Boston Boys Club. Johnny Diaz
a gay subtropical capital and the club land on the East Coast. These days, SoBe is an international hip-hop playground with Missy Elliott and Usher considered as local royalty, and of course, JLo and Ricky “La Loca” Martin as part-time residents.
I am Cuban-American and speak Spanish (or more like butcher the español). I tell him I am a reporter for The Boston Daily, moved here a year ago to Cambridge, next to TWGU, The World’s Greatest University (Harvard, folks), and I love the Boston way of life. It goes back to my college summer internship at the Daily in Living/Arts, my first time away from home and the happiest time of my life. I found my writing voice that summer, independence from my overprotective Cuban parents, and a whole new way to live. I also figure if I stay here long enough, I may absorb some smart rays.
“I love Boston, Mikey,” I say as I break his stare by taking sips of my DCV (Diet Coke with Vodka.) “It’s one of the prettiest cities I have ever seen. Big but not too big, or overwhelming like New York City. And the seasons make time fly and make me appreciate the moments in life. I love Miami, and it will always be a part of me, but sometimes, you need change to grow.” I notice that Mikey’s eyes are completely focused on me and every word I say, even as he chugs back his Corona.
He introduces me to his friends, one of whom is named Maria, who looks like she could have been a former Mario. She seems butch with her chiseled face but she’s supersweet and gracious. Out of nowhere, though, she puts her hands in my curly hair, massaging it and feeling it and saying, “I love your curls. Ahhhh,” as if she just placed her hands in a tub of Calgon. I love it when girls (guys, too) twirl my curls with their fingers but that’s another story.
Mikey and I eventually walk over to the front lounge and sit at one of the two-seat bar tables and continue getting to know one another for the next two hours or so. He orders another Corona and I ask for another Diet Coke with Vodka. He laughs when the waiter informs us what my drink is really called. But I just can’t get those words to pass my lips. It doesn’t seem very PC and some of my biggest influences in Miami, from teachers and nurses, have been black women. Besides, many Cubans are black, too.
As we talk under the flow of a nice warm buzz, I notice, through the glass that separates the lounge from the bar, that Rico has found his hookup for the night. They are standing by the coat check, and Rico already has his hand on his new friend’s bum. I laugh to myself because Rico is such a top, meaning, he likes to ride guys with his Italian Stallion.
Rico smiles the whole time they are in line and keeps his eye and his hand on his night’s conquest, a toned guy, about twenty-three, with a crew cut of fuzzy brown hair and sea foam green eyes (at least from what I can gather across the room). He sort of looks like actor Josh Hartnett. I can tell he hangs off every one of Rico’s words, that he’s under his Italian spell. Before they disappear, Rico eyes me through the glass, waves, and winks. A few minutes later, they disappear off Columbus Avenue.
By 2 A.M., the crowd dims. The bar’s staff begins to turn on the bright lights, which feel like minisuns, blinding everyone as they adjust their eyes like Gizmo in the 1984 movie Gremlins. (I have a bad habit of announcing the year movies and songs have been released. I think it’s my OCD.)
Over the course of the last two hours, Mikey and I have talked about our families, careers, dating. I’ve been single for five years ever since I broke up with Tell-a-Lie Teddy in Miami, who was a serial liar. He swore he had a twin brother. (Lie number 1.) He swore his eyes were blue. (Lie number 2.) They were contacts. He swore he finished high school at fifteen. (Lie number 3.) He just stopped going at fifteen. And the list goes on and on almost infinitely like the math pie sign. “I’m just picky,” I tell Mikey. “I know what I want. I want to settle down but I don’t want to settle for less.”
Mikey had been engaged to different women and then realized that he liked grooms more than brides. He became the runaway groom, calling off the weddings the day of the ceremonies. He says he’s been casually dating men for the past three years but no long-term boyfriend yet.
We exit the warmth of Club Café and step into the chilly night. A crowd of guys stand outside, smoking Marlboros and Newports and trying to find a guy to hook up with at the last moment. We call this “the sidewalk sale.” Mikey and I walk past them, under a light, sprinkling snow that is beginning to make Boston look like a holiday postcard. In the distance, a row of spires from the numerous city churches jut into the skyline.
“Where did you pahk, Tommy?” and I point to Berkeley Street, where my Jeep is around the corner. As we walk, we look up and smile at each other and then do it again a few times. He’s so cute and he seems so kind. There’s something good about him. I can sense it with every Cuban bone in my body. He’s a guidance counselor, after all, so he must have a big heart and a lot of patience.
It’s 30 degrees outside but I’m not feeling it one bit. I am too warmed by Mikey’s presence. I wish we can walk the city for the rest of the night or perhaps go back to my place. But he has to get up early for school. I have an early interview with a local Santeria priest for an article about the growth of the Afro-Cuban religion in Boston’s Hispanic community. And besides, I don’t want this to be just a hookup. After a while, those tend to be empty, hollow. Mikey seems to be worth more than that.
“Tommy, I want to get your numbah,” he says as snowflakes quickly dot-dot-dot his cinnamon brown hair into white.
“Sure! Can I have yours as well?” I say as I lean my back against the door of my Jeep.
He grins. “You’re the reporter. Where’s the pen and paper?” he jokes, our faces two inches away from each other’s.
I grab a Daily pen from my Jeep and he jots down his phone number on the back of a Trident gum wrapper. His writing is very elegant, like a schoolteacher’s. I would give him an A+ for penmanship. I pull out one of my Boston Daily business cards and scribble my e-mail address, my home phone number, and my cell’s digits. I draw a smiley face underneath the number.
“Well, I’ll give ya a call, cutie,” he says in his sweet accent. “It was really nice talking to you.” He leans in to gently plop a kiss on my Strawberry Chapstick–covered lips. As he pulls back from the kiss, I tell him, “Same here, Mikey. Drive carefully, okay?” and I return another pop kiss.
We smile and lock eyes again. He then dashes to his car, a black Toyota Matrix sports wagon, across the street. We wave good-bye.
As I hop into my Jeep and drive back to Cambridge on the snow-caked Storrow Drive, my mind is on Mikey. I wonder whether he is wondering about me tonight as well.
And as I approach the desolate, snow-covered Harvard Square rotary, I’m thinking, I’ve got to e-mail Brian and tell him all the details.
Chapter 2
RICO
“Yeah, just like that. That feels hot. Whoa. Yeah.” This kid on his knees giving me a hot blowjob is sucking Oscar like a lollipop. (Yeah, my penis has a name. Anything wrong with that?) This kid’s tongue swirls all around it as we lie on my king-sized bed.
“Keep going, man,” I tell him.
Shit, I forgot his name. But who cares? I’ll just say “Hey” whenever I need to get his attention.
“Hey!” I tell him. “A little bit higher. Yeah, right there. Yeah,” as wet slurping sounds fill my bedroom.
I’m just leaning back, enjoying the ride, the up-close and personal service. These younger guys are easy to take home. Tell them how cute they are, smile, stare deeply into their eyes, and slowly start to make your move. Put your arm around them or your hand on their ass. If they let you, you’re in. You’ve hooked them. If they resist or move your hand, fuck them. They’re a tease. Time to move on. There are plenty of other guys around here. This dude was mine within twenty minutes. I don’t like to waste time.
I ditched Tommy Boy at Club Café. He didn’t seem to care. He was shooting the shit with that skinny, pretty boy with the blue eyes after I took a lap around the bar. Shit, I forgot his name, too. So Tommy’s cool. I’m probably gonna hear all the