On Saturday nights when we didn't have other plans, Lane and I often went cruising. Around 9:30, I dropped him off at the Faultline, and then drove a mile farther east to Basgo's, the Hispanic bar in Silverlake.
At 11:00 or 11:30, I picked him up again.
Usually one or both of us had met someone, and made a date for later in the week (we would share the bedroom activities at the end, of course).
Once in a while, we couldn't wait: the guy came along, for a late-night snack at the French Quarter (to make it technically a date rather than a hookup), and then home for the bedroom activities.
You're probably wondering what happened when Lane and I both wanted to bring a guy home that night.
In two years of cruising, that only happened once.
Basgo's was not for third and fourth-generation Hispanic guys. It was for recent immigrants from Mexico, Guatemala, Panama, or points south, who spoke little or no English and felt more comfortable in Latin American gay cultures than in the white middle class Anglo gay culture.
There were a lot of guys who looked like the top photo.
And a lot who looked like this (there are millions of people of British, German, French, and Scandinavian ancestry in Latin America).
But not a lot of black guys. African slavery was not common in Latin America, where Indians were available to do the same jobs. And intermarriage was common. So today people of exclusively African ancestry constitute:
10% of the population of Colombia
4% of the population of Venezuela
1% of the population of Mexico
And when they immigrate, they tend to prefer the African-American gay culture to the Hispanic gay culture of Silverlake.
So it was rather surprising to see a black guy at Basgo's.
He would have stood out in the crowd anywhere: very tall, probably 6'5", with close-cropped black hair and a round, handsome face. A red, yellow, and blue muscle shirt with the logo FVF revealed thick, hard shoulders and biceps. Square hands. A bar-bulge in his jeans.
I approached and said "Hola! Me llame Boomer."
He glared at me. "Practicing your Spanish?"
Embarrassed, I switched to English. "Um...well...so, what does FVF mean?"
(It's actually the name of the Venezuelan National Football Team).
Another glare. "What does NFL mean, chumo? Are you from the moon?"
"No, the Midwest," I said before retreating to the other side of the bar.
A while later, the FVF guy appeared next to me, carrying two bottles of beer "Hola!" he said. "Me llame Pedro."
"Practicing your Spanish?"
He handed me one of the bottles. "Come on, I was just having fun with you. So you're from the Midwest, right? Que barbaridad! Like, you had barns, and fields, and you had to do the,,,ordeñando of the cows?" He made cow-milking motions with his hands.
"Sure," I lied. "I milked 30 cows before school every morning."
"Entonces...you are really good with your hands, right?" he said with a leer.
"And mouth."
Pedro was from Caracas, Venezuela, where his father taught economics at the Universidad Central. He had come to the U.S. just after completing his degree in performing arts from the University of Zulia; now he was doing some modeling and commercials while trying to break into acting.
He was a bit too tall for me -- I like guys who are short, dark, and heavily muscled. But I had never met a black Hispanic guy before, and he was so talkative and animated that I found myself explaining the "sharing," showing him a photo of Lane, and inviting him to get together later on in the week.
"Why not tonight?" Pedro asked, his hand wandering down to cup my bar-bulge. "No tengo nada para hacer."
With someone's hand on your penis, it's hard to say no.
Instead, Pedro followed me to the Faultline, where we found Lane with his tongue down the throat of a buffed Asian leatherman.
I was rather surprised -- Lane usually liked hairy chests and beards, attributes rare in Asian guys.
"Oh, hi, Boomer," he murmured, pulling away. "This is Harry, from Veracruz, Mexico -- you didn't know they had Asian leathermen in Mexico, did you? I invited him home tonight. We're going to do a leather scene."
(Asians comprise less than 1% of the population of Mexico.)
This was awkward!
"Um...meet Pedro, from Caracas, Venezuela. I..um..invited him home, too. Harry, could we reschedule the scene for another time?"
The leatherman frowned. "Lo siento, I fly back to Veracruz tomorrow. How about if you bring Pedro home another time?"
Pedro laughed. "Oye, I've been cruising Boomer for an hour. Ya soy excitado. Feel." He grabbed Lane's hand and pushed it against his crotch. "The offer expires at midnight."
This was quite a conundrum!
"Guys, this may be estupido," Harry said, "But why can't all of us go to your apartment? Your bed is big enough, no?"
Lane and I exchanged glances. We never thought of that before!
In the guest bedroom, we tied Harry, spanked him, edged him, and "forced" him to do oral.
Then we left him tied to the bed and went to the master bedroom for more kissing, oral, and 69. Lane and I took turns going down on Pedro. Lane and I finished with 69. Finally, we went back to the guest room, where Pedro topped Harry while Lane went down on him.
It was an energetic evening, but difficult to ensure that no one was left out. We never invited two guys home at once again.
I was trying to figure out how many ethnic groups participated. Lane and I were both European Americans. Pedro and Harry were both Hispanic, but Pedro was Afro-Venezuelan, and Harry was Asian-Mexican. So is that two or four?
See also: The Silverlake Stud; Victor and His Sleazoid Daddy
