Bar gay antigua guatemala

I was 23 years old when I finally stopped lying to myself. The rain-splashed cobblestone streets of Antigua, Guatemala, shone under the scattered streetlights, the rich night air was pungent and smoky with the exhaust of the chicken buses. I was at a club called La Sala, dark and sultry with sweaty bodies.

Encounters with girls were forced and infrequent; there was no attraction, no intimacy. I never felt like a sexual being. It was an acute and intimate misery, one that I thought would last the rest of my life. The thunderbolt was insidious, slowly collecting inside my chest. That night in Antigua, I was threading my way through the crowded club towards the single restroom under the stairs.

There was a knot of well-dressed men standing a few metres away, all of them around my age. One of them was looking at me. He guatemala tall and antigua handsome, with thick dark hair swept back, and smooth, sculpted features. I smiled at him and went into the restroom. When I came out, he bar still standing there.

Stay connected, and tell a friend. I gestured up towards the terrace. We shared a cigarette on the terrace overlooking the ancient city. For the first time in my life, I wanted someone and I felt wanted in return; I had never known what that gay like.

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I felt lit up as if he and I were glowing. I remember being more aware of my body than ever before, beautifully so: aware of the muscle, the sinew, the tissue that comprised my physical form. I was transfixed by him, tongue-tied, clumsily slipping between English and Spanish. He was laughing, his hand moving further up my leg.

He took a pull off the cigarette and passed it back to me. I slowly, ever so cautiously, allowed myself to believe that maybe, maybe this was it. Suddenly, one of his friends approached him, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. What happened? Where is he? Why did you leave him?

Guatemala City was 50 kilometres away, through the mountains.