And then I became invisible.

I had my meals. I tanned on the deck while reading books, watching the other men laughing and having fun with their friends. I went into the disco in the evenings and sipped at margaritas while watching guys make new friends, hit on each other, walk past me like I wasn’t there. I walked around aimlessly, watching the moon in the night sky and wishing there was someone with me, all the time thinking how much more fun it would be if Mark were only there. Within minutes of walking into a bar together, Mark’s smile and body and charisma would have a crowd of people around us.

Without him I was nothing.

When we docked in Acapulco yesterday afternoon, I went ashore along with everyone else—although everyone else seemed to be a part of a crowd talking and laughing and making plans for their day. Me, I just grabbed a cab with no real idea of where to go, so I just instructed the driver to take me somewhere los Americanos rarely went. He just nodded, and after about twenty minutes he let me out in a business area, full of restaurants and bars and shops. As I walked around, I slowly began to realize that this was the part of Acapulco that the Mexican tourists came to—white faces were few and far between. I did some shopping, ate dinner at an Italian restaurant, and walked a little further up the street. It was geeting late, and I was just thinking about hailing a cab and heading back to the boat when I glanced up a side street and saw a place called Club Caliente.

“You speak English?” a young man beside me said.

I turned and looked at him. He was young, maybe seventeen or so, short and stocky with a face burned reddish brown by the sun. He was smiling. I smiled back. “Yes,” I replied.

He nodded at Club Caliente. “Is club with dancers. For men. Upstairs, the women dance. Downstairs, the boys.” His smile grew bigger. “You like the boys?”

I nodded.

“The boys dance. You will like.”

“Thank you,” I replied, and started watching the traffic for a cab. But as I saw one approaching and started to raise my hand to wave it down, I stopped. I looked back over my shoulder.

Mark would go to the club. You owe it to Mark to go in there and check it out. If it’s scary and dirty or whatever, you can always leave and walk back up here to get a cab. But you’ll have a story to tell Mark, for sure—and wouldn’t it be nice if one of the stories of this trip was actually true rather than made up?

So, without really expecting too much, I walked down the side street, paid a five hundred peso cover charge, and walked into the bar.

It was dark, as all gay bars are; a few lights here and there breaking through the gloom. I could see that there were less than ten people inside. I walked up to the bar and ordered a bottle of Bud Light, and made my way to a table in the corner. The music was playing rather loudly, and I was kind of amused to note that a gay bar is a gay bar, regardless of the country. I sat down on a stool and nursed my beer as someone leapt up onto the bar and started dancing. My jaw dropped.

He was stark naked except for his boots.

So, a gay bar is not the same everywhere. I smiled to myself. He was short, and looked like he was in his late teens, with cinnamon skin and that smooth, lean youthful type of body that some boys are just blessed with. He danced his way around the top of the bar, his big dick flopping, kneeling down and letting some of the guys seated there play with it, and was rewarded with folded bills being stuffed into his socks. He made his way around the bar a few times before jumping down and heading for patrons seated at the tables. When he reached me, he stood in between my legs, reached down and rubbed his dick against the bare skin of my legs. He tilted his head down, then raised his eyes to mine shyly. “You like?” he said, slapping it against my leg again.

“Very nice,” I replied, thinking, He’s thinking, American with money, isn’t he?

He moved away after another moment, and I watched as he plied his wares at another table. I shook my head, wondering how Mark would react to the boy. I picked up my beer and out of the corner of my eye, I saw another dancer climbing up onto the bar. I had the bottle up to my mouth as I turned my head and just stopped short.

The dancer on the bar was without question one of the most beautiful men I’d ever seen—which is saying a lot.

He was much taller than the previous one; maybe about six-two with thick shoulder-length blue-black hair and big round brown eyes, and his skin was tanned a dark copper. His shoulders were broad and his torso layered with corded muscle. His waist was small and his hips narrow, with long muscular legs that looked solid as stone. His entire body was hairless except for the patch of hair at his crotch, and his cock—

Was fully erect, long and thick and one of the biggest I’d ever seen outside of a porn film.

He danced around on top of the bar, turning around now and then to show a round, muscular pair of buttocks.

I gaped at him, unable to take my eyes off him.

He was magnificent.

He hopped down from the bar and made his way around the tables. I watched him—he didn’t linger for long at any of them, and I could hear my heart pounding in my ears as he approached my table.

He flashed a dazzling smile of even white teeth at me. “Hola! I am Jesus.”

“Hi,” I somehow managed to mumble.

He stepped in close between my legs, his big thick hard cock brushing against the bare skin of my upper legs. “This place is a dump, no?” His English was perfect, only lightly accented. I stared into his eyes. How old could he be, I wondered, resisting the urge to reach out and touch his lean torso, to reach down and put my hand on that gigantic cock. He tossed his hair back and placed his hands on my chest. They felt hot through the T-shirt fabric, as though they would burn right through it. “If I had better offer, I would get my clothes and leave right now.” He flashed that smile at me again.

My heart sank. Stupidly, I had allowed myself to hope he might actually be interested in me. No, he was for hire, and he targeted me as what he hoped would turn out to be a rich American. “Oh,” I said, looking away from his eyes. “I see.”

He watched my face for a moment, then he opened his mouth and shouted with laughter. “You think I am a puta? What you call a whore?”

My cheeks flamed with embarrassment. “I—uh—”

He leaned into me and whispered into my ear. “I think you sexy. Very sexy. I watch you come in, and I decide, I want that one.” He brushed his lips against my cheek. “I have apartment two blocks from here—is beautiful place. You come?”

“Um…”

“I get clothes.”

He reached down and squeezed my cock through my shorts, smiled at me again, and turned and walked away. I watched him until he disappeared through a door off to one side of the bar—the same door another short dancer, who could have been a clone of the first one other than his hair was too short—and stared.

This couldn’t be happening. This kind of thing happened to Mark, but not to me.

I had just finished my beer when Jesus came back out through the door wearing a pair of faded torn jeans and no shirt. He walked right over to me and smiled. “Come on—” He stopped and laughed again, a joyous sound. “I don’t know name.”

“Stacy,” I replied.

“Come on, Stacy.” He grabbed me by the hand and dragged me down the hallway and out the front door.

As we walked the two blocks or so, he talked—an incessant stream that I couldn’t have interrupted had I wanted to. He wasn’t wearing a belt, and the worn jeans kept sliding down his hips until he would notice and yank them back up. I kept glancing out of the side of my eyes as the jeans worked their way down his hips with each step he took, revealing the tantalizing crack, the beautiful curve of his cheeks. My cock was rock hard, and then he led me across the street to a stunningly beautiful high-rise that looked like it was made of solid marble. “You live here?” I asked.