A Note on Clubbing

For those of you loyal readers who go as far back as my old Australia blog (that'd be none of you), this should sound familiar, and far less educational. It's supposed to.

I'd been to gay clubs in South America, in Quito and Lima. They were small, unimpressive, and entirely too similar to those in St. Louis. But Buenos Aires is different. Buenos Aires is big. The clubs are supposed to be like those in New York or Sydney, of which I've only experienced one of each. That's still almost novel to me.

Of course, one the biggest lesson I've learned in life is that the quality of the club depends on the quality of the people I'm with. Almost invariably, they're only fun if you go with and stay with friends. Luckily I had planned for this, and intended to go clubbing with old travel buddy Martin.

You know how I am about plans.

On New Years, Martin vanished on me. To this day, I have no idea what happened, except that he popped up for a moment in the same club I went to. But, I didn't need his help that night. I had a friend, a newly minted one to be sure, but someone I atleast felt comfortable with. Doug, the Brazilian from Martin's dorm room, would make sure I wansnt floundering around alone and lonely.

How could I, with my tongue down his throat? As I've mentioned, I've been perfectly celibate since leaving the United States, until that party on Christmas Eve in Ushuaia. As Martin predicted, the dam broke, and a torrent of hormones I'd been bottling up rushed forth. I hunted that boy, and later Doug, and had since the moment our eyes first met, but I didnt realized I'd been up to my old tricks until I was ready to go in for the kill. Unlike with Artie, I didnt hold back that time.

Well, with a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Years (*cough*), I felt the cycle was put to rest once again, and I could go back to my innocent traveling ways. LOL.

The next day was a waste, a day of sleeping, eating, and television (oh my!). The day after was one of relaxing and tourism. Recoleta Cemetery (Ever been down in a 150 year old crypt? Dont. It smells like powdered corpse.), the mall, the parks, a nice steak dinner, and an early end to the evening. I returned to the hostel at 8:40pm and checked my email.

"Hey Scott, meet us at Palmero Train Station at 9pm, Jan."

I arrived at 9:20, and bless their hearts, they waited there for me. The three of us went bar-hopping like we were supposed to on New Years. As we moved northwest across town, approaching the place I'd been clubbing on New Years, the bars went from dull to posh to bohemian. We finally settled on one for tapas and sangria. That's when Pete decided to pull it out on me:

"So, do you prefer birds or blokes?" The loudspeakers were playing a cover of "I'm Coming Out". But, I'm an honest man, and its not like I could claim sexual innocence on this trip anymore. Cue all the typical questions about "How do you know?" and "What do you prefer?", but they inquired with a refreshing combination of frankness, nonchalance, and British-style taking the piss.

Despite our original plan to go home around midnight (yeah, plans), the combination of sangria, politics, and sexual inquisition dragged us out to 2 before they called it a night. Finding a bus brought it to 2:30. And I was only a few blocks from reliable ole Club Amerika. A few long, tipsy, empty blocks by myself through a neighborhood of unknown report.

I'd never actually planned on going inside. Instead, I queried people on the line trying to find Fluxbar, the place Martin keeps trying and failing to go to. Perhaps he succeeded in finding it this time, since he wasn't on line tonight, but I failed to find anyone who knows it. But I wasnt tired, and its not like 50 pesos is really fatal, so I opted to go back inside.

Also on line was Doug, along with his sister and two of their friends. I strolled up and tried to start conversation, but it was clear that Doug was a textbook homosexual. You meets someone you can talk to, and immediately transmogrifies this connection, performing alchemy with the unfailing arousal to anything decent looking with all limbs (or not, a friend of mine has a one-armed boyfriend) to instant love. A few minutes of making out or a few hours of fucking, doesn't matter, the physical touch and minimum sense of connection is enough. Then the sun rises, and you can see what's happened in a harder light than the strobes of the club. It's just some schmuck you're not even that attracted to in better light, and all you want to do is get some distance between yourself and this mistake that reminds you of your arrested development. Politely, if you're kind. And God forbid they try to talk to you another day, the clingy bastard!

Of course, I knew this about him already, and thus I never tried to exchange contact info. It was just dumb luck (or a lack of creativity on both of our parts) that we crossed paths again. I walked off quickly to hit up an ATM (a 20 minute circuitous affair), and he was already mixed into the crowd inside. When I did finally run into him, barely a sentence exchanged before "I gotta find my friends". A third chance encounter upstairs, and he didn't even hide his flight.

I had already turned to go back downstairs and hit the dancefloor when the faucets opened. Foam poured unabated for 10 minutes from hidden nozzles in the ceiling. Within moments, the floor was a swimming pool, and everyone was covered head to toe in mystery foam. I refrained from joining in; I had my passport in one pocket, and my digital camera in the other. But with no desire to hit the dance floor and no one to talk to, I was left to resort to standing and staring from above, an entertaining but ultimately pathetic pasttime, a throwback to times before Australia.

Finally walking downstairs to get a drink, I was sure to make eye contact with everyone I crossed paths with. In normal day-to-day situations, this is taboo, but in a gay club, its how you judge people and assess potential (conversational or otherwise). Mostly locals here, either taken or ditzy or unable to speak English, all of which I could determine with a momentary eyelock. But one, a wallflower by himself, looked like a prospect. He was alone, available, and vulnerable. And he spoke English. The foam provided an easy line.

All my predictions were correct. What I didn't expect was that this short, skinny, waifish twink would actually be entertaining to talk to. Talking about linguistics, economics, and travel, this was more fun than just grinding. I could've sat off with him to the side and debated deep topics for hours. Instead, I leaned in even earlier than I planned to and ended all conversation.

You still reading, Mom?

What I didnt predict was the the little twink would be such a sexual dynamo. I guess it's always the unassuming ones. The boy kisses with passion, sucks lips and ears, bites, scratches, mounts, and takes any opportunity to grope. He had a real sense of fun; a relief since it meant I wouldn't have to deal with more emotional baggage tonight.

Yeah, fat chance. Rather than Jekyll-and-Hyding in an emotional shell, he becomes obesssed. Doesn't want to leave even though his friends are going. Wants to see me again even though I'm skipping town in 2 days. Wants my contact info, a cardinal no-no. And yet, I give it to him anyway, mostly because I bet he'll put out easy and be mind-blowing when he does. Not exactly noble. But worse, not only do I give him my email, I egg him on and drag out our goodbye, pulling him back into me, watching him plead to make his departure painless because he cant say no to me. To know I have this kind of power over someone, to be able to bring them to their knees (err, metaphorically) at whim, that's intoxicating. The predator inside is as dark as ever, and no brief sabbatical can change that.

Now liberated in all the wrong ways, when I finally let him go I move to the dancefloor. The floor is still a pool, and my shoes immediately become squidgy. I start to dance, awkwardly and soberly at first, but beginning to feel the music. Suddenly, the sprinklers go off. Rather than flee, I spread my arms and let the water soak in. Soak me through the shirt and through the passport pages and my camera and down into my bones. I'm liberated in all the wrong ways. I can dance until well past sunrise, without my shirt even, in a moshpit of total strangers. Pop strange pills if they're offered (dont worry Mom, they werent). Everything else be damned.

When I finally came to and crawled out myself, my first instinct was to go to McDonalds. A predator needs to feed, after all, and this is a tradition I hold fast to since my first time leaving The Beat around sunrise.

McDonalds down here, sadly, do not have hotcakes or hashbrowns. Instead, I depressedly ate an entire chocolate chip pound cake, again, while walking back to the hostel to sleep, my squidgy shoes oozing soap the whole way.

Before making the last turn, I passed a pair of men. They had rambuncious looks in their eyes, and I could see their fingers subtley playing behind one's back. They looked at me for a second, and I held a flat face while picking up my pace, pretending I didnt notice and leaving me to their privacy. I turn back a few seconds later and find they've fallen behind, huddling in a doorway, making out in public in the busy downtown. One opens an eye and looks at me again and I quickly turn around, but then I think twice about it. I flash him a clear and big thumbs-up as I walk away.

Maybe they're a devoted couple, and maybe they just met tonight and will avoid eye contact from now on. Either way, they too are liberated.