I’m walking through the lobby of a resort hotel in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico wearing a black hooded cape, a black feathered mask, and my underwear.
No, I was not kidnapped by Mexican Drug Lords, dumped on a highway without my clothes when no one would cough up a ransom, and forced to steal a costume leftover from a Dia de los Muertos pageant to cover myself.
I’m just headed to the Mardi Gras party on the second night of Atlantis Resort’s takeover of the Vallarta Palace Resort for what I think can best be described as a week of Gay Summer Camp in November.
Or Gay Club Med for the middle-aged (and those approaching it.) There are 600 gay men here; the hotel is completely sold out. I would guess the median age is somewhere in the 40′s. I think the majority are actually couples. More than 400 are repeat offenders, having done this week before, including my friend Anthony with whom I’ve come.
Like Club Med, the resort is “all-inclusive” — you pay for the week, a nonremovable bracelet is clamped to your wrist (sorry, but I also got one of these in each of the three surgeries I had in the past several years), and all your food and drinks are free from the moment you walk through the front door until the moment you leave. (This was decidedly not the case at St. Roosevelt’s or the Hospital for Special Surgeries, although it certainly would have improved my experience of both. Though I can imagine developing a dependence on general anesthesia, if it were constantly available and free. I don’t know where I am when I’m under it, but it must be good, because I always feel a bit disappointed when I come out of it.)
It’s a bit dangerous, this unfettered access to food and especially to drink. To borrow an expression from a former boss of mine, you can’t swing a dead cat in this hotel without hitting a Mexican carrying a tray of drinks. On the afternoon of the first day I realize that pacing is the key to survival.
Atlantis is probably the premier gay travel company by participating headcount per annum. Most of its trips are cruises, which I’m told attract a somewhat younger crowd. But they do a couple of resort weeks each year. On land or water, the formula is the same: days spent poolside or taking “excursions,” late afternoon “tea dances” with varying themes, dinner, some entertainment, and late-night theme parties in the disco.
My friend Anthony, a veteran of thirteen Atlantis vacations, mercifully sent me guidance on what to wear for each of the themed events: for example, cargo shorts and a camouflage T-shirt for the Dog Tag Tea Dance; Afro wigs, platform shoes, and polyester for the Classic Disco dance; something dark and sexy (read black designer underwear) for the Mardi Gras Party (hence the outfit I described earlier); and then there is that staple of the gay party circuit — the White Party, which is basically an excuse to dance in your Calvin Klein tighty whities or boxer briefs to the throbbing beat of house music. (I suppose 2(x)ist is actually the more popular brand of underwear these days, but I’m not really the proper person to consult on these matters.)
For many years, until my little band of merry men gradually disbanded, I spent a similar week each year with a group of friends in Provincetown during August. And like Carnival Week in Provincetown, Atlantis resort attracts a broad cross-section of the U.S. gay sub-culture — disparate types of gay men who, other than their homosexuality, have next to nothing in common.
There are the Bears — hirsute, generally portly men with facial hair — a group of which ( somewhat incongruously, since they’re not generally known for their high-fashion style) win the poolside Project Runway competition at Atlantis Puerto Vallarta for the third year in a row.
There are Twinks — slender, slightly effeminate young gay men, who often are known for their high-fashion style and tend to work in retail. A small gaggle of them from Rhode Island show up at every party in coordinated costumes that are basically varations on a Speedo with accessories. They are appropriately nicknamed The Muppets.
There are Muscle Boys with worked-out bodies, who probably have manhunt.net profiles that say “worked out, hwp” (that’s height and weight proportionate.)
There are boys from LA with bleached blonde hair, Giorgio Armani square-cut swimsuits accentuating an over-sized package, D&G sunglasses with a bit too much gold, and an out-of-shape, 60-something, highly successful boyfriend. Or there is a beautiful boy with a Bachelor of Science degree, laid-off from his job, working as a go-go boy in a gay bar in Texas, and here with a “friend” who is three times his age.
And then there are hundreds of basically normal, everyday, standard-issue guys who are gays, spending a week jokingly referring to each other as “she,” happy to escape the primarily straight world in which every day they compete and excel. People you know are in this latter category.
Despite these differences, everyone is remarkably friendly. Coming and going around the hotel, everyone says good morning, good evening and hello whenever they pass another guest in a hallway or in the elevator. Brilliant costumes at themed parties are always applauded, regardless of who is wearing them.
Anthony and I meet some really nice people whom we hang with poolside, at dinner, and at the parties throughout the week. All in all, I have a great time. I soak up the sun by the pool, watching cute guys in Speedos walk by. I do a course of thirteen zip lines through the jungle canopy back and forth over a river, led by some crazy, flirtatious Mexican straight boys, who know exactly who their customer is and play appropriately to the audience; they were totally fun. And I dance for two hours straight (no pun intended) to classic 70′s disco in an Afro wig, huge red sunglasses, and a T-shirt with a Coca-Cola bottle on it that says, “I’ve got the Coke, let’s get this party started.”
At the last big party, the White Party, I have an epiphany of sorts. I’m in a white V-neck T-shirt and white drawstring pants I bought at the hotel gift shop. I’ve decided that, since I’m 57 and not exactly “hwp,” showing up in just my underwear is probably not my best look . I’m standing on the edge of the dance floor with our new-found friends, a May-December couple from Florida.
In front of us, a small group of young guys is dancing their hearts out to a throbbing beat, wearing nothing but their white briefs and tennis shoes. They are decidedly “hwp” and very cute. I watch one of them and think, who’s got that kind of energy to move like that song after song after song?
Then I remember when I was first in New York in my twenties, going to acting school, working several jobs just to make ends meet, one of which was at a night club called Les Mouches on 11th Avenue and 29th Street.
Toward the end of the night, when the customers had mostly gone, the DJ would switch from the disco music she was required to play to the more current rock that those of us who worked there loved — The Pretenders debut album with a song like Brass in Pocket, My Sharona from The Knack, or Marianne Faithfull’s comeback album, Broken English.
As soon as we heard those songs, we would run to the dance floor. I wore cowboy boots, peg-legged jeans, ripped T-shirts, and a bandana around my neck. And I would dance like my life depended on it — loving the feel of my body in motion, letting an attitude fly through my limbs, caring not a whit what anyone thought of me.
Then I think of a time shortly after my sister and brother-in-law were married. We’re all in Florida — Jan and Bruce, his sister and me. We’re all in our 20′s. And my mother and father, both in their 50′s, are with us. We’re in a Florida State Park. And the four of us youngsters are going canoe-ing. For whatever reason, we’ve only got two two-person canoes. My father says that he wants to go. And we tell him we didn’t think he’d want to; it’s not for him really. I don’t know why we felt that way, other than that we were enjoying our youth and he wasn’t part of that. I recall the disappointment on my father’s face, as we young folk take off for our adventure.
Standing on the edge of the dance floor, watching the young guys luxuriate in the energy of their youth, I say to myself: it’s time to go to bed; this scene is not for me anymore. I’ve done this; it was fantastic, it was fun. But it belongs to younger people now; I cede you this ground. Happily, really.
I remain just a few minutes longer. Tomorrow is our last full day, and I have the zip-line excursion in the morning to get up for. I’ve never done one before, and I’m a little anxious about it. But excited at the prospect nonetheless. Buenas noches, guapos.
Souvenir Photo from Puerto Vallarta Zipline, November 2010
