Story 5: Panama

Picture it. Panama, April 2003. A young single American male arrives in Panama City a week before his big brother’s wedding. This is his fraternity “big brother,” and not his elder step-brother. He is the first to get to the hotel of ten fraternity brothers staying in the same hotel, five per room. His big brother, being the considerate host in this foreign land, has set up several tours and mini-trips across Panama for all of his guests from the USA, including the rain forest, deep sea fishing, museums, waterfalls, visiting local native tribes, canoeing, etc.

And, I, being the only homosexual in the party was the only one interested in heading to at least one Panamanian gay club. Nevertheless, I came prepared. Fortunately, the gods favoured me that month. Weeks before, I had been on gay.com in the Panama room. With my limited Spanish (I took French), I got to chat with a few locals. Lo and behold! I come to find one of my chat buddies is a guest to the same wedding, as the nephew of the mother of the sister-in-law of the bride.

So, my first night, my new friend, Eduardo, takes me out clubbing with his friends. The club is packed with relatively short Panamanians. My “local” drink of choice is Seco (sugar cane rum from Panama) and Fruit Punch. My salsa dancing needs work. And unlike most USA clubs, there are very few people standing off the dance floor. EVERYONE is dancing. They don’t even walk to the bar to get a drink. They wait for one of several young boys in a speedos, tennis shoes, and fanny packs (but placed on the side to allow for maximum frontal and read viewing) to come take drink orders and money while ON the dance floor. Now, this is what I call service!

Fast forward a couple days later. Most of my fraternity brothers are at the Panama Canal, which I have seen already, and chose not to see again. I decide to take a walk and go shopping, motivated to buy shoes in Panama, just to be able to say I have shoes from Panama. I didn’t care for the selection of shoes, oh well.

As I am walking down Via Espagna, a cop starts to follow me, about ten paces behind. I am intrigued by the idea of being followed, I figured I stood out from the crowd by height, lack of tan (at the time), and lack of Spanish language skills such that I would not be a suspect for shoplifting. He comes closer and asks me where I am from, thinking I am Italian (apparently there are a lot of those there, which is another story).

I say I am from the USA in broken Spanish. He does not even have broken English, he just slows down the Spanish for me. He asks why I am visiting, and all sorts of questions, and I obligingly answer, because he is a cop. Now that we are talking and side by side, I can see that he has a beautiful form. His arms were large and foreboding, his hair was black and thick, oily. He wasn’t particularly outstanding in his looks, just simple. He had dark eyes, and his tan was a dark brown with a hint of bronze. He had perfect teeth, which I remember noting because I was expecting them to be mediocre (USA bias coming out). He was plain, sturdy in his uniform, arms and biceps bulging out his short uniform shirt sleeves. His forearms were huge reminding me of Popeye. I hated his work shoes/boots, I thought they were ugly and it convinced me that I did NOT want to buy shoes in Panama.

He asks me the normal cocktail party questions, even though were walking down the street in front of store after store. In broken Spanish with mixed in French and English words when I give up on the Spanish, I go through the responses: Soltero/Single. Cursos de posgraduado. No novia. Washington, DC. Si, soltero. Llegado viernes en la tardes. No, no novia, no amiga. No dormir con chicas. Si, soltero, solo.
Let’s just say, the whole conversation was getting annoying. He kept asking me if I was single and if I had a girlfriend. I didn’t think he understood me at all. That is, until, he said a word in Spanish that didn’t need any translation, (thank the gods for Romance Languages): homosexual.

Have you read about my lack of gaydar? And I thought no one would notice the homosexual walking down the road unless I had some rainbow stickers and HRC magnets and such adorning my bag. Apparently, I am more obvious than I think.

About two minutes later... “Mi hotel es allí… Ven con migo" (thank you Cristina Aguilera)

I figure I have about an hour and a half before the brothers get back from the Canal to get ready for our dining out. We go into the hotel, up the elevator, into the room. He’s not a great kisser, awful really. He threw me onto the hotel bed (and I am not easily thrown). He jumps on me like a panther, my shirt is off, his face in my armpits, grunting, his hands are all over me and just touching every part, it feels like he has eight arms. He smells, and I’m not in the mood to lick the road-dust off his chest (it tasted awful).

We continue in the shower, his uncut member throbbing, his tongue on my nipples lapping, the foreplay is continuous, unstopping, touching every part of my body, his body, the towels. He handcuffs me from behind and makes me lick and lap at his hairy testicles (but not hairy-bad-get-in-your-teeth-and-mouth-cough-up-a-hairball-hairy). I position myself to put my moistened lips around his cock…

Brapp! Brapp! Brapp! Everything screeches to a halt. Someone is at the door.

I walk over, cuffed, and look out the door peephole. It’s Scott, my fraternity brother who is supposed to be in a different hotel. He explains that his girlfriend hated Panama and he had to buy her ticket back to the USA (which he could have prevented had he been staying in a nicer hotel like me), so he had to get all of his stuff out of his hotel room and into mine since he didn’t have enough money to do his hotel room AND her ticket.

He calls “pin” for me to open the door. (Older fraternity brothers get certain privileges by calling pin on younger fraternity brothers, calling pin number (by order initiated) is usually used to have someone get you a beer, answer the frat house lobby phone, organize the queue for dinner buffet-style, and call shotgun in a car) I have a towel around my waist, and my hands cuffed behind my back. I open the door slightly, which took some doing with my hands cuffed. Then I quickly step out the door to speak with him.

“How’d you get in a towel and handcuffs, Marcus (he actually calls me by my last name- not shown here)?” Scott inquired (he’s not the brightest bulb, but he is damn good looking and sexy) ”Scott (I call him by his last name, not shown here), go get your bag at your hotel, I’ll be here, bring it back, give me about 30 minutes,” I instruct.

“But I can be back in 7,” he retorts.

“But I won’t be finished in 7, come back in 30, PLEASE! And DON’T YOU DARE CALL PIN ON ME,” I plead.

He laughs, agrees, and leaves. I reenter my hotel room to find my buff cop fully dressed, he takes my cuffs off, and he rushes out. Apparently, he had to get back to work and my fraternity brother’s visit made him nervous. Oh well, the wedding reception made up for it, I guess.