I'm running low on Alan stories, but I hate to let him go. so here's the story of me, Alan, and the bathhouse in Tijuana.Tijuana, August 1987
It's a sedate cultural center now, but in the 1980s, it was synonymous with sleaze.
Watch your wallet.
Drink only bottled water
Be careful of the bathrooms.
Don't walk too close to alleys.
"We should go," Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star said one day in 1987. "You speak Spanish, so you can impress all the locals. And the bathhouses are still open. Have you been to one?"
"Just once, four years ago in Chicago. My friend Viju took me. I didn't like it."
"They're great!" Alan exclaimed. "Darn homophobic Department of Health closed them down here, thinking we're all having unsafe sex and getting AIDS in them, but you can have unsafe sex anywhere. You just have to be careful, stick to French. That won't be a problem for us, right?"
Alan rarely topped anyone, and I never knew him to bottom. Interfemoral, oral, and sometimes 69, although he was a little too big to do that comfortably.
"Sex with strangers?" I said, dubious. Even casual hookups were frowned upon in West Hollywood.
"It's a foreign country. Our rules don't apply. And we're both single, right?" He paused. "Besides, I know a place where you can meet Indios."
The rest of the story, with nude photos and sexual situations, is on Tales of West Hollywood.