-facing seats I am used to in a van. It wasn't too full - only three others, and I thought that was good, but we made another stop and that's where most of the others were waiting.

At the second stop, the driver almost backed over an old man sitting on the curb. The man scrambled to collect his crutches and hobble out of the way. I yelled out, "Ay, cuidado!" just in time. (Yes, I said "ay") Then other locals started piling things into the combi, between the rows of us. Coolers, fish from the smell of it, and buckets holding huge blocks of ice. More coolers were lashed to the top of the vehicle and then everyone piled in, the ever present high decibel Ranchero music started and we were off.

Thankfully once the combi got outside the city, the breeze of our motion cooled us, and the ride was uneventful except for when we had to slow down and cleave our way through a herd of cows. Damn lazy ass cows! The collectivo lancha (small boat with an outboard motor) was waiting to meet the combi at La Bantanga. There was a small flurry when I boarded, and a couple of women insisted on giving me pieces of cardboard to put over the scarred wooden benches before I sat. They said the seats were hot. I appreciated their thoughtfulness, but I also felt a little funny about it. I mean, do I really look too delicate to sit directly on a bench? I guess these people can sniff a faggot a mile away.

There was an orange tarp stretched over a frame to shade us, and as with the combi, once we started moving, the breeze was wonderful. We winded through a channel bordered by mangroves and other bright greenery, while stark white egrets fluttered clumsily out of our path. The water was muddy brown below us, but appeared blue in the distance, or green in the shade of the mangroves - I imagined some gigantic water creature surfacing from those murky depths and capsizing the boat. Occasionally we passed through small openings in what appeared to be sun bleached wooden fences in the water. It was wonderful. Transportation that's an experience in itself.

It was about fifteen minutes to Mexcaltitan, a tiny island that some believe is the original homeland of the Aztecs. The original name was Aztlan, which means Place of the Egrets - makes since, because the place was chock full of egrets - and when I say it's a tiny island, I really do mean it's tiny. My hotel, the only hotel on the island, was on the opposite shore from the main dock, but this was only a three-block walk. The disabled man whom I had saved from further disabling led me to the hotel even though there was no real need. He introduced himself as Nacho - he seemed to truly be doing it out of kindness, and not expectation of a tip. Those are the toughest moments, because people who are kind without expectation of reward are the people you most want to reward, but are also the most likely to be confused and/or offended by offers of money. My room is large, gum-free, and plastered smoothly white. It opens out onto a common balcony that overlooks the laguna. From the desk register, it seems that there have been very few guests checking in during the past year, and most of them Mexican. It is not The Spot, but it may be close.

Mexcaltitan is supposed to be the Venice of Mexico - as during the months of September, October, and November - the streets fill with water and residents row themselves from place to place in little boats. The first thing I noticed walking through the town to the hotel was that there was no water in the streets - there are narrow concrete sidewalks skirting the houses and dirt in the middle, but it was completely dry. That was kind of a disappointment - the Venice of Italy is Venice all year round - but I were soon distracted by the second thing I noticed.

Shrimp.

There were layers of shrimp in the shell, and a few fish, drying in the sun on almost every sidewalk. They were pinkish, so must have been cooked, and they were just lying there. Everywhere. After I checked into the hotel and explored my room - as every good traveler should, I went back out to dig the scene. I had to walk in the middle of the dirt roads because the sidewalks were covered in shrimp - there are no cars on the island, so this was no problem.

I saw a guy messing with some of the shrimp - I crept up to watch - he was eating them. When he noticed me gawking - cause he was cute, too, always had a soft spot for handsome Mexican Indians, he waved me over. His name was Jorge. He passed me a shrimp and showed how to eat it: pull off the head, legs, and tail and pinch off some of the shell covering the back (the shell on the sides is fused to the shrimp flesh) and eat. "Cacahuates," he said. (Peanuts.) It was good. Chewy, from being dried in the sun, with a pleasant crackliness from the remaining bits of shell. When I smiled and said I liked them, he gave us a whole handful. But after I gobbled them, I was still hungry and went and found a restaurant for lunch.

The restaurant had big open brick arches onto the lagoon on two sides and the breeze was nice. (Mexcaltitan is very, very hot, so whenever I felt a breeze, I stopped everything so I could appreciate it to the fullest.) Service was very, very slow. It turned out that my waitress was also the chef and she was running around trying to cook for and serve two large parties besides myself - but really, enjoying the breeze and watching birds fishing in the lagoon and sipping a cold fresca, what was the hurry? I recall sitting in one or two restaurants whose walls were painted to look like the genuine crumbling concrete walls and water views of this one. It's worth sitting in the real thing for as long as possible.

My room turned out to have a bit of a flaw - some kind of leak in the bathroom that caused a large puddle to form on the main room's floor. I fixed the leak - being good with my hands, but the island is so humid that the puddle never, ever dried. No big whoop because the room was large enough that I could easily avoid the puddle. But still, it's an interesting effect of my staying in problem-ridden, rock-bottom-budget accommodations for the past few weeks that I just shrugged it off and didn't even ask for a mop, let alone complain to the management. To give another example of how humid the island is: I washed two of my t-shirts in the sink and hung them outside on the clotheslines stretched across the common patio. There was that nice breeze coming off the lagoon, and it was pleasant to sit out there, but those t-shirts were still damp twenty-four hours later.

Everyone on the island is just so nice. To be fair Mexcaltitan is, like Mazatlan, somewhat dirty and crumbling, but it upsets me to write that because unlike Mazatlan, it's so much more than that. It has beauty and charm and as I mentioned, the people are incredibly nice. I get a thrill greeting people and so every few feet I was saying "Buenos Dias" or "Buenas Tardes" or "Buenas Noches" and everyone always responded. Once I went out and noticed a sea of shrimp through a doorway with some really cute guys tending them. I asked if I could take a photo and found myself invited in for ceviche. They took me up to the roof and showed me even more shrimp and out back to where a group of women were cleaning raw shrimp and where shrimp was cooking in a giant cauldron. I found out later it was a cooperativo, and that most the island's shrimp pass through there.

But I really got into the shrimp when I met Francisco. I were walking through town looking for water and approached a group of young guys. We started out our Gringo and Costello routine and had managed to get across that I was looking to score for abarrotes which means provisions/groceries.

Then one of the guys asked me, "Whada you wanna buy?" in a regular old American accent. I think

I gasped and took a step back. It's not that I was surprised he spoke English, it´s just I hadn't met a fluent English speaker yet, besides my guides. It's that once he opened his mouth he was so clearly a regular American kid. I kind of got the feeling he liked doing that to people. Anyway, he helped me find some water and we talked for a bit, and he promised to come by the hotel the next day to take me around a little. Hmm - wonder what that is going to be like? The best of the best was that the little grocery shop had telephones and two computers with Internet! Woo-hoo!