guys pole-dance á la Britney or the Pussycat Dolls. They look too boyish to be legally working. Maybe a story for the Daily’s Metro section?
I agreed to come here with Carlos because I wanted to show him another part of Boston, well, Cambridge, since the bar is on this side of the Charles River. Carlos is the newest addition to my crew of friends in Boston. I still have Rico to hang out with, but he’s been too busy with his sailor boyfriend and competing in the gay football league. That’s left some room to befriend Carlos, who is extremely nice but a little bit needy at times. When I met him at Club Café, we couldn’t stop talking. He reminded me so much of myself when I moved here from Miami. Carlos was lonely and adjusting to his new surroundings and trying to make sense of a city filled with icy stares from native Bostonians. But there’s one major difference between us. I still have my parents (who call me every night on cue). Carlos lost his mom to cancer. Out of the goodness of my heart, I decided to show him around The Hub. We became instant friends, as if we’ve known each other for years. There was a familiarity there. It never ceases to amaze me how at home I feel with a stranger when I learn that he is Cuban. We’re like instant oatmeal. Just add water or, in Carlos’s case, a Cuba Libre, and you get something that warms your tummy. Cuban comfort.
Carlos is your typical Cuban poster boy. He punctuates his speech with whiney Ay, Cuba or Ay, mi tierra and Spanglish phrases. Carlos is proud of his roots, even more so than I am, but I have always felt more American than Cuban after growing up in mainly Jewish Miami Beach. (I speak Spanish with an American accent.) With Carlos, it’s the other way around. He feels more Cuban due to his American upbringing and speaks with a true-to-Miami thick accent in both English and Spanish.
I remember what it was like to be a newcomer to Boston, so I couldn’t help but want to show Carlos that Boston is a great place to be, no matter where you are from. I found a good friend in Carlos, and that’s why I’m here, showing him something new even though it’s an old and tired place called Paradise. Wait, was that Antonio from Club Café standing in the corner? Nah, a look-alike. Whew.
I direct Carlos to the dance floor located in the basement. We squeeze through a musky herd of guys as we descend the dark steps to nowhere.
“Guao, there are so many guys here,” Carlos says, his brown eyes lighting up as much as they can in this sub-level dance arena.
“Where? I can’t see a thing. I left my glasses in the Jeep, so everything looks slightly fuzzy.” All I can see is Carlos’s eyes glowing from our new adventure tonight.
We head to the one-man bar in the front of the dance floor, where a gay Boston Benetton ad unfolds before us. Guys are crunking, gyrating, jumping, their bodies jerking to the left and sashaying to the right like wind-up dolls. Carlos and I grab our drinks. I ordered vodka and Diet Coke, my favorite. Carlos asked for a Cuba Libre. We clink our cheap imitation plastic glasses and take big sips.
“To Beantown Cubans,” we declare, using our new catch-phrase and taking swigs from our drinks. We lean against the bar and watch the parade of men stream by. Carlos nods my way to point out a cute guy he sees.
“Not really my type,” I say, eyeing the lean, tall, and tanned Brazilian guy with the green and yellow tight-fitting jersey and baggy blue jeans that seem to defy Cambridge gravity.
“I want to play some fútbol,” Carlos jokes.
“Well, go and be his Tom Brady! Have fun. Say hi or oi to that guy. I’m sure he can teach you a thing or two about Brazilian soccer.”
“Ha! You sure? I don’t want to leave you here by yourself,” Carlos says while eyeing the guy who is now dancing a few feet from us and staring at Carlos with seductive hazel eyes. Upon closer inspection, the guy is not bad on the eyes now that I can see him more clearly. (I need to order contacts for my night outings.) I feel like a dork wearing glasses outside of work or driving. Luckily, I am only slightly near-sighted. At work, I’m the Cuban Clark Kent with my reading glasses on.
“Don’t worry about me. I like to watch. I’m a news observer. I may get a story idea just by standing here. You never know. So go and have fun. This night was about getting you out and meeting new guys and having fun. Now go!”
Carlos grins, takes another sip, and power walks to the dance floor where Mr. Brazil awaits. I watch Carlos introduce himself, and Cuba and Brazil begin a steamy dance. At first, Carlos moves slowly and shyly as if unsure that he really wants to do this. But then he relaxes, and they start moving in sync. Every now and then, he looks my way, making faces or cocking one of his thin, dark brown eyebrows. When he mouths to me “He’s so hot!” I can’t help but laugh. Carlos has found dance heaven in Paradise.
I stand alone here surrounded by the darkness of the bar. No one from Club Café has spotted me, which is a good thing. I lean against the bar counter, which curves like the letter “c.” I enjoy watching the guys dance with boundless energy. I can tell most are single, lonely souls reeling from a break-up or wishing they had a boyfriend at home so they wouldn’t have to be out tonight. They’re here to make some of these solitary nights seem less lonely by being in a club that serves as an unofficial brotherhood of broken hearts. I know the feeling too well.
A built black guy with a red tight-fitting tank top and snug blue jeans eyes a thin Asian guy with tanned arms and a toned bum. A few minutes later, their lips brush softly together as their bodies remain entwined on the dance floor. Their kisses grow stronger and more sealed.
My mind alternates between past and present. I remember what it was like kissing Mikey. The sweetness his eyes radiated, which was eclipsed by his sweet gestures. Last year, he bought me my first Red Sox cap and welcomed me to Red Sox Nation. I wasn’t even a baseball fan, but it was the thought that counted. I remember how he helped me buy my first winter coat at The Gap at Copley Place. Then there was our road trip to Providence, where we clumsily lost my Jeep in the concrete parking maze at Providence Place mall.
A gargantuan man with a drink in his hand stumbles into me, interrupting my trek down memory lane.
“Sorry, dude,” he slurs in a Boston accent. He continues stumbling all the way to the dimly lit bathroom.
Two drinks and an hour or so later, I’m still standing at the bar, where I have a front-row seat to everyone else having fun. The alcohol numbs my senses and my cloaked loneliness. To my surprise, Carlos and Mr. Brazil lip-lock, swaying to the swirling beats. Carlos stumbles a bit trying to keep up with the man whose hips swivel faster than Shakira’s. Carlos finally takes a break from dancing and returns to the bar, leaving his friend dancing solo for the moment.
“So what’s the story?” I ask Carlos.
“He’s so guapo! His name is Marcello. He’s a waiter in town. He speaks a little Spanish but more English. We talked for a bit on the dance floor. He has this sexy Brazilian accent. He lives in East Cambridge, not far from here.” Carlos’s eyes widen like two saucers.
“So hit it! Teach him something new, give him a Spanish lesson,” I say. Carlos laughs at my suggestion. He stands to my right and orders another drink.
“We’re going to get pizza after this drink. Wanna come? That way you can tell me what you really think of him? I trust your judgment.”
“Nah, you guys go on ahead. You should be talking one-on-one. You don’t need a nosy reporter there asking him a hundred questions. Seriously. Have fun with him and be careful.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to feel like I’m ditching you, Tommy. While I was dancing, I noticed you seem a little sad.” Carlos places his free hand on the curve of my right shoulder.
“I’m cool. Sometimes when I drink, I get sad. It’s the alcohol. It’s supposed to do that. It makes me giddy and hyper, but then it brings me down. Don’t worry about me. I think I’m going to head on home. I’m a little tired. I had a long week at the Daily. I wrote two stories this week, one on how Brazilians don’t feel like they fit in among Boston Latinos. My other story focuses on a daytime soap opera actress who wrote a book about being raised in Boston with various foster moms. So I’m beat.”
“You