Baja, Mexico: Cabo (Day 11: 12/31, Wednesday)

New Year's Eve in Cabo.

Another breakfast at Spencer's, con chorizo...yeah, I'm noticing a trend, too.

Another day at the beach. It's finally warm enough to brave the waters, and I manage to snorkel twice, until, of course, I've psyched myself out thinking about bull sharks, which can range in waters shallower than where I'm swimming.

Paranoid?

Oh, yes.

Eric and I beg off spending the midnight hour at Rick's, wary of driving back the already treacherous Corridor after everyone's been engaging in debauchery. We return to Cabo for an early dinner at El Pescador, and we both have the lobster special; Eric with the steak, and I, the scallops, which turn out to be rubbery, pencil-eraser looking things, minus the mouthwatering pink color.

Evening takes us to Las Jarras again, where I'm asked if I'm a "mujer mujer," a woman woman. Presumably, this means he thinks I may be a tranny. [grin]

I answer him in the affirmative, and he gesticulates at me, asking whether he can substantiate my response by seeing my secondary sexual characteristics. I try to dodge the question by telling him, "you first," then hustle on out of there.

The last night we'd been at Las Jarras, I'd been approached by one of the bar employees (this while Eric was disappeared).

...
"Eres una les?" (Are you a lesbian?)

"No." But sometimes wish I were.

"Te gusta/te gusto/whatever." (Some variation of "I like you." I think.)

"Okay." Am I supposed to do something with this information?

"Something something (Can you give me/Can I have) un besito?" (A kiss.)

"Um, no." I would, and would probably fuck you in the bathroom if 1) I didn't feel like my travel companion has ditched me, and 2) you had a condom.)
...

He was a cutie, and I'd lamented my decision to dismiss the occasion on account of not knowing Eric's whereabouts that evening and feeling like I was maybe going to have to either die destitute in Mexico or have to fund my return to the States through dishwashing and whoring.

So tonight, I consider boning the waiter, but alas, I think, "I've been celibate for so long. Why fuck up a good thing?"

(Actually, it's more along the lines of, "it's been so long, I've forgotten how.")

At any rate, I take another breather outside, and there's the "mujer mujer" guy again, this time with his cell phone, which he thrusts in my face. Lo and behold, it's a picture of his dick, in living color, and great resolution (cell phone cameras are really quite advanced these days).

It's somewhat heinous, and, not having photographed my genitalia myself, I'm a little disturbed by the angle of the photo, in addition to the strange trapezoidal-quality of his junk.

I give a little a shriek, and flee--since neither the penis nor its possessor was particularly prepossessing--and so ended my 2008.