Forbidden Fruit.

Decided to go to a bar - took a cab downtown to Plaza Santa Cecilia.
Plaza Santa Cecilia is the meeting place, the central nervous system of gay Tijuana. A stretch of pedestrian concrete running diagonally from Revolution to Constitution Avenues and Second Street - topped off by that silver slash across the sky; the Millennium Arch, a bane to many locals.
There are the 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 associates 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 for every penny they have.
The hustlers of Plaza Santa Cecilia are in a caste all by themselves - I have never seen their equal for persistence and all around obnoxiousness. They are without fail attracted to the uncoordinated movements of the American in a strange land - the least show of not knowing precisely where you are going, and they run at you from their lurking places in the side bars and cafes.
“Want nice chico, meester?”
“See bull fight? Donkey Show?”
“Want mota?”
“Nice boy? Show you a good time?”
“You like beeg one, meester?”
Virtually every fag in town shows up there at least once a day. Many a gay resident, especially the expats of Tijuana spend most of their waking hours in the Plaza. On all sides you see hustlers from all over the Mexican Republic washed up there in a hopeless dead end. Waiting for money orders from friends and loved ones, visas, permits that will never come - others wait in silent boredom to cross the frontier to a new and better life. Since leaving their hometowns, they have drifted on an unlucky current, always taking a wrong turn. Here they are. This is it. The last stop: Plaza Santa Cecilia.
The cruising fags would sit 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 Tomcats. 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 was 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 Victors Forbidden Fruit.
I recall, during my last visit to Tijuana, Victor and I lay in bed naked in a hotel room after a bit of Greek wrasslin'. Victor sighed, covered his face, and confided to me, “I don't know what to do. Everybody's talking shit that I'm a fucking faggot.”
I lit a joint, “Have you thought of stop having sex with men? That might help.”
In the Plaza is the notorious bar Villa Garcia - one of several gay locales ringing the square. It is well known for its seediness and blatant cruising homosexuals and rough hustlers. A hotbed of American pedophiles and drug addicts. The interior is a low ceiling room. On one side is a long bar tended by two tough lesbians. On the other side of the cantina are old rickety metal chairs and tables where sex and drugs are bought with indifference. There is a jukebox that plays the same tunes over and over again. And in the middle, the main floor where hustlers and queens stand and pose gazing out with probing creature lust. The restroom is a virtual bathhouse in which drugs flow as easily as the piss. Oral sex is openly common back there. There is a little dance floor that caters to strippers and tired drag shows - and you can dance on it if one felt inclined.
As I found a seat and settled in to a drunken stupor with a cold caguama Sol, I noticed a familiar face in the crowd. It was Hector, an old friend staring at me out of the smoke choked darkness. He smiled, got up and approached me. We shook hands. Hector was tall and skinny, sporting a thick black moustache.
“My, God, Hector! How have you been?” I blurted over the deafening disco beat.
“Bueno, amigo, bueno.” Hector put his arm around me and led me over to his table. “Please join me and my friends.”
He held my arm, looked me over. “You are looking good.” He said in a thick accent. “Are you visiting Tijuana?”
“No! I live here, old friend. Gosh, it’s good to see you again!”
It was good seeing Hector once more and he was as handsome as ever. I originally met him when I first visited Tijuana so long ago, it seems. I had a schoolgirl crush on him then. He always has a smile and never a bad word about anybody - was always a beacon of light in the darkness that enveloped me. He now owned his own beauty salon and invited me over someday for a haircut.
At his table was an assortment of the biggest transvestites I had ever seen. They ranged from six foot two and up. We had a ball; joked, laughed, and danced. The beer and tequila flowed and everyone got pleasantly drunk. One blue sequined dragged monstrosity who was flying on speed glowed that special glow and kept repeating “Soy Sasha.” - tottering over me in glittering menace.
Sasha was high and would not keep her hands off of me, which was a little annoying. Then, from the bowels of her costume, she pulled out a bag of cocaine.
I smiled at Sasha, lifting my wrist up to her, “May I sample your wares?”
Sasha tried to focus on me through fluttering fucked up overly mascaraed eyes. She handed me her little baggie. I sprinkled a spot onto my upturned wrist.
Snort - Wheeee!!!
The beer and tequila and cocaine flowed and everyone got pleasantly toasted. Around four in the morning, we all said good-bye and I took a taxi libre home.