Mucho Macho Muchacho?

As you may well know, I live in a huge hacienda on the beaches of Baja. Not bad, actually. Beats the grottoes, the roach infested rooms, the squalid hotels, the homeless shelters of yore.
The owner of said house is that cantankerous old Canadian Chuck - been living in TJ since day one, dearie. You old readers of my blog can smirk in remembrance of various adventures with this old coot.
Well, the first of this month he invites a young lad to rent the extra room - the last guy left under a cloud, disappeared in a puff of smoke to a far off place called Oaxaca - never to be seen again.
Well, this new character, name of Abel - is a smart and kind lad and is quite self sufficient. Not at all like the teeming legion of mooching rentboys that assault the house constantly with outstretched palms bleating for pesos and will give nothing in return. Nope, not this Abel. He has a great job as a delivery driver for Jerseymaid Milk.
To bridge the gap of diplomacy and friendship (cause I can be a distant and frigid old thing when I wanna be.), I had invited Abel to stroll down to the beach last sunny afternoon for exercise and chitchat. We found a nice bar with an outside balcony under shady palapas enjoying a gorgeous view of the ocean. Below us, teeming beach revelers splashed played walked among the surf - men pushed wobbly carts selling frozen ices or drinks in coconut husks. We both had great eye candy - he checking out the bikini clad tarts and I eyeing the swim trunk donning hunks.
Abel and I not only became good friends but rip roaring drunk. Back at the house he had accepted my invitation on the deal of having one beer. Well, four buckets later we both were giggling slobbering messes.
Not belligerent drunks us, we sat and watched the sun set over the ocean in a warm glow. For hours we sat and talked about each other - our lives, our loves, our goals. I explained to Abel that he had no fear of me trying to take liberties with his person - I have a strict rule of not forcing my life onto anyone. I explained how his friendship is more important than what dangles between his legs. He laughed and said it was alright, he has long time gay friends. Abel is hopelessly heterosexual and very handsome. More so that our young waitress slipped her phone number in with the bill for him - she even comped the plate of oysters on the half shell that Abel and I so greedily devoured.
Night fell and we closed the bar - saying our adioses, Abel and I stumbled out into the cool, dark dusty streets and turning a corner found a carnival going full swing. We played a few games - losing at all of them natch (I used to be a carny in my salad days and I can tell you with experienced honesty you will not win. Ever.) Nearly puked on the Tilt-o-whirl...
Drunkenly laughing and staggering home, Abel and I laughed at each others antidotes under that big yaller moon and all went well - until we got home. I do not know if it was the alcohol or his hidden angst but once Abel closed the front door his hands we all over me.
"Hey, what's the deal, Grabby?" I smiled.
Wordlessly he pushed me to the couch in the living room - his bloodshot eyes intense and with purpose though slightly crossed - flat on my back with him on top. Hands fumble at belts, shirts ripped off. The uncomfortable bliss of kissing, tongues probed and licked, hands caressed.
Then I stopped.
"Que? Que, guedo?" Abel pleaded breathlessly.
I explained that our friendship is far too important to foul in lieu of fleeting sex. I like the way things are and don't want them to get weird. He looked at me, smiled and agreed. Mechanically we composed ourselves and went to the kitchen and finished off the civeche he had prepared earlier.
The last few days have been so cool with him. We talk, take walks on the beach, play pool, drink beer in dusty cantinas - I have changed, I suppose. Abel still grabs my ass and rubs my chest when I am preparing food - but, that is another story...