“Faggots!” hollered a group of teenage boys speeding by in a faded blue truck.
It wasn’t easy being young and gay and Mexican in such a catholic city. Standing on the corner of Ochoa and Overland, we let the vampire night sweep us under her wing and the nightclub scene became our only freedom.
“The bar,” was the code name for the local gay nightclub. Code was important in the hot border city of El Paso. There in the fringes, on Ochoa Street, an abandoned grey warehouse with an inconspicuous name stamped in bold black letters directly above a solid black door, I found a place to be free. In a thick haze of smoke, in the midst of strobe lights, disco balls and thumping disco beats, I half expected pixies, unicorns and other mythical creatures to emerge from this glittery world.
As my watery eyes adjusted to the smoke. I stood stunned as I surveyed the pool tables, the bartenders polishing counters and on the dance floor, a pair of pot bellied, heavily bearded men wearing jeans and flannel shirts slow dancing to ABBA’s Dancing Queen. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.