Gay Puerto Rico in the Seventies
During the 1970s I used to visit Puerto Rico quite often. I usually stayed in the downtown area near the Condado Strip, but I had a chance during my travels to eventually visit almost all of this wonderful island. The people are wonderful, there are accommodations for every size wallet and the beauty of the land and the people is everywhere. Oh, you want to know about gay life there. Well, yes, there's plenty of it. By now, you know that I generally hang out on the outskirts of the gay scene so maybe I am not the best one to ask about the extreme gay scene there or anywhere, but I can tell you there are many gay bars of all types, and at the time of my visits there even was a small bath in Old San Juan.
Gay life in the seventies in Puerto Rico was more subdued than in New York. In NY, as in many US cities, the sexual revolution was in full swing. But Puerto Ricans at the time were still quite conservative in their social views, and gay life remained somewhat undercover. Gay bars were frequently unmarked, and it would be necessary to approximate their location from an address or guidebook directions. But I found them.
Being dark and small of stature I felt that I fit right in. At a small bar in Old San Juan, a friendly bartender introduced me to a young American who was friendly but very mysterious, and quite ambiguous about what he was doing in Puerto Rico. Later in the evening he finally revealed the reason for his lack of candor. It turned out that he was spooked because he was a US sailor, and was very nervous about being exposed as gay in the US military. Realizing eventually that his secret was safe with me, he offered to give me a tour of a few of the other gay bars in the area. We tried one that he described as wild, but it was still closed, since it was apparently an after-hours place. From there we went into an unmarked building that looked like a private residence, up a flight of stairs, and were confronted by a pair of women who were very hesitant to allow us admittance. They were a lesbian couple from Cuba and anti-American in their views, but they made an exception when we mentioned the name of the bartender from the first bar where we had met. There was dancing and drinking and laughing at this place, and it was interesting that unlike most gay bars I had been to, my sailor friend and I were the only two people speaking English. Even in foreign countries there is usually a contingent of English speaking tourists at these places. My sailor friend, (whose name I forget,) and I slow danced blissfully rubbing crotches and grabbing ass cheeks. I had a magnificent hard-on, and was thoroughly enjoying the pleasure-pain of it being confined at an awkward angle in my pants as I pressed it against the sailor's equally hard dick. Suddenly without warning, my new friend abruptly excused himself to go to the men's room. A few minutes later he came back looking pale and uncomfortable; he said that he had had too much to drink and needed some fresh air. He bolted down the stairs and although I went to look for him a few minutes later, I never saw him again.
So I departed little Cuba, and returned to the bar that had been closed earlier. It was now open, although not yet in full swing. This place was sleazy with a capital s. Skinny go-go boys who looked like they were drunk or strung out, danced in bathing suits on little platforms. Plenty of American tourists here, mostly older, mostly looking for rent boys. Next to me a heavy red-faced older American petted the crotch of a slim young dark boy who wore no shirt, had his eyes closed, and was resting his head on the older man's shoulder. I cruised around, and found a back room that was black as night and scary as the lowest circle of hell. Fascinated, I hung out by the entranceway for several minutes, but dared not enter. A few half dressed guys stumbled out, and occasionally a sex sound could be heard. But the scene was too intense for my taste. So I decided to call it a night.
Some gay bars in Puerto Rico cater to a much more refined group of men. There was one, I recall, that I visited many times, which was on the main street of the downtown area. It was located in a high rent district, and there was a small discreet sign on the door (Ten Twenty) referring to a street address but no other identification. I sensed that it might be a gay bar, and entered one afternoon, finding a large number of well dressed Puerto Rican men and a few tourists sitting around an elegant piano bar. A singer tinkled the ivories and crooned some of the quiet favorites of the day, the drinks and snacks were top drawer and it was a delightful find in the center of the city. There, on subsequent visits, I met several married Puerto Rican men who went there for cocktail hour often, some of them daily, and knew each other well. I had a flirtation or two with a few of the regulars but never left with anyone.
A few streets away, however, there was another bar that I believe was owned by the same gay couple, that was quite different in ambiance. The second place, called something like The Little Parrot, was more garishly decorated, and had several separate rooms. There was a general bar area, a small mirrored room for dancing, an outdoor patio for drinking and romancing, and a back room for fucking and sucking. Late at night gay fuck films would be shown in the main bar area. It was quite a novelty at the time, since this was before gay porn videos became ubiquitous. Gay x rated films were shown in New York, but only in movie theaters, not in bars, in my experience. There was a large contingent of young Puerto Rican hustlers who gathered each night, and an ever changing group of foreign, mostly American, tourists to court them. At this bar I saw a film of a large dog fucking a guy as I sipped on a most delicious rum punch.
I checked out all parts of this bar, including the back room. Yuck ! I started that late afternoon chatting with the bartender, an older friendly stateside American, when a pair of elaborately dressed drag queens swept in. They chatted and preened at the bar, and then disappeared. The bartender explained to me that they had gone to check out the back room. This piqued my curiosity, and so when I returned later that evening, I decided to go check it out myself. Big mistake. In this small dark enclosed space were perhaps ten or twelve sweating, rutting bodies. The walls were covered with carpeting and the place smelled worse than any place I had ever, or have ever since, been. I guess there was an accumulation of dried cum and who knows what else, from months or years on the floors, carpeted walls, everywhere. Holding my breath I penetrated into the bowels of the room, determined to have this experience that I had heard so much about. I was soon grabbed by a hand, unzipped and my dick was taken out. I moved away after a minute because I thought that an unseen mouth might swallow it. But no, instead I felt a bare skinny backside pressing against my exposed cock. Arms reached back to caress me and the distinctive accented voice of one of the bar regulars spoke to me. I recognized the voice of Lucy, his gay name, a young effeminate Puerto Rican sometimes-hustler, who appeared to be slightly mentally challenged. He begged me to fuck him, but I had had enough of this experience and I was out of there.
On one other occasion I stopped by The Little Parrot to end the evening and met a cute blond guy from Long Island who was visiting Puerto Rico with his brother and sister in law.
We chatted amiably for several minutes and then he took me by surprise by asking,
"Do you want to come back to my room?".
Maybe I have never felt secure enough about my appearance, but even so, it always takes me aback to have someone that I regard as much more attractive than I, come on to me.
"I'll let you know after this drink," I replied.
(Hmm, what is the story with this guy? He's been here all night, and hasn't connected and I just get here for a nightcap and he's inviting me up to his room? Something not right. Maybe this is a trap of some kind. Hey, Tony, relax. This is a nice Jewish boy from Long Island. You even compared notes about the Long Island Railroad and what a drag it is to commute, etc.)
After due consideration, "Um, okay. Let's go."
It was a short walk to his hotel. One of the grander hotels on Avenida Ashford. Hey, great room. Overlooking the ocean. Fabulous view. Look at those waves.
"Uh, you gotta be quiet. My brother and his wife are next door. I don't want them to know that I brought anybody back to my room. So keep it down, okay?"
"Sure," (whispered), "come on over here."
I start to unbutton his shirt.
"I like to undress each other. Do you like that?"
"Uh, yeah, ok." He takes off my shirt. I work on his pants, and he follows suit.
We kiss. I hug and caress him and we move to the bed.
He lies back, and rests his head on a pillow and closes his eyes.
I run my hands all over his body. We kiss again. I go down on him. He sighs.
"Ohhh, yesss."
I suck for awhile. He has a nice medium sized cut cock. The skin tone is light, and there is light brown hair surrounding his dick. He has a little hair on his chest but nowhere else. The hair on his head is blond and cut short. I move next to him and massage his nipples, and then suck and bite them a little. I lie back and wait for my blowjob.
Nothing.
I move my body around in a sixty nine position and shove my cock in his face.
"I don't suck," he announces.
(Oh, great. I finally weaken and go home with somebody and he turns out to be the one gay guy in a million who doesn't suck. Well, Tony, it serves you right. You fell for a pretty face. It all makes more sense now. Why do you think this nice looking young guy picked up an older, conservative businessman at 2 o'clock in the morning in a gay bar? Clearly because he expected a safe efficient blowjob without reciprocation. He figured I would be happy to suck him off, and not expect anything in return. Well, you know what? Fuck him. He doesn't suck? Then, neither will I.)
He takes my prick in his hand and begins to give me a handjob. I do the same for him. We continue this way without speaking for a while. It feels okay, but I am pissed. He gets up and goes to the bathroom. He returns with a towel and puts it on the bed next to us.
"I want to be sure we don't mess up the bed," he whispers. "Try to come on the towel."
(Terrific. Now we not only have to worry about his brother and sister-in-law next door, we have to be concerned about what the maid will think too.)
I begin to see the humor in the situation, and lighten up. I try to focus on the positive aspects of the scene. Here I am in bed with a nice looking guy who is extremely careful (like me) and a little neurotic (like me) and he is playing with my dick and is about to make me come, while I stroke his pretty cock and squeeze his ass. So what's so bad? So he doesn't want to suck you. So what? You've refused to suck hundreds of nice guys. Don't take it so personally.
I smile at him and complement his body.
He smiles back, and says: "Kiss me and make me come."
We deep kiss, and I pick up the pace of my stroking. He does the same. Soon we are neatly splattering our juices on the towel placed there for that purpose.
"See you on the Long Island Railroad," I say as I open the door to leave.
"Okay," he whispers, "I'll look out for you."
I quietly slip into the hall, careful not to disturb brother.