The lesbian was scaring the straights. Terrifying us, actually. While her name completely escapes me, her vivacious form, inadequately sheathed in a skin-hugging black dress just didn’t seem to leave my head very easily. The blonde lesbian spoke almost perfect English but I wasn’t sure that was a good thing. The way she trilled her ‘r’s, with one eyebrow raised while doing absolutely nothing to detract attention away from reckless cleavage was driving me and the only other interested party up the fucking wall.
Other than the usually attractive Puerto Rican women on the periphery, I wasn’t expecting to have my fancy, er, tickled, two feet from my face on that late June night, especially since the night was not about me, nor my lustful wanderings. No, the real purpose of the evening’s outing was a mutual wooing between Pou and Joe. I was 100% of Pou’s entourage (200% if going by my medical charts) and mostly, I was there to fill the storied “wing-man” role. The slight twist this time around (as I have played this role many times before) was the opposite orientation of the pilot.
My years in the Washington, DC bubble had provided plenty of instances of mixed crowds, where sexual orientation was as mundane a descriptor as hair color. Whether someone was gay or straight was largely irrelevant in large groups because there was a high probability that every circle contained differing proportions of those who enjoyed musicals and those who didn’t, as it had been put to me once. Still, there was rarely ever a question of team affiliation. Everyone wore their jerseys, prominently.
At Divino Bocadito, a Spanish-themed bar/restaurant in the rhythmic heart of old San Juan, it was admittedly hard to distinguish who was home and who was visiting. Several of San Juan’s young and most attractive yuppie males gathered around small tables to form a bloc in the middle of the restaurant. They were all well dressed and sociable, yet as far from flamboyant as one could saunter away from.
Of the entire clique, Pou was hot-to-trot for a certain Joe, a man who worked for a childhood friend of his. At the epicenter of the whole group, Joe’s short, stocky frame fit very well with a stoic, leader-like face unwilling to give an easy smile. It was in sharp contrast to Pou’s usually large grin, similar to the one he was sporting earlier in the afternoon when Joe called and asked Pou to join him and one of his clients for drinks. Pou insisted I go with him, despite my refusal to tag along with him on his date, and insisted even more on the outing not being a “date”. I think we were both surprised when the “date” turned into a gaggle.
I remember there was Benny and his older, straight, brother, Julio, followed by names and faces blurred by time and wine. And what wine it was. Culled from the vineyards of Spain’s famed Rioja region, we drank inexhaustibly from the bottles sold exclusively to Divino Bocadito, courtesy of Joe’s expense account. By bottle three, everyone at the table was loose and sociable.
While the older patrons in the restaurant gracefully danced the classic Sevillanas behind us, everyone at our tables began the dance of introduction. For the most part, Joe and his friends were affable people and a fair number were willing to utilize some of their limited English to engage me in conversation. The men in the group were friendlier than the two or three women who eventually joined us. The stuck-up senioritas kept to themselves while straining under the weight of gaudy jewelry.
The small establishment was a well-decorated homage to the Spanish old country. Drapes hung dramatically from walls and ceilings while the room bled russet and ochre tones. The low lighting provided the appropriate atmosphere for relaxed, casual non-dates. By wine bottle eleven – including a couple just for me – I was sitting with old friends. Yet, like the straight male probe of women to determine availability, a bald antique dealer in the group who resembled Seal’s long-lost white cousin, kept asking me what kind of clubs I was into.
On the way to Baru, we had managed to co-opt more people into our roving band and once we sat down in the virtually empty bar, we made sure to co-opt more wine and an assortment of beer bottles, as well. Baru was on one of the main strips of the old town and had an interior that looked like an Easter egg haphazardly dipped in blue dye. Pou and Joe were getting closer physically and the group condensed itself into less booth space. It was a far cry from the stiff, business-like greeting the initial handshake between Joe and Pou implied. The bar’s sparseness lent a subversive air to the outing as if, finally, everyone could be themselves.
It was in such an environment – and with such bottomless glasses – where team logos began to reveal themselves. Specifically, on my lower left leg, which is where a member of the group possessing a high enough number on the sleaze scale, felt compelled to rub my shin under the table a few times while talking to someone in the opposite direction. I was at once repulsed and disappointed. He disgusted me but at the same time I was annoyed at who I attracted. After I saw him do that to pretty much everyone at the table, it was hard to be sore at him. I suppose you can’t blame a guy – gay or straight – for trying.
An observation I couldn’t help but notice that evening was that even though the alcohol was flowing freely and the group was at a comfort level accessible to all of its members, there was a strange feeling of reserve that I wouldn’t have seen in DC. It would have been quite the opposite, really. Innuendo amongst the group was rampant and provocative moves were happening under the table, figuratively and literally. Yes, after about an hour our waiter blended into the group and it was wholly obvious where his affiliations lie and, yes, the physical space between Pou and Joe had turned to nil. Regardless, there was certainly not going to be any public displays of affection or any blatant touching, not even between Joe and Pou, the centerpiece of our outing.
Luckily for Julio and I, the blonde lesbian provided more than enough of a distraction for the small bastion of heterosexuality we represented. She would have been classified as a “lipstick lesbian,” although we certainly weren’t paying any attention to her cosmetic preferences. She was engulfed in the arms of Inabel, a woman she had met that evening and together, they were redefining displays of affection. The caressing; the touching; the kissing. Their public performance was not only driving us straights into uncharted realms of frustration, but it reinforced a classic double standard.
I was reminded of how Puerto Rico, although a key parcel of the United States’ global land collection, and probably more closely in line with the mainland than, say, Guam or the Marshall Islands, is still just as much, in Latin America as affiliated with North America. The traditionally religious, conservative line still holds sway over social attitudes and customs. What Puerto Ricans as a society think about sexuality is definitely in line with certain parts of the mainland, too, though. Or maybe it’s just male sexuality?
Regardless, the night went exceptionally well for Pou and Joe, who bid each other a temporary farewell after a couple more bar-hops. Pou seemed content, regardless of my mediocre wing-manning. As per usual, few things scream alcohol absorption better than greasy eggs and pancakes at the neighborhood IHOP, which is exactly where we ended up. While battling to keep from falling south into my Western omelet, I looked around at the surrounding booths filled with affectionate straight couples, freely groping each other at will and wondered if Pou felt something about the evening with Joe was missing. Just then his phone rang. It was Joe. Pou smiled wider than I’d yet seen.
