by Lazaro Lima
After kicking Doug (or whatever his name was) out of my tent, that’s when the revelry truly began. I ventured back to Rec Hall by the bonfire to meet up with the other Rockys, only to get totally trashed and taken advantage of by a guy you messed around with and envisioned a life together with before finally meeting Dave and settling down for a while. Okay, so I was an easy target after several rounds of Peach Schnapps (aka the devil’s nectar) offered by some short daddy trying to lure us back to his hotel about half an hour away for a “party” with him and his friends. I probably should have given into being gangbanged if only to avoid running into Mikey at the end of the night. Mikey has always hit on me, and his Richard Gere looks made a pussy out of me—literally. At least now I know why you liked him so much. Of course, the next morning I felt like the complete slut that I am (and my ass hurt!). I left you several messages and thank God we eventually spoke and we were still cool after a few tears and laughter. I guess, in the end, both Leo and I had regrets from that weekend. Our most valuable lesson here—stick to the vodka!
The following week we schemed our way out to San Francisco and stayed at the notorious and classy Beck’s Motor Lodge in the Castro District. The first night out I picked up a young aspiring daddy bear that I had lots of fun with while Leo ended up with an Adam4Adam piece he ran into at Badlands. That bitch ended up in Twin Peaks! Apparently, that piece was real good because Leo also ended up back at Twin Peaks the following night. This was after we picked up Enzo, a hot daddy off the streets on our way to the Eagle. He was visiting from L.A. Needless to say, we never made it to the leather bar, and I proved my hospitality by providing him with a comfortable bed at Beck’s Motor Lodge to spend the night. We didn’t have sex, only cuddled, at his request. Either he thought he had found true love or he was incredibly drunk. As soon as he left in the morning, I went online and invited a hot, hairy, and horny Arab/Italian daddy to come over and complete the unfinished business. On the third night, after Leo was back from his misadventures at Twin Peaks, we went to an underwear party at 404, where I picked up a delicious young Mexican who turned me out back at the ho-tel.
However, it was on our last night that we broke all records. Leo met the man of his dreams (or of his trip to San Francisco) online and kicked me out of the hotel to enjoy a few hours of lovemaking (or great sex). Alone on the streets of the Castro, I met a hot, young Latino hustler carrying around a paper bag full of crystal meth that he had decided not to deliver and enjoy instead. Not into drug addicts and afraid he was only after my olive-green Castro sweater (which I bought on sale at Walgreens because it was quite chilly out there, and he seemingly had his eye on it), we simply made out after I told him I was meeting my friend in a few. I wasn’t getting murdered because he wasn’t delivering the goods. I’ve seen that movie! Later, when Leo was done exploring the great insanity of temporary romance, he joined me at 404, where I was already sticking my tongue down a local comedian’s throat. As soon as Leo arrived, it was my turn at the hotel room and we agreed to meet later at Badlands after I entertained this funnyman. I actually tried plunging him, only to be politely informed he was more of a top and couldn’t take my cock. The nerve! The irony! I popped a Listerine strip in my mouth, laughed at the hilarity of it all, and spread wide.
By the time I made it to Badlands to meet up with Leo, he was already working his way into an orgy. Some hot Latin guy, who also happened to be staying at Beck’s Motor Lodge, invited him back for a private party along with a hot young white boy (Leo’s favorite!) and a muscle-bound Asian guy. My impression (or inner desire) was that I was also invited to join, but Leo and I have never had sex in front of one another and we weren’t going to start now. Well, except for running into each other in the back of dark rooms and that one time I arrived too early to that hotel room in New Orleans. In any case, it was Leo’s party and, though I did try to crash along with a friend of ours we ran into from Philly, I simply went back to our hotel room and had sex with the neighbor next door as his boyfriend slept naked in bed on the other side of the wall. After all, who am I to deny anyone some sugar?
Then, it was off to Philly—the city of brotherly love, Woody’s, and 2 a.m. barbecue chicken pizza. Our friend, Roosevelt, joined in on this leg of the tour. However, on our first night, after I had already had sex with and kicked out some drunken papi chulo, it was Roosevelt’s leg trying to take a tour of my body. Leo messed around with some guy he met at the pizza shop on what was supposed to be my bed and then fell asleep on it. I was left to share a bed with Roosevelt, who, in the middle of the night, dreamed I was some piece and proceeded to molest me until I woke up and giggled my way over to Leo. The following evening, Leo left us alone at the hotel room to hook up with a hot piece of Adam4Adam ass. My cell phone went off and it was him asking that we go to the window of our sixteenth-floor room and look at the top floor of the building directly across from Woody’s. Well, wouldn’t you know it? There he was waving to us like Evita from the balcony of the Casa Rosada after fucking Juan Perón. It was a building-to-building thumbs-up. A few hours later, we sweated our way through a jam-packed Woody’s (it was Philadelphia Pride weekend) and, feeling hot and horny (my libido is wicked!), I broke down and made my way to the nearest sex club. I whetted my appetite with a sweet white daddy before getting fucked in the newly discovered “Glory Lane” on the third floor by a hot Latino go-go dancer. My only intention was to blow him, but he pulled out a condom. It was dark enough that I wasn’t intimidated by everyone watching, and he gently positioned me bent over backward before thrusting into me like a piñata.
After resting up for a while (you do get six hours in a room), it was the juicy, well-built, tattooed Asian guy who dropped his towel for me and dispelled certain rumors and my own experiences with certain Asian men. It was a really nice size, and I simply had to make up for any time his parents might have spent in a refugee camp. I’ve single handedly made up for all of our country’s past mistakes. That night, I was like an ambassador of piece. Before I left, I messed around with another veteran of war and ended the night with a young black stud, which reinforced certain rumors and my own experiences with black men. The people of color movement had never been so empowered. I was a total whore that night but it was worth the $30, of which I would have spent $10 on breakfast at 2 a.m. My kind of hunger provided me with a full meal.
This is where the plot twist comes in and this letter comes to a close. About two weeks later, Leo and I meet up with our mutual friend Grant in Denver for Denver Pride (at this point we’re all Pride-ed out). He comes to meet us at the airport because his other friends are arriving a bit later from Albuquerque. After acclimating ourselves to the surroundings and going through some travel guides during our wait, we had already determined that there wasn’t much to do in this town. Grant had built it up to be the one city in the United States where Leo would finally meet his ultimate boy toy and I would finally meet the daddy of my dreams. Well, fuck me silly!
His friends finally made it after a slight delay, and we went over to say hi. Henry and I had already met at the Monster the same night Leo met Grant. It was Thanksgiving and Leo and I had laughed all the way home at the fact that Grant was a Native American Indian. As a matter of fact, I recall we had just come back from a previous trip to Philly before that ill-fated night and joked about how Leo should have bought that Pilgrim hat at the Betsy Ross museum to wear for his first dinner date with Grant. Leave it to him to pick up an American Indian on Thanksgiving. But I digress!
Now, back to that airport in Denver. After saying hi to Henry, we went over to meet the last member of our group for the weekend. He was at the conveyor belt waiting for his luggage. From the back, all I noted was a tall, bald, white boy. When he turned around to say hello to us, one look into his bright blue eyes and my world completely fell apart. Chris seemed rather shy and only made eye contact with me while shaking my hand. It was a strong handshake and I swear the earth moved when we came into contact. I was like, “Oh my God!” You could ask Leo. Slu
tty me was all over him like a cat in heat. At that point, I was only thinking about how he was going to be my piece for the weekend. I even clearly remember telling Leo, “Back up, bitch! He’s mine!” after Grant revealed Chris preferred to be a top in bed. He was beautiful, and in my mind, I was already working my way into his room back at the hotel.
Apparently, the feeling was very mutual. Before getting to the hotel, we met up for lunch and, instead of sitting next to him, I sat across from him to stare into his gorgeous face. He sniffed his armpits jokingly to make sure he didn’t smell bad, without knowing I was rumored to have an armpit fetish (I don’t, but I joke around enough about this to invite the speculation). There was some casual small talk and apparent side notes that revealed a budding flirtation between us. By the time we checked into our hotel room, I already knew I wanted him and he felt the same. We were supposed to meet back at his room (just down the hall from us, at the end, because he had a reputation for being noisy) for drinks.
Grant had already set it up so that we both knew we were into each other and it was just a matter of time before everybody slowly made their exits and the two of us were left alone. I had been forewarned that Chris was just as much of a slut as I was. So I pretended to lag behind to unplug the iPod (seductively, of course!) and bring it back to our room. Once it was out of the socket, I fumbled my way over to Chris, who was sitting in bed staring back at me, almost begging me to stay. Without any hesitation, I simply stopped and kissed him. Tramp! It wasn’t long before we were naked in his bed and having the most amazing sex, like ever!
I did make one stupid comment afterward that almost killed the moment, about how I didn’t want to be cock-blocking him for the rest of the weekend. I had initially planned to be a complete whore for this trip and even had a pre-printed discount coupon for the local bathhouse (which I gladly passed on to Grant). Chris and I supposedly both had a penchant for traveling to other cities and falling in love, so I didn’t want to keep him from anything or anyone. For me, there was Joe in San Antonio, Greg in Philly, Jose in Chicago, Ty in Louisville, and, most recently, Enzo from L.A. None of this kept us from pursuing this romance, and Leo got to enjoy the hotel room all to himself without the need for planning our schedules for hotel-room sexual trysts. I spent that entire Denver trip with Chris. We had the best sex every single night, held hands, and kissed in front of everybody and fell in love with one another during the course of one weekend vacation.
We’ve talked every day on the phone several times throughout the course of the day since then, written and texted each other, et cetera. He even sent me flowers and a specially made photo book with pics from our trip. He’s coming to New York to spend several days with me in August and I hope to visit him in Albuquerque sometime this fall/winter. He’s talked about moving from New Mexico and we’ve joked about getting him a job out here in New York. This all sounds absolutely fuckin’ crazy, I know, but Rod—I think I really love him! I’ve been such a whore (and he knows this!) (and he has too!), but I think he may be The One. He makes me feel like no other guy has in such a very long time, and I can’t stop thinking about him. It’s sick, I know! How could this happen? I haven’t even made it through the entire summer yet. I wasn’t planning on this, but it only comes to prove that God is truly a sick bastard! I even feel bad saying that, like God exists or something and is smiling down on us. WTF?
I guess this seems like a good place to end this letter, manifesto, revelation, gospel, or whatever this is. I know you wanted to hear about an orgy or a bukkake or some other wild adventure, but this how it ends, my friend. The man-whore gets married and lives happily ever after with the man-whore of his dreams. The boy meets his daddy and we’ll see how far we go before I have to write you another letter.
Your sister-of-sin,
Manny
P.S. You will be wearing taffeta to the wedding, bitch!
This Desire for Queer Survival
HORACIO N. ROQUE RAMÍREZ
These high-power street lamps can’t burn out the gang-infested walls. Black spray paint letters fuse into unlit alleys. Parked cars are tombstones. The air is sewer-scented. I’ve been here before, time after time, told my mother where our old house would be buried, near the call box, under the fast lane. She knows when I ramble it’s the virus. She questions me about what my doctor has said, ignores my response when I say, I’m just lonely.
Gil Cuadros
“My Aztlan:White Place”
Monday, 10:46 p.m. The taste of loneliness is the taste of toothpaste as I brush before bed on another Monday night. One more week has passed and my bed remains empty. Surely some colossal failure of connection has occurred that I should be so lonely. Loneliness is a motherfucker and, as Seal noted, a killer. We all know this and will endure much to keep it on the other side of the door. We will bide in our work and manias, bury our faces in the chests of inadequate lovers, or pretend our children need us more than we need them. Most anything is preferable to the crisp reflection in that mirror of loneliness.
Jaime Cortez
“Sun to Sun”
Almost Back in the Family Nest: Spring 2001
I am one of those lucky gay men with a family most open to his life. My parents were probably ready to receive the official news about my gay self years before I came out to them, only months before completing my doctoral dissertation in 2001. I was thirty-one years old. They were more ready than I was, for sure. Apprehensive me, who had organized and written for years about gay Latino life and history, more public about my erotic life to hundreds of strangers than to them. Culture was too heavyweight an animal for me then, whether I wanted to acknowledge it or not. Then again, maybe I was just chicken shit about it all, good ol’ male son privilege at work, not to show weakness, difference, outsideness. Or maybe it was the fact that I was soon to return to the nest in Los Angeles with a very queer PhD in hand, that academic privilege bestowed upon the family clan too obvious for its details and my desires to remain unknown to them. The unemotional conversation we had that morning when I finally confided almost in passing was reassuring, uneventful really, facts formalized about what they already knew for so long. But it was finally out, and that silly secret died in those moments of loving support and reassurances around the dining room table. There were no regrets about the disclosure, our lives that much closer after the telling. It took me ten years to finally have the courage to spell out for them in Spanish what I had been trying to make sense of openly in several cities, away from the family unit. It was time to begin returning home.
My parents began to tell me that morning that in El Salvador, lesbians, gays, and male-to-female transgenders—vestidas—were all around them. Years before I was born in 1969, and independent of one another, my mother and my father dissuaded folks in their town from harassing their queer kin. My parents were against what we now call homophobia long before any homosexual or gay movement, in this country or anywhere else. So for me, it’s never been a question whether my family will accept me or not, their one and only son, the last child, the professional intellectual, the gay one. It’s been more about the ability for any one of us in this interdependent family unit to survive without one another. Our economic, immigrant, and emotional histories are all intertwined in this thing we call familia. And thus the need to begin to try to end my silences.
Queer Latino Revelations: Summer 2001
In those same months when I convinced myself that it was time for me to announce my queer self to my parents, I also secured a postdoctoral fellowship. In that oh-so-exaggerated academic culture of graduate school, even short-term financial security matters, especially when well-established senior faculty members try to convince us not to worry about the job market. With only weeks approaching the completion of my dissertation, I take a trip to sunny San José. I spend some time with a close friend and academic mentor. But I also get to catch up finally, after months of e-mails and gay Latino promises not to let our work get in the way of our lives, with a close, you
nger, gay Chicano friend, one of her star students.
For reasons that probably have to do with the way we each intensely live our lives, always juggling projects and commitments, our lunch date is not too long. But he slows down enough to do some telling of his own. Over lunch, he reveals to me that he recently has seroconverted, that he has become HIV positive. He seems calm about it, as a matter of fact. I am still not in the practice of hearing these words from close friends. Of the gay Latino immigrant posse that nurtured me when I began to look into the mirror of my homo-self in Los Angeles in 1991, only one of us has uttered these words to any other as far as I know. At age thirty-seven, I am still somewhat deaf to these words, more from circumstance than by choice, mostly by the fact that it’s still yet another overwhelming silence in many of our lives. I know it’s tough to speak this truth to one another, but it’s not altogether easy to hear it either.
As I hear his words while we sit on the sunny cemented surfaces of gentrified San José, I wonder how he’s reacting to this critical piece of news about his body and his life. I know well what he’s like: motivated, driven, cute, fully bilingual, a writer, a leader, a doer, and a thinker.
But now, after hearing his confession, I lean back against my own historical self, still sitting, quietly overwhelmed with the news. I am pissed at what’s happening to this young Latino queer and too many others like him. There are equal feelings of anger, guilt, and disappointment, about him and about me. I sometimes feel responsible for not doing enough about the protection of others, as if I could, as tough as it is to secure my own. As we continue to talk about his seroconversion, he seems just as focused as ever, with determination to do his own graduate work as planned, to leave the family that was anything but nurturing once his sexuality was revealed, Latino religious intolerance standing firm. He decides to move on with his life, virus and all. Becoming HIV positive turns out to be just another queer challenge at his still young age, as he coordinates the plans for another stage of his life.
