Baja, Mexico: Cabo (Day 7: 12/27, Saturday, 2 of 2)

The evening's spent chasing elusive (and we find out later, shuttered) gay bars: Rainbow Room and the Hangover.

Traipsing around town, up and down dark alleys, in and around tourist hordes, past restaurant promoters and "street merchants" peddling their soft and hard drugs, I'm hating on Cabo.

Cabo's a horror show.

Cabo is for spring breakers and ugly Americans in cargo pants and polo shirts, bleached blonds and black polyester and that particular kind of ugly orange that some white people get when they're too tan.

Cabo's for club-crawling, and saying yes to overpriced merchandise in brightly-lit storefronts on the strip; yes to muttered proffers of ganj and coke and what have you, yes to Cialis and yes to hillibilly heroin.

Part of it is my already dimmed mood, I'm sure, but I can't imagine enjoying, even on a good day, this Cancun 4 Grown-ups.

But I've been feeling guilty that Eric hasn't gotten laid on this trip--can it be that I'm not only my own best cockblocker, but for others as well?--so it's chin up and legs in the air, metaphorically speaking.

An hour or more, trudging the strip, the empty back alleys, rear entrances of hotels, looking for a gay bar, which, as it turns out, is actually the gay bar because, apparently, a provincial, isolated town the size of Cabo can only support one watering hole for homosexuals? I funno.

My feet are tired from flip flopping up and down dark streets, but my impeccable and implacable sense of duty (to Eric's sexual gratification) keeps me going, and it's only until Eric tires that we turn back to the hotel. Let's get the car, I offer, and give it another shot.

And there it is. We've given up, and there it is: a mere five blocks from our hotel. Goddamnit.

Las Jarras, yes, the same name as the one in La Paz (is it a chain of Mexican gay bars? Like Blimpies?). Chagrined, we get up in there, and try to make up for lost time. I have whatever Eric's ordering at the bar, and I dunno what it is about dudes and their need, regardless of who they prefer to sex (hehe), to get me fucked up.

One thing leads to another, and we strike up a friendship with a London transplant to SF, Paul, who's there with Omar, who fills me with chills of apprehension in his pathetic and frenzied attempts to be sexy by rolling the "r" in his name. O-marrrrrrr, he says, swaying ever closer.

Drunkeness. Time telescopes. We step outside for cigarettes and a breath of fresh air (yeah, yeah, ironic), when I experience the luxury of my first time being gay-bashed. A pick-up lurches past the bar and someone throws a full can of beer at us, shouting, "Maricones" (faggots). I'm lucky enough to be in the line of fire and am drenched. Fortunately, I'm just wearing a teeny tunic over my bikini, and all I do is shrug it down to my waist.

This, apparently, is Miguel's "in." He's been eying Eric, and smooths on over with inquiries about my state of semi-nudity. Conversation ensues.

More time passing.

Eric's made a new friend, and Paul's using me to get away from his "little pet" (Omar), so I'm bopping on the stage with Paul and couples that are feeling sexy (even if they're not).

On another break, I go out to find Eric's disappeared.

Which is unfortunate.

Because he has my ID.

My money.

The keys to the hotel.

And.

I have no idea what hotel we're staying at.

Which is great.

Being in a country where you kind of don't speak the language that well. Not having any identification. Or any idea where you are staying.

I return to Paul and relate my state of affairs, and he promises me a place at his bungalow should Eric fail to appear.

I'm fucked, I think to myself. Fucked.