Tracey Parker is an urban explorer, based in Mexico City, who discovers and presents unique gay cultures around the world. After exploring gay Medellin bathhouse, Sauna Cruising, he’s back again showing what Medellin has to offer for horny tourists abroad.
When I got to Medellin, I heard so much gossip from everybody I met about sex tourism, robberies and the connection between the two.
Everybody went out of their way to warn me not to solicit a hookup with a sex worker because if I did, they would drug me, and then their friends would come to my house and get me to send them all the money in my bank account and then leave.
To say the least, it was uncomfortable talking about a private topic such as sex and my desire to pay for sex as a tourist with so many people, from Airbnb hosts to juice vendors to Uber drivers.
Medellin is unusual as it’s filled with the prospect of a sex worker hookup or the ability to experience a sex tourist vacation. However, it was hard to know for sure. While I sensed that most of these warnings were more gaslighting and manipulation, I wasn’t comfortable enough to risk the consequences that they were warning against. So I went out of my way to avoid La Provenza, the central zone where sex workers are known to frequent and the neighborhood with this reputation.
Instead, I ended up becoming fascinated by another part of town where the vibe was much less relaxed, the stakes were much lower, and the scene was much more local.
The place was called Parque Bolivar. It is a beautiful park that has become somewhat sketchy over the years, but with its stunning Tolkien-esque trees and beautiful colonial brick buildings, it still retains a magnificence that is hard to beat.
Every evening, the park fills up with an eclectic cast of characters. Many kids gather to meet up with each other and begin their evening. Others are street hustlers who are constantly seeking ways to make a little money. The overlap between these two groups is quite substantial.
I had begun spending many afternoons here. At first, I was looking around and I didn’t talk to anybody. I couldn’t tell if any of them were gay or if all of them were. After some time I began to recognize some of the same guys I had seen down the street at La Casa Centro Cultural, which is a gay cultural center with a very busy gay cruising backroom.
They were hustlers, and most were from Venezuela. They all lived in cheap hotels close by and seemed to follow a nocturnal schedule. They would begin their day in Parque Bolivar, where they would turn tricks until the sun went down, and at that time, I’d usually leave to go home, and I have no idea where they went.
Each day I visited Parque Bolivar, there was one guy who stuck out to me above all the rest.
His name was Jonathan. He would stare at me from across the park, and I would melt with desire.
He was slow to talk to me, though. It seemed like he was waiting for me to make the first move or for something else to happen. One of his friends was named Alan, and he was much more outgoing and business-minded.
Late one Thursday afternoon, after I had already spent about 1 hour in the park taking in the scenery, Alan arrived and sat down next to me. He told me that he was planning to go to El Teatro Gay with his friends.
He told me that on Thursday nights there was a live show of go-go dancers and that there was lots of cruising and that he was going there to search for clientes. He asked me if I would pay for his ticket to enter. The price was so cheap, so I told him sure.
We continued chatting, and one by one, his friends began showing up and taking their seats on other benches spread out across the plaza.
Eventually, I saw Jonathan walking towards us with another friend. Both of them sat down and said hi to Alan. They politely introduced themselves to me. We chatted a little bit before they got up and left to go somewhere else. Parque Bolivar was like this. People would come and chat and circle around all evening.
When they left I told Alan how handsome I thought Jonathan was. This made Alan excited. He seemed to be ready to fix us up with each other.
He assured me that yes, Jonathan will hook up with me for money. He suggested we all go to the theater together and I can hookup with Jonathan there.
As it got dark, Alan told me it was time to go to the theatre. It was just down the street from Parque Bolivar.
Alan, Jonathan and I left the park together. It was nice walking in a small group, as I was accustomed to walking alone. On the way there, Alan worked out a deal where I’d pay
Jonathan’s entry fee as well, and then I’d pay him less money for whatever we did together. Alan was so comfortable being Jonathan’s “manager.”
Inside the theater, it was pretty busy. There were dozens of men inside. Half were cruising around on foot, and the other half were occupied sitting down.
Gay porn played on the screen. The show was very modest. There was one muscled go-go boy who wasn’t my type walking around with his cock hanging out of a small thong.
So many guys from the park were walking around and “working” that a go-go boy seemed out of their element in the theatre; especially since the boys were surprisingly aggressive. They would come up to whoever they wanted and dangle their cocks in the face of men who were sitting near the aisle.
They let their clients play with them a little and quickly began asking for small amounts of money. For more, they would take the clients into a back room where there were small private booths.
After I got a taste for the place, I got Jonathan’s attention and took him into one of the private rooms. He took his shirt off the moment we entered, and Jonathan’s musty smell, mixed with soap and detergent, filled the booth.
We had all smoked marijuana in the park and my senses were at their peak. I leaned back on the wall and just gazed at his lanky naked body. I began to breathe heavier.
“Do you like brown skin?” he asked me. Jonathan was darker than most, like many men down in Colombia and Venezuela. They have a “different way of talking “about race, and sometimes it clashes with what we’ve learned never to do in my culture back in the United States.
“Yes,” I told him, at a loss for another response. He unbuckled his jeans and let his cock fall to the ground; his dick was shapeless but large and had its own smell which filled up the small private booth. I put it in my mouth and it began to grow.
“Que Rico,” he whispered under his voice as I sucked him off.
Spotty patches of hair dotted his entire lower abdomen. I had never seen pubic hair like this before. I ran my fingers over them in fascination. His elephant trunk penis hung beneath all of it, half hard, and thick, and fat. It contrasted beautifully with his skinny body.
I grabbed it with both hands so that the bulging mushroom head was right in front of my face. I stared at it in my marijuana induced haze of fascination and began to lick it over and over again.
I kissed it and slowly allowed my lips to surround it, and then tickled the rim as he giggled and almost made me stop.
We kept playing with each other like this for what seemed like an hour, but was probably much less. As we neared the end, he asked me if I wanted his milk, his leche.
“Te gusta leche?” he asked me.
I let his cock fall out of my mouth, I continued to hold onto it with both hands, I looked up into his eyes and nodded my head. Then I put him back into my mouth and began milking him strongly with my hands, waiting for the leche.
He screamed out loud, and then he exploded. It emerged in discreet streams, one after another. The smell was distasteful, and the strength of the stream stung my forehead and cheek as he bathed me in the leche.
When it stopped, my face was covered in it. It was dripping onto both of our clothes, which were bunched up on the floor.
We both cleaned each other up after. I loved how, when the desire and lust suddenly disappeared, we were just two men, with two bodies, that each worked the same way, cleaning up the mess that we were accustomed to making.
I paid him his money and made my way back into the theater. Alan was chatting with his friends in the back and the rest were scattered around with their cocks teasing clientes.
This scene is often referred to as downtown or centro. It is known for being a dangerous area, and I do not doubt that robberies occur here.
But the stakes seem far less severe than what is said to happen in Provenza, where the tourists have a target on their back, and the thieves speak English, or at least enough to rob you.
Here in downtown, I felt much more comfortable. I thought it was my secret part of Medellín that nobody else knew about.
