"Sometimes, They Do What They Do."

Walking down dark alleyways smelling of putrid beer, seared meat, shit and vomit - pass the old lady next to a mangy dog that asks for a smoke - the lady you understand. Old smile as she takes the cigarette, says Gracias and farts. I light the Lucky for her. Pools of light open up to a neon kaleidoscope of bars and clubs purveying to all kinds of filth for both sexes. An open window reveals brightly colored sofas and metal bar stools inhabited by mostly young, same-sex couples. They hold hands, drink coffee and occasionally kiss.

Jorge motions for me to hurry up - my legs sluggish and fingers numb from how many tequila shots earlier that afternoon? I lost count. I had met Jorge at a cyber cafe near my hotel and explained to him what I was doing and why in hell I was doing it. With lights in his warm brown eyes he decided to be my guide for my last night in Mexico City.

Welp, both being fags by acts of International Trade Agreement, Jorge wanted to take me on a whirlwind tour of The Pink Zone off of Insurgentes. This is D.F.s fag central - a real gay hullabaloo. All over the Zona Rosa, in the heart of macho Mexico, young men walk arm-in-arm, check out passers-by and congregate on street corners. Men greet each other with a peck on the cheek in McDonald's. Lesbian couples, though fewer in number, nuzzle each other as they lounge against storefronts.

Over cobblestone streets the bars are lined up - we cut into one. A room full of screeching gesticulating queers gives me the shivers. I think the joint was called El Viena. Not feeling it, downed our beer and cut to The Oasis. Not two minutes in the place and several of the locals raise their heads like animals sensing danger. A new gringo in town...

Sat at the bar and struck up a conversation with a tall, skinny guy with spikey hair. Javier, I believe - and he worked for the city, he says. Several beers later we are in the mensroom, drunkenly my back up against the pink tiles with our tongues wrestling each other, fingers groping our exposed erections - all under the fey eye of the ancient bathroom attendant. Security finally arrive and barked for us to cut that shit out.

Back at the bar, Eduardo from Veracruz decided to join our little party - wild eyes and wild hair - stood behind me as I sat like a fool on a stool and pressed his rather impressive erection against my backside. "You like?" He breathed into my ear at each thrust.

Jorge had enough of this goofy shit until Eduardo mentioned that someone was having a house party a few blocks away. Two caguamas later and my three comrades and I stumbled down dark cobblestone streets to a row of large Spanish style houses lined up making an impenetrable wall.

Ranchero music blared from one adobe walled house with people meandering out front. We entered the double wooden doors - Eduardo and Jorge casually saying hola to several of the twenty people that stood in the stone hallway leading to a central patio.

Laughter, chatter, and music was cancelled out by a band tootling like the Star Wars Cantina Band on crack in the corner of the court. Several people danced. I took a cup of beer in a plastic cup given to me by Eduardo and looked around - mixed crowd of young and old, working class. Old shriveled mamacita - face wrinkled into a orgasmic smile - danced to the claps and yelps of those nearby.

Had a festive time meeting people, answering the "How do you like Mexico" question over and over and not a junky in sight. Jorge and Eduardo burst into an obscene mambo with three other guys to the wild cheers of their appreciative fans - granny danced along. After years of saying this - I really have to learn to mambo, dammit!

More beer and pawing from Javier and Eduardo and we all hit the streets again to a mega-disco called Liverpool 100 - Upscale club with several rooms all with a different decor and a Warholian sensibility. Boogied the night away to house and top 40's beats.

Around 5am, I informed my constituents that I really need to leave - I had a bus to San Miguel de Allende at 10am. After much groans and pleas, I left but with the velvet tongued Jorge in tow. Hopping a taxi, we jet to my hotel. Up the staircase to my room. Clothes flung and lips touched. Several positions later, we caressed in the darkness silently until our breathing subsided. Lighted a cigarette and lay there, listening to Jorge sleep in the calm coolness of my small room. Outside, the sun began it's eventual creep over the sooty dirty city and I wondered if I was going to make my bus on time...