Saturday night, my flatmates and I went to see the Yo, México show at the big plaza downtown, Zócalo. It was a show with lights, projections, fireworks, and all kinds of theatrical dancing; all combined to tell the tale of Mexico’s history, in celebration of the 100th anniversary of the Revolution. Aside from it always being nice for the brain to see people dancing in unison, the highlights were the light projections onto the buildings on three sides of the plaza. It started off with projections of forests, then woodcut-ish type ships coming over the ocean, and soon got a bit weird, with very clever projections of the buildings themselves onto the buildings. The lights were done in such a way that fake shadows were projected, and made it look like the building was crumbling, melting, the columns shifting side to side. It was pretty. And it was impressive. I seem to have totally lucked out in my timing of coming to this country. I’ve seen the celebrations of the 200th anniversary of Independence, the Day of the Dead, and all of this.
Afterwards, we went for a beer. I’ve probably mentioned before that my flatmates are gay. So, naturally, we went to a nearby gay bar called El Marrakech. Of course, as we walked towards the bar, my mind was going over things. I knew it was no big deal, but, as a heterosexual man, I did have that slight feeling that I was going to be looking behind the curtain. And it was busy. Lots of men dancing. We met a few of my flatmates’ friends, people I’d met before when they’d visited the apartment. We had some beers, chatted about this and that, and frankly, I was enjoying it. I enjoyed the music a lot. It was basically like listening to my favourite pop music really loud. The DJ was on a podium above everyone, shirtless, handcuffs hanging from his jeans, and dancing in a fairly sexually aggressive manner. And because of the anniversary, they were projecting photos of Emiliano Zapata onto one of the walls. I’d never noticed before, but suddenly, in the context of where I was, he looked quite gay with the big moustache and bullet belt. One gay bar down, and we were heading across the street to some other place that I think was called Oasis.
This place was more of a club than a bar. Twinkly lights everywhere, and a drag dude lip-syncing to a Mexican disco-y song on a tiny stage. More beers. One bald guy at the bar was eyeing me up. Another guy said hello, put his hand on my shoulder and tickled all the way down to the small of my back before I could tell him I didn’t speak Spanish. One of my flatmates looked at me and asked if I knew him. I said no, and he laughed his head off. Then the first stripper came on. Hair gel, Paris Hilton-y shades, lots of oily muscles, and a tiny lime green Speedo which could not even attempt to conceal his erection. Dancey dancey dancey until it was time for him to remove the Speedo and show us that, yes, he’d got a massive erect cock. With a cock ring. I think he must’ve oiled that up, too, because it looked like a cylindrical glazed donut.
It was time to leave. The bald guy smiled as we left. I smiled back, because, well, it’d be rude not to. We got in a cab and came to the gay area that’s quite near where we live, but halfway, the cab driver told us to get out, because he’d got a flat tyre. He didn’t charge us a penny, and as luck would have it, a bus pulled up right behind him going our way. We hopped on, and within a minute or so, the same cab driver was bombing alongside the bus trying to squeeze ahead of us before his lane disappeared. It wasn’t gonna happen, but he tried, the bus swerved a bit, but all was good. Until we got to the next set of traffic lights, when the drivers started yelling at each other. It got to the point where the bus driver got off the bus and looked like he wanted a punch up in the middle of the street. I’m fairly sure all that stopped him doing so was the honking of lots of cars that were being held up by the bus we were on, just sat there driver-less in the middle of a busy street.
Another couple of bars, one called Lollipop, with the stickiest floor I’ve ever know. It could not have been worse if they’d have washed the floor with Coca Cola every day. That bar wasn’t doing much, so we went a few doors down to Macho. (Who’d've thought it was a gay bar with a name like that, eh?) More shirtless dudes dancing here. More good music. And a guy in a cowboy hat who squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeezed his way past me in a way that, were I to do that to a woman, she’d have grounds to report me to the authorities. Again, my flatmate found it hilarious, telling his boyfriend that “Craig’s pulled a cowboy!”
I was flagging by around 4am, so I left them to it. They stayed out dancing until daylight, while I walked home, passed the burly guys handing out cards for strip clubs, and fell into bed feeling somewhat flattered to have had some attention from people “interested” in me, regardless of gender, during what can only be described as an incredibly enjoyable evening.