Visible Lives

by Stanley Bennett Clay

  “There are only twelve slots, you see; twelve private rooms. That’s all Casa de Mita can accommodate.”

  “Who?”

  “Casa de Mita. House of John. Where we’ll be staying. Where we’ll be playing.”

  “It sounds very romantic.”

  “It is, if that’s what you’re looking for, and a whole lot more.”

  “Right now, I’m looking for the whole lot more.”

  “Well, a whole lot more awaits you.”

  What was I thinking? Yes, it was exactly what I needed to totally free myself from the bitterness I was trying to let go of and let God handle, since, deep down inside, I wasn’t handling it very well on my own, in spite of my grandiose posturing, my cavalier response to the pain and humiliation of watching my man being dicked down in a German hotel suite, my phony dismissal of all things Sean.

  On the one hand, I’m not a total hedonist, and the idea of traveling to a third-world country to sexually exploit the local men folk for my own selfish pleasure without any thought of what effect this may have on them and their thoughts and feelings about the Ugly American has its own stomach-sinking effect.

  On the other hand, I’m not going down there to screw a bunch of kids. We’re talking about sex with grown, consenting adults here. And politically, I always believed that prostitution should be totally legalized, organized, and recognized for the joy-giving business that it is.

  Still.

  God is gonna get me for this. What was I thinking? I was thinking about having myself a good-ass time. That’s what I was thinking. Sex is a gift from God, and why shouldn’t I enjoy my Heavenly Father’s gift. “Let me give you my credit card number,” I said to Will.

  “Don’t worry, Jesse,” Will’s voice smiled, “I have it on file.”

  Chapter Four

  It is no secret in the African American gay community that African American gay men have a distinct affection for Dominican men, gay or not, which explains why Casa de Mita, euphemistically known as Casa de Juan, or House of John, was so popular.

  Perched on the corner of a cozy intersection of two small streets, Casa de Mita was, once upon a time, the most intriguing structure in the Colonial Zone of Santo Domingo, the oldest city in the Western hemisphere.

  Years ago Casa de Mita had been a high-class, low-profile bordello, so I was told. Legend has it that the women who worked there began to take the kindness and the patronage of the local police for weakness. In time they were soliciting from their windows and the local police, whose own children attended the school just down the street, hastened its demise. It stayed closed for many years and many a dueña sold flowers in its locked gilded doorway.

  The passage of time did not, however, diminish the ancient charm or enduring legend of Casa de Mita, which, decorated in time’s moss and cobwebs, stood as historically elegant as the venerable towers, Catholic cathedrals, stone gardens, and ancient fountains that surrounded it and shadowed it. Shadowed it. Did not overshadow it. Casa de Mita’s notorious netherworld beauty was its own small contribution to the Colonial Zone’s distinction and mystique.

  And so it was no surprise to anyone when Cedric Whitehead, a black American gentleman from Brooklyn, a man whose desire for other men, Dominican men, was as ancient and as familiar as the city he visited more than any other, decided to buy the small, deserted hostel of lore and transform it into the perfect retreat for his American brothers visiting the cobblestone streets of desire in search of young, too-pretty, golden, olive, red-brown men, black-haired and long-lashed, with moist inviting, thick-lipped smiles and sultry Spanish accents, tight round hocks and large uncut penises that hung freely beneath hip-hugging summer shorts, tight-fitting jeans, and slacker, revealing slacks; ass and dick that boasted Negro ancestry, to have Will Castle tell it.

  The history of Cedric Whitehead’s House of John was as delicious as a gentle kiss in Will’s able and romantic telling, and the red-eye flight from Los Angeles to Miami, where we would change planes and take an hour-plus flight across the sea to the tropical Island of Hispaniola, home of Haiti and the Dominican Republic, was not filled with anything less than the romantic ruminations of one truly glowing from thoughts of pleasures past, pleasures present, and pleasures planned with glee in the city of Santo Domingo.

  I was more than ready to begin my three weeks of tropical delight and sexual satisfaction on one of the few Caribbean islands I had not yet visited, and one of the few cities that was an erotic haven for men who loved men who loved sex.

  Coming in for its landing our plane (and my camera) hovered over thick brush, tropical splendor, and white sand sparkling against the bluest waters I’d ever seen.

  The actual landing at Las Americas International Airport was amazing. Like some giant dirigible we floated onto the runway that lay between the sparkling Caribbean Sea and a stunning mountain range where cattle, sheep, and goats grazed lazily. We disembarked and were greeted by the gentle swoosh of a tropical breeze, not to mention the complimentary rum so freely dispensed by smiling hostesses lovely enough to turn the gayest man straight. Well, almost.

  Once through customs, the descent into the main terminal was as gleeful as a red-carpet stroll toward a movie premiere. Friends, relatives, cabbies, shuttle drivers, souvenir hawkers, and tourist guides greeted my fellow travelers and me like we were visiting rock stars. The faces and smiles of my Caribbean cousins, tinted and hued by the blood of West African slaves, Spanish conquerors, and indigenous Taino Indians, were astonishing in their beauty, an island version of our own U.S. miscegenation, producing so much physical splendor from so much historical crime.

  But I digress.

  My wide-eyed, jaw-dropping awe did not escape Will’s notice, and so he pulled my sleeve and whispered to me as he casually perused the crowd he knew so well, “It’s okay, Jesse. First-timers are always dumbstruck by the vision.”

  From the crowd emerged a man so handsome that it made me blink and stare. He stretched wide his arms and smiled.

  “Will!” the beauty sang as he approached us and gave Will a big brothaman hug.

  “¡Carlos! ¡Que paso!”

  “Same-o, same-o. Welcome back, my friend.”

  “Thank you. Carlos, this is Jesse. Jesse Templeton. Jesse, this is Carlos Estrellas. He works at Casa de Mita.”

  I extended a hand that he refused to take. He wrapped me in his arms instead, and his light cocoa butter scent was deliciously dizzying.

  “¡Hola!” he said, nearly kissing me, “and welcome to Santo Domingo.”

  “Gracias, Carlos,” I answered, enjoying his strong masculine embrace.

  “Here,” he said, pulling away, “let me take those.”

  And without giving us a chance to protest, he relieved us of the two carry-on bags Will and I had each traveled with (“Travel light, my friend,” Will had instructed me before we left, “swimwear, shorts, jeans, T-shirts, slacks maybe, socks and underwear if you must but purely optional.”)

  As Carlos led us out of the crowded terminal, I could not help but notice the contour of his beautiful behind as it rolled firmly inside his tight khakis.

  “Forget it, Jesse,” Will whispered to me, “Carlos is staff. Staff doesn’t fraternize with hotel guests.”

  My disappointment must have shown mightily.

  “But don’t worry,” Will assured me, “Carlos is only the tip of the iceberg.”

  And Will was so right. Sexy brown and yellow beauty was everywhere. Now don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I have sex on my mind twenty-four/seven, but there are some hot-ass men in Santo Domingo! I mean, I thought the crowd of hotties that greeted us in the terminal was merely an aberration, but the drive from the airport and through the city boasted every kind of boy candy imaginable. Even in its poverty, and Santo Domingo is indeed a poor city, the citizenry glows with incandescence; a young, shirtless turk in raggedy cut-offs saddled up behind his amigo on a sleek-cruising moped, half-naked golden boys wrestling each other in the shallow waters of the
sea, dark buff Adonises strutting down a dirt road bow-legged with the weight of their manhood, and plazas dotted with discerning male hustlers—bugarrones—enticing potential customers with lurid eyes, suggestive smiles, and a slow handful of themselves outlining length and girth.

  Policías too phine to be legal and bad-boy beauties too good to be true were everywhere we looked.

  But even paradise has its thorns and the ugliness of despair was not invisible. Homelessness, little children begging on the streets and eating from trash heaps, pockets of squalor, stray dogs roaming through ancient palaces was the sad and sinful irony. In the city of Santo Domingo beauty and the beast coexisted as easily as lions and sheep in Jehovah’s Eden.

  While Will and Carlos laughed and caught up in the front seat of the tiny shuttle bus, I kept my camera busy recording images too rich and profound to trust to mere human memory.

  And then finally we came upon the Zona Colonial. The Colonial Zone. It was as much a world wonder as anything I had experienced in all my world travels.

  Tiny brick dwellings with winding staircases leading to second-story trellised courtyards dating back to Columbus’s brutal occupation delicately lined the narrow cobblestone streets, while fortress-like churches loomed magnificently in the background against a sky whose blue was deepened by the piercing brightness of a high-noon sun. And all the while beautiful locals—men, women, children, and seniors—went on about their daily way almost oblivious to the rugged paradise that surrounded them and, I suspected, barely impressed with the commonness of their ravishing appearances.

  Carlos finally pulled the shuttle bus up to the main entrance of Casa de Mita, and it seemed everything, if not more, that Will had described. A storybook cottage, a tropical hideaway right out in the open that, at first glance, hinted at all the clandestine pleasure that it promised.

  Proprietor Cedric Phineas Whitehead, like an ebony version of Mr. Roarke from Fantasy Island, appeared vision-like in the gated doorway of his establishment.

  “Welcome, my friends, to House of John,” he swooned. A wide smile revealed deep dimples, and his inviting arms stretched high with hands opened wide as if the world he was bouncing like Atlas on his Brooklyn-bred shoulders was beach-ball light. I could not determine whether he was high on drugs or high on the setting, but his mellowness was something I immediately and lovingly envied.

  Carlos unloaded our bags and followed us in past his boss, who described the amenities available to his guests: Internet service, cable TV, air conditioning, Casablanca fans, breakfast and dinner, city and beach tours at modest prices, pre-screened bugarrones (“always negotiate up-front”), his assistant Emilio at our beck and call, and plenty of condoms and lube available at the front desk, gratis. I could hardly wait.

  Though exhausted from the sleepless red-eye flight, I was energized by the prospects, but once led upstairs to my lovely balconied room, my body, seduced by the soothing shower and lullabied by the easy sounds of street bustle and indigenous music, succumbed. I laid my nude body across the bed and fell into a deep sleep that I did not wake from until after the sun had set and there was a gentle knock on the door.

  “Hola.” I recognized the voice. It was Carlos.

  “Hey, Carlos,” I said sleepily, “come on in.”

  He entered and without as much as a glance at my sprawling nudity, informed me that dinner would be served in a half an hour, and that the others from America had arrived and were having cocktails in the foyer. When he left, I still could not resist a gander at his beautiful ass despite his unavailability.

  I got up and showered again, dressed, and descended the staircase into the jovial buzz of my giddy American comrades, most of whom I was familiar with from Will’s cruises; my San Francisco buddy Martin Carl, Tim Thompson and Henry Anderson from Oakland, Jarvis McCready from Chicago, gay twins Myron and Byron Hicks from Philadelphia, Art Pierce and Oliver Bevins from Atlanta, Sylvester Winfrey, who claimed to be a distant cousin of Oprah, and Doctor Moses Franklin, a dentist affectionately known as the L.A. Tooth Fairy.

  We greeted each other festively, toasted each other with Brugal, the Dominican Republic’s national rum, then sat down at the huge round candlelit table on the terrace and feasted on crab, lobster, brown rice, sweet potatoes, plantains, gossip, and sexual fantasies.

  And not long after dinner, having retired to the parlor for more Brugal and heightened expectations, fantasy became reality.

  Chapter Five

  The first chime of the doorbell reduced us to a sudden hush and caused all of our hearts to skip a beat. Well, all of our hearts except Cedric’s and Will’s, whose exchange of knowing glances and delicious smiles let it be known that what we had come for was just a foyer away.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Cedric begged pleasingly as he got up and left the parlor. We all leaned toward his exit and watched our rotund host click across the tiled foyer with Giselle-like grace, open wide the front door entrance, and unlock the wrought-iron gate that guarded it.

  “This is it,” Will whispered with assurance, as we strained to hear Cedric exchange words with sexy male voices in slow and gentle Spanish.

  When we heard them step in and the clang of the wrought-iron gate being locked behind them, we quickly resumed our positions as nonchalant gentlemen of leisure, even as our hearts beat in time with the sound of their footsteps crossing the tile, drawing nearer and nearer.

  First in the doorway was Cedric, blocking it for maximum dramatic effect, a smiling father figure with an impresario’s élan, enjoying our disguised hunger, as we subtly tried to look around his near three-hundred pounds.

  “Gentlemen,” he announced with a widening smile, “I’d like you to meet some friends of mine.”

  Only then did he step aside, and with an elegant gesture of the hand ushered in a trio of young men as different as they were tempting.

  “This is Rodrigo,” he said proudly, introducing the tallest of the three. At six-two, Rodrigo’s Latin and African roots made for a delicious medley. His dark bedroom eyes, short thick black hair, luscious lips, and full and gorgeous nose perfectly accented the yellow complexion beneath a healthy tropical tan. And although he was as lean as he was tall, his sinewy physique hinted that he liked to work out, either at the gym, on the beach, or in the bed.

  Efraín, an olive-complexioned mystery, was introduced next. His smile was not as eager as Rodrigo’s, but his eyes spoke of new and unexpected pleasures.

  For the truly adventurous of our group, Efraín seemed the perfect imperfect match; the devilishly angelic face, the open shirt down to his navel, the school-boy chest, the nipple ring, the virgin and the freak, the pose that said that anything goes, take me and be taken.

  “And Tomás,” Cedric declared with knowing pride. Tomás was the shortest of the three. Stocky and muscular, a thick battering ram, what we would call in the States rough trade. And with the unnatural bulge between his legs, Tomás was indeed the perfect delight for our more submissive colleagues.

  All throughout the night the doorbell chimed, the wrought-iron gate unlocked and locked and unlocked, and stunning young Dominican men of all shapes, sizes, and colors were paraded in like models on a runway. And though precious few spoke even a little English, the international language of sex and desire hummed throughout the parlor. Twelve horny American tourists exchanged flirtations and negotiations with, and escorted to their rooms, locals who had little else to offer but their gorgeous Afro-Caribbean bodies in exchange for American dollars much needed for rent, food, and general subsistence.

  I was immediately drawn to Davide, a brown-skinned, boyishly handsome young man who seemed to be in his mid-twenties, and was about as suited to this night’s work as a cherub to ditch digging. Clean-cut, clean-shaven, and small-framed, he lacked much of the overt machismo of most of the other bugarrones. I noticed him through the crowd, seated against the wall on the other side of the room. Our eyes met. I smiled at him. He returned the smile, shyly, nervously.

 
My shaky confidence bolstered by his shyness, I moved slowly through the crowd and approached him. He stood, almost stumbling, to face me.

  “Hola,” I said.

  “Hola,” he said.

  “¿Cómo está usted?”

  “¿Muy bien, gracias, y usted?”

  “Muy bien.” Hey, you can’t live in L.A. without knowing some Spanish. “¿Cómo se llama?”

  “Me llamo Davide. ¿Y el suyo?”

  “Jesse,” I answered, extending my hand, which he shook gently.

  It seemed to me that Davide was as new to this as I was. Although I was the more aggressive, both our demeanors contributed to the awkwardness of our situation, which was certainly not aided by the little Spanish that I knew and the few words of English Davide had at his disposal.

  Still, we managed some small talk and eventually got around to the business at hand. Per Cedric’s instructions, a price was negotiated up front—twenty U.S. dollars—and we awkwardly discussed the anticipated activities.

  I led him to the stairs and escorted him up ahead of me, admiring the tight frame of his body, neatly fitted into his white jean shorts and skimpy tank top; the tiny waist, the small bubble-butt, the lean calves, the slightly hairy legs and arms, the silk-like hair along the back of his neck. His body was, quite frankly, pretty, as pretty as his baby face.

  When he reached the second-floor landing he turned and looked down to me for further instructions. I joined him, then led him down the hall to my room, opened the door, and gestured him in.

  I don’t know why, but for some strange reason I had created an atmosphere of total romance in what was essentially a bordello flop room. Candles flickered softly; burning incense scented the air that was gently waltzed about the space by the lazy rotation of the Casablanca fan. I even had soft jazz oozing from my Bang & Olufsen iPod and mini-speakers.

  “¿Puedo yo?” he asked, pointing toward the bathroom. I suddenly remembered Cedric telling us that no matter how clean the bugarrones were, he, Cedric, always insisted that they showered again before entertaining a client.