Friday, July 3, 2015

The Brazilian Twink

Wilton Manors, March 2002

You probably know my top 10 turn-offs: tall, thin, long faced, wearing jewelry, alcoholic, sports nut, and so on, until we reach #10: feminine traits.

Politically, I'm a strong supporter of your right to be as butch, femme, or androgynous as you want to be.  I won't blink an eye if you sashay across the room in bedazzled couture, stanking up the place with your Chanel #5, and call me "girlfriend."  But it's not likely to get you the key to my bedroom.

So how did I end up going home with Miss Chita Taboo?

Well, I didn't know about Miss Chita Taboo.

One night in the spring of 2002, Yuri dragged me to the Manor, the twink bar in Wilton Manors, and I was cruised by Victor, a slim, smiling twink from Brazil (this isn't him).

He had three of the five traits I find attractive -- shorter than me, dark-skinned, and religious (devout Catholic).  And he had only a few feminine mannerisms, the sort that twinks get when they grow up in a super-macho environment where every hint of androgyny is punished -- they tend to go overboard, and sashay a bit.  Not a big turn off.

Besides, he was very persistent.  He taught me how to say "I want to kiss you." in Portuguese.

Eu quero te beijar

So I accepted the date.

I thought something might be up when I got to Victor's apartment, which was large, elegantly-furnished, and so close to the beach that you could hear the waves.

In his living room, instead of a couch, there was an enormous pink daybed with a zebra canopy and a photo of Madonna behind it.

"Who's the hunk?" I asked, pointing to a framed portrait of a very attractive older man, shirtless, with a hairy chest, gigantic pecs and delts.


"Oh, that's my Michael, my ex-husband," Victor said.  "Bodybuilder -- he went to Barney's Gym, where you go.  We broke up a long time ago.   We're still friends  -- we can share sometime -- but don't worry, you have no competition!"

Gay men did not call their partners husbands in 2002, unless they were modeling their relationships on heterosexual boy-girl models.

Ok, Victor was way too feminine for my comfort zone.

But I already agreed to the date -- I couldn't back out now.

We had dinner at a Brazilian restaurant, and then walked hand in hand along the gay beach.

"How can you afford that swanky apartment?" I asked.

"Oh, Daddy is the mayor of Belo Horizonte, He sends me money every month so I stay away from Brazil.  I embarrass him.  And I make money from my entertaining, too."

I didn't ask what his entertaining entailed, but I got an idea from the rest of our conversation, mostly about pop music.  Victor was a big fan of Jennifer Lopez, Vanessa Carlton, Lane Ann Rimes, Brandy, Pink, and Aaliyeh, but he also liked the classics.  He had just been to a Cher concert, and he had a copy of Madonna's first album (1983), which had her all-time best number, "Lucky Star."  He began singing it for me, right on the beach, complete with hand gestures.


You may be my lucky star, but I'm the luckiest by far....

Getting serenaded by Madonna songs by moonlight is quite an experience.

Still, this guy was way too feminine.  I decided to excuse myself and go home without the obligatory kiss. Then Victor cozied up to me and said, "I have a surprise for you. Bolo de rolo, guava cake.  A special Brazilian dessert.  I made it myself."

He already made the cake.  It would be impolite to refuse.

We sat in Victor's elegantly furnished kitchen, eating small slices of the very rich, spicy cake and drinking coffee.  I tried to steer the conversation away from popular music.

How about the gym?

"Oh, I do jazzercise every morning.  I keep my girlish figure."

Movies?

"Oh, I want to see the Powerpuff Girls movie so bad! I love them so much -- Girl Power!  Which one is your favorite, Blossom, Bubbles, or Buttercup?"

"Um...do you have any interests that involve men?"  I asked.

"Horny already, you naughty boy?  Wait a minute...I'll be back...."  Before I could say anything, he vanished through the bedroom into the bathroom and shut the door.

Oh, no -- he thought I was interested in bedroom activities.  I had to turn him down fast!   I followed to tell him I was going home.

The bedroom contained:


A gigantic bed with a black bedspread and red plush pillows.

A chair shaped like a high-heel shoe.

A vanity desk cluttered with jars, vials, chalices, styluses, Eau de Parfum, nail polish, polish remover, lipstick, sponge applicators, brow gel, eyeliner, toner, moisturizer, bronzer, mascara, hair gel, moisturizer, pink razors, tweezers, powder.

And a framed photo of an elegant drag queen.

"Who's the drag queen?" I asked through the door.

"That's me -- Miss Chita Taboo.  I've won Miss Gay Fort Lauderdale twice!  I could go on to Miss Gay Florida last year, but that Yvette DeLong beat me out!"

"Oh,.,that's very interesting," I said.  "I'm not..I mean, I support your right to do drag 100%.  I just like men who are a little more...you know...masculine."

No answer.

"I think I'm going to be going.  But thanks for the rolo de bolo.  It was very tasty."

No answer.

Had he collapsed?

"Victor?  Are you ok?"

No answer.

Was he sobbing over the rejection?

"Miss Taboo?  Are you still there?"

The door breezed open.  "Sorry, I didn't hear you with the toilet running."

Victor stood in front of me, naked, smiling.  Hung.

Bratwurst+.  Maybe bigger.

"What did you say, babe?"

"Um...um..I said I'd love to see your act sometime."

"How sweet!  But why are your clothes on still!"

Well, I never turn down a Bratwurst+.

See also: The Pitcher with the Secret Move; and My Sausage List.


Thursday, July 2, 2015

The Thug from Catch One

Los Angels, February 1986

I had been in West Hollywood for about six months, and I was starting to notice that it wasn't all heaven.
Con artists, hustlers, pickpockets.
Poverty, homelessness.
And racism.

You rarely encountered Men of Color in West Hollywood; it was Anglo-white in all directions, as far as the eye could see.

And when you did see someone black or Hispanic, the clerk in the story was eyeing him suspiciously. Or the bar was charging him a cover charge of $10 ($1 for white guys).  Or you overheard casual comments like "What's he doing here?"

Even my ex-boyfriend Alan, the Pentecostal Porn Star, chimed in: "I'm not racist, but I wouldn't date a black guy.  I like to be the dominant partner."

 So bedroom positions are based on race?  Really?

I decided to educate Alan by dragging him along as I cruised for African-American men.

He agreed, but only if we went to Mugi to cruise for Asian men afterwards.

He told me that there were three "black gay bars." in Los Angeles.  White guys went to the Study or the Zone, and Jewel's Catch One was black only.

So naturally, I wanted to go to Catch One.

But white guys couldn't get in, Alan protested.  Or they were forced to pay an outrageous cover charge.  And if you made it inside, you got such severe Attitude that you ran away sobbing.

Besides, it was in a "bad neighborhood," near the corner of Pico (bad) and Crenshaw (worse).

That settled it -- we were going to catch one at Catch One!

The evening started out fine: We weren't turned away at the door, and there was no enormous cover charge.  There was no more Attitude than you would get at the Rage or the Gold Coast.

We walked through a lounge area and two beautifully decorated bars, one with a dance floor.  The music was all R&B, all female black vocalists: Janet Jackson, Whitney Houston, Dione Warwick, Diana Ross, Aretha Franklin, Patti LaBelle.


We got our Cokes from a very cute bartender and found a place to prop up the wall.  

After awhile, I said "Well, time to work the room!", yelling to make myself heard.  When you cruised with a friend, you always split up to "work the room," or people would think you were a couple and refuse to make eye contact.

"No way!" Alan yelled into my ear.  "You're not leaving me! We're the only white guys here!"

That came out startlingly loud. Everyone standing nearby overheard.  One guy turned to stare at us: very tall, very muscular, shirtless, glowing with sweat from dancing.  There were gold chains dangling around his neck.


He approached, and faced Alan, glaring. "Does yo' mind if I ax yo' boyfriend to dance?" he asked, in a stereotypical black accent.  I saw that he had a tattoo on his chest, a rarity in 1986.

Alan paled.  "Boomer's not...he's not my boyfriend."

He turned to me.  "Does yo' wanna get down, white boy?  The name's T, as in Thug."

I gave him my best cruising grin.  "Sure, T!"

He stared in surprise.  Obviously he had been expecting a rejection.  "Um...ok,  Let's go."

We danced to "Rhythm of the Night" and "That's What Friends Are For," and then moved into the lounge for drinks and kissing.

"Sorry about the 'white boy' stuff," T said, dropping the accent. "I figured you were out looking for thugs, and I'd give you what you came for.  T is actually short for Thomas."

"I kind of realized that you were putting us on."

He grinned.  "So, how about dinner Thursday night?  You and Alan can come down to my house, if you're not scared of South Central."

Alan didn't want to go.  South Central was notorious for its gangs, drugs, and drive by shootings!  We'd never make it out alive!

So  I drove down by myself.   8 miles to USC, and then 8 miles south on the 110, an hour's drive in rush -hour traffic, to  Manchester Avenue, a neighborhood of small houses with square fenced-in yards.  Other than the bars on all the windows, you'd never know you were in a high-crime area.

T lived with his mother, who introduced herself and then retreated to her room as he cooked and served chicken gumbo, a green salad, and a perfectly horrible bread pudding.

Then we sat on his couch, watching The Cosby Show, Cheers, and Night Court, and talking about his job -- I forget what it was now -- and my graduate school coursework, and his childhood in South Central and mine in Rock Island.  Eventually we made it into the bedroom.

T was very nice, and extremely hot, but we didn't really have a lot in common, at least not enough to entice me into another hour-long drive in rush hour traffic.  So we didn't see each other again. But we stayed in contact.  He's now married to an Asian guy.

By the way, in case you're wondering: Mortadella+.

L

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