Yesterday, I checked out a new café called D’Fever. It’s owned and managed by a very sweet guy from San Diego named Jim.
D’Fever has excellent coffee and a large covered patio that catches the few balmy breezes from the ocean. Free Wifi with any purchase. Jim told me he is planning on converting the indoor section to a bar/lounge with drink specials and disco tunes during the evenings.
I intended on getting some writing done when I got there but instead, chatted with Jim for a couple of hours. That’s how it goes in these beach resorts—people are so laid-back and friendly that one can’t help but perfect the art of conversation.
Lothar agrees. (owner of Lothar’s Inn where I’m staying)
Lothar smoked a cigarette up on his rooftop terrace as we both admired the marvelous fiery orange sunset.
“Sometimes it takes me three hours to get home as I make my way down the street. You just get into these conversations and lose track of time.”
Vallarta has so many things going for it—the climate, the beach, cleanliness, safety, and the modernity of a beach resort combined with a small town vibe. But it’s really the local residents who live here year round that make this place fun. Perhaps it’s the West Coast influence but this New Yorker is slowly learning the art of hanging out with no particular agenda.
Now if only I could get some writing done…
Last night, I met my friend Luis at Apaches, a lesbian-owned bar. Saw some familiar male faces. I really didn’t care for my Margarita-on-the-rocks. It was way too strong so I had to water it down with ice cubes.
After trading some barbs in Spanish with the boys, Luis and I went to Frida’s a local bar about 5 blocks away with several b/w portraits of Frida Kahlo and her artwork filling the walls. We both had a beer. Lothar and Daniel were holding court with some friends of theirs. As I sat down, I said in exasperation:
“Donde están las mujeres?!” And some large woman yelled behind me, “Right here!”
I thought the woman who had responded was the owner but it turned out she was the bartender, Blanca. She immediately went behind the bar and started serving drinks.
The moment it seems since I first arrived, I’ve been asking all my new gay male friends, “Where are the women, where are the women?”
And all the kindly gay men keep insisting that there are plenty of women here—and the few I do see, here and there, are in couples. Oh well. Been bonding with my gay brothers and I just let them go on and on insisting. Yes, there are ALL these lesbian bars, uh huh, right over the bridge there or up in the steep streets back there before you cross the river or there’s this one very nice lesbian journalist at that newspaper or this REALLY nice one working in that restaurant on the oceanfront, or a really cute, really available one out there on that island only a 45 minute ride from the mainland, but to my eyes, the ratio of women to men, the gay women here are far outnumbered. If you are a gay man though, you’ve got it made. How predictable.
Club Mañana is a gay disco owned by a former New Yorker according to my sources on the street. It’s a spacious and cavernous place replete with swimming pool and a neon light show against a cascading waterfall. There are two stages—one outside for drag shows and one inside for male strippers.
I witnessed both shows one Friday at midnight. When I first arrived, the wait staff outnumbered the customers and someone kept coming up to me and asking, “Quieres algo? Quieres algo?” I ordered a coke to stay awake.
Then, the outside customers were whisked into an indoor space where a small stage housed the incoming male strippers. It was a hoot. I saw men dressed in military garb strip down to their skivvies and boots. Some intrepid strippers jumped on a wide railing and did their bump and grind in front of the few women who sat closest to the stage. One Asian woman had a birds-eye view of all the male strippers crotches—hard to tell if she was thrilled or horrified or both. She kept turning her head to the side and laughing. To Mañana’s credit, there were definitely more women milling around that night which brought the grand total to about 12 in a club that could hold more than a hundred men easily.
I was not spared from the male stripper grind mania. One dude ground his crotch into my right thigh. I rolled my eyes and gave him 10 pesos and he promptly moved on.
My male pal Luis asked if I got turned on.
“No, not exactly.” I said.
“So what did you think?” he asked.
“His peepee felt like a warm sock.” He rolled his head and roared.
We went outside near the stage to disco dance. It felt good to dance and watch the light show against the waterfall. Mañana had an excellent sound system and if it weren’t so muggy and humid, I probably could have stayed dancing until 4 a.m.
We were treated to another performance by a drag queen named Diva who looks like a Mexican version of Bette Midler. She had a certain charisma when she sang and sashayed her wide shoulders to the Latin music.
Lastly, two black men had entered the club. One was tall. He sported short dredlocks and he was quite fit and urban-looking. The other was lighter skin and had a backward baseball cap on and looked like he had just come from the beach. I had pointed them out to Luis and said,
“I bet they’re from New York.” Luis promptly went up to them to find out.
“Hi! What is your name?” Luis asked, his eyes all wide-open behind his Givency eyeglasses and black tank top. (My friend Luis at 53, is a short man with graying hair, very ebullient and friendly and not afraid to approach anyone.)
The tall, good-looking black guy turns around slowly raising his eyebrows and replies,
“Christopher.” His tone drips with—AND who wants to know?
“Are you from New York?” I chime in with a big smile on my face.
“Yes.” A smile begins to creep across his face.
“So am I….My name is Margarita, nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too, Margarita…” So we chat about his stay in Vallarta. He tells me how much he loves Vallarta and how he has met so many people at the Hotel Mercurio where he is staying. But then he laments about how everyone stares at him because he is dark-skinned.
“Yeah, they are not used to seeing African Americans here. There are just not a lot of black people in Mexico.” But I quickly add:
“I pointed you out to my friend Luis here and said, ‘That’s the best looking man here tonight, no joke.”
“Oh, thank you.” Then I asked him my invariable question.
“Do you know where the lesbian bars are?”
“Oh I have seen a lot of lesbians…”
I’m like, “Where?!”
“Oh honey, I did my homework before I came here, I’ll tell you in a second.” He told me about Garbo’s which I had seen last Sunday and I corrected him.
“I think that is a high-end jazz club with a cover.”
“Oh, no, it’s definitely a lesbian bar, uh-huh. Garbo’s, you should go check it out later. How long are you staying?”
“Oh maybe another month or so.”
“Really? Oh, that is long. I like it here, don’t get me wrong, but we’re going back on Tuesday and I don’t mind one bit. We keep seeing the same block, you know, and it gets a little tired. There is only so much to do around here.”
I told Christopher that he should take a short day trip around the area to get to know a little more of the surrounding area…
“Don’t just stick yourself in the gay ghetto…”
It was nice to talk to some New Yorkers. Then a short gay Mexican guy tells me,
“Hey cool, what choo name?” and I told him…Margarita. from New York….but he dispensed with my name altogether.
“Cool. Nu Chork…Cool!” Who the heck knows what is going through these gay male cabezas? Stay tuned.
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