Spent the morning - beginning anyways, drinking coffee with the Old Man, which is the Canadian Chuck and his bevy of boys. I cut into the cafe and there is Chuck huddled in tattered denim overcoat looking like a corpse, and Old Joe, owner of Bar Villa Garcia, dunking pan dulce with his dirty fingers, shiny over the dirt. Had to jet for an early meet with RJ - RJ was a jovial black friend that I had met at a bar one night. He rented in Rosarito and commuted to San Diego daily to work in temp office jobs. A total Santa Cecilia barfly - quite popular with the expat and rentboy population and just fun to be around. The last time we drank, he had invited me to his seaside place for an afternoon bar-b-que.
Stood in the Plaza for three hours waiting - chain smoking, people watching. These people in this Plaza. It is sinister and gloomy and chaotic, with the special chaos of a dream. Was approached by a waiter from Bar El Taurino named Gustavo. Hella handsome - has a little boy look, burns through him like red neon - but un burracho. Wasn't feeling it for work today so he called in sick - so he claimed. Sexual innuendo flew out of his pouty lips like Niagara Falls but I wasn't gonna have it - not in the mood me. He left and RJ never arrived - three hours had past.
Bit disgruntled, I returned home and lie in my bed wracked by waves of anxiety and depression before falling into a troubled morbid sleep. Was awoken by cell phone and it was that bitch RJ stating that he overslept and for I to meet him at Bar Villa Garcia for drinks. Okay.
A bucket of Lager waiting and we both got ripped playing coy with the rentboys and the trannies. Again - my head was pounding so I called it an early night and returned to my trap.
Penniless and without food - with no aspect of what to do with my life at this moment - I actually had a good time. I sat on front concrete porch in a major frump, smoking - lungs are searing with pain and I decided to do nothing. I always state that I am on a precipice looking out into a deep black void - metaphorically speaking and I wouldn't have it any other way. But about that precipice - I think it is time to jump.
Stood in the Plaza for three hours waiting - chain smoking, people watching. These people in this Plaza. It is sinister and gloomy and chaotic, with the special chaos of a dream. Was approached by a waiter from Bar El Taurino named Gustavo. Hella handsome - has a little boy look, burns through him like red neon - but un burracho. Wasn't feeling it for work today so he called in sick - so he claimed. Sexual innuendo flew out of his pouty lips like Niagara Falls but I wasn't gonna have it - not in the mood me. He left and RJ never arrived - three hours had past.
Bit disgruntled, I returned home and lie in my bed wracked by waves of anxiety and depression before falling into a troubled morbid sleep. Was awoken by cell phone and it was that bitch RJ stating that he overslept and for I to meet him at Bar Villa Garcia for drinks. Okay.
A bucket of Lager waiting and we both got ripped playing coy with the rentboys and the trannies. Again - my head was pounding so I called it an early night and returned to my trap.
Penniless and without food - with no aspect of what to do with my life at this moment - I actually had a good time. I sat on front concrete porch in a major frump, smoking - lungs are searing with pain and I decided to do nothing. I always state that I am on a precipice looking out into a deep black void - metaphorically speaking and I wouldn't have it any other way. But about that precipice - I think it is time to jump.
And so it goes...
From all the authentic Mexican restaurants to choose from, I had lunch at the Burger King on Ave. Revolucion. I am an American, ferchrissakes. 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, slight of build and very obviously gay. We struck up a conversation, he speaking fluent English, and said his name was Giovanni and flat out asked me to join him for dinner after he got off work. I usually don't go after feminine men, but this little guy was delectable.
Later, I met Giovanni at a sidewalk cafe in front of the Jai-Alai Center, a huge ornate sports arena set in 1930's art deco. Chatting over a brief dinner of a delicious grilled beef burrito and soda - he was very funny and well mannered.
Afterwards we visited several discos; Mike’s, Terraza 9, Los Equipales. We danced and had a good time. Queer joints usually depress me, Mexican or stateside, but I made the exception.
I am very comfortable with my homosexuality, but I cannot stand being in a smoky den filled with squeaking squealing queers. All cooing and giggling at every crotch they see. Sometimes I feel like a piece of meat or being sized up like a goat in an Arabic Bazaar.
These squinty eyed, pinch face ‘girls’ talk to me and try to be pleasant, all circling me in a vain attempt to get me in bed. What would make them think I would be interested in their unattractive person?
And just let me try to take a piss. Several follow me into the restroom and line up at the urinal and glare in ambiguous lechery. “It's just a freaking' penis!” I once snapped, and marched out of the restroom.
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 yourself and beverage precariously perched, a bar, and if you are 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.
Later, I met Giovanni at a sidewalk cafe in front of the Jai-Alai Center, a huge ornate sports arena set in 1930's art deco. Chatting over a brief dinner of a delicious grilled beef burrito and soda - he was very funny and well mannered.
Afterwards we visited several discos; Mike’s, Terraza 9, Los Equipales. We danced and had a good time. Queer joints usually depress me, Mexican or stateside, but I made the exception.
I am very comfortable with my homosexuality, but I cannot stand being in a smoky den filled with squeaking squealing queers. All cooing and giggling at every crotch they see. Sometimes I feel like a piece of meat or being sized up like a goat in an Arabic Bazaar.
These squinty eyed, pinch face ‘girls’ talk to me and try to be pleasant, all circling me in a vain attempt to get me in bed. What would make them think I would be interested in their unattractive person?
And just let me try to take a piss. Several follow me into the restroom and line up at the urinal and glare in ambiguous lechery. “It's just a freaking' penis!” I once snapped, and marched out of the restroom.
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 yourself and beverage precariously perched, a bar, and if you are 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.
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