Maricónes and Bugarróns
Up close and personal with Cuban gay culture

While walking down the historic streets of Central Havana one is distracted by the never-ending eye candy. Playing soccer shirtless in the or soaking up the shade with their shirts rolled up to cool their rippling abs, the men in Cuba are one of the country’s finest assets. The abundance of white jeans, glittering Dolce & Gabana threads, and endless pastels may set gaydar off-kilter but smokey glares and catty chatter help one weed the straight guys out. Even with the prevalent machismo attitudes, roaming queens can be spotted checking out Cuban goods everywhere on the Malecón, Havana’s popular waterfront strip. Long gone are the days of harsh persecution and labor camps made infamous by gay Cuban author Reinaldo Arenas. Today’s Havana has a thriving gay lifestyle albeit it one that thrives on the fringes.

“I don’t consider homosexuality to be a phenomenon of degeneration. I’ve always had a more rational approach, considering it to be one of the natural aspects and tendencies of human beings which should be respected,” said Fidel Castro to reporters in the early ’90s helping signal a time of change for queers in Havana. Strawberry and Chocolate, a film considered a national treasure by many locals, was released soon thereafter in Cuban movie houses. It tells the story of David, a hetero communist party member, who befriends Diego a gay art connoisseur. International audiences ate it up at Sundance and Berlin and the film even went on to score an Oscar nomination. It helped shed light on the homo haunts of Havana and serves as the perfect starting point for a dip into its gay scene.

At the corner of Calle 23 and L in an area known as La Rampa sits the ice cream parlor of the people, Coppelia. My boyfriend and I watch as throngs of sun kissed Cuban men and women wait in line under its playful camp ballet sign. The young and sexy crowd exchange ration cards for tasty cold treats, available in limited communist flavors, and sit at tables next to the saucer-shaped oasis to chat the day away. It was here at the centre of gay Havana where Diego and David first meet over two contrasting scoops of ice cream. Across the street is the lively orange coloured Yara cinema. It’s the city’s most popular art house hangout where many cultured queers pass their time to escape the heat. We decide to escape to Diego’s apartment now turned into a paladar (a private free-enterprise Cuban restaurant) called La Guarida that sits on the third floor of a crumbling mansion. We pass the hours soaking up the food, our handsome waiters and the kitchy 1920s Cuban cinema divas screaming out from the old movie posters before slinking into the night in search of a Cuban comrade.

At Calle 23 and P we find a small windowed cafeteria that an oddly forward cab driver noted is “for gay only.” Sadly a blackout leaves the small bar in daunting darkness with only a few shifting figures seen inside. Suddenly a smolderingly sexy Latin boy with thick arms that push against the sleeves of his blue polo shirt catches our eye. We try to conceal our stares but he catches us, smiles and waves back. We return the gesture and no sooner than we put down our hands we find ourselves with a dark eyed and sultry tour guide. The language barrier makes for an intriguing first exchange but after a few “maricónes” (slang word for fag) drop into conversation flirty awkward smiles occur and our new friend Peter joins us for some fun.

He tries to find a club for us but the local bars are closed down early for a random fiesta. We settle for drinks at the Bim Bom, an outdoor cafe where you can grab snacks, beer, bottles of rum and mix while enjoying the bent scenery. A handful of dudes with wandering eyes occupy the cafe terrace’s tables scoping the hustlers or pingueros (penis guys) leaning against busted-up Cadillacs. A dark-skinned fox sporting tight, bright blue denim and shit-kicking cowboy boots laughs as a haggard old queen in a yellow tank top prances through the promenade like a cracked-out homo hummingbird. As we sit, drinking and searching for anyone who could bridge our language gap, a posse of trannies arrive eager to pose for supermodel snapshots in exchange for beers and kisses, which we gladly dole out.

Our prayers are finally answered in the form of a greasy, gregarious U.S. expat named Autero who happens to be amigos with Peter.

“In Cuba if you ask guys if they are gay or straight they just respond, ‘No, I’m Cuban,” says Autero who operates, under the table, as a travel agent. Gay boys come from all over the country to hustle, many of them looking to hook-up with men for the fun and profit it entails Autero explains. He also notes most regular gay guys in Havana tend to refer to themselves as “buggaróns” or straight guys who get head and top but still chase after the ladies thanks to the importance of breeding and family in the Latin world. “Sadly only 20 to 30 percent of them will let you fuck them,” he warns laughing.

No official state run gay bars are allowed so Havana’s party scene pops up at a different secret venue each night. After a little back-and-forth translation courtesy of Autero we decide to be Peter’s foreign guests at a party, often attended by the likes of Jean Paul Gaultier and Pedro Almodovar, being held tonight on a compound 30 minutes away. Autero informs us that most cab drivers in front of the Havana Libre Hotel at Calle 23 and L are in the know if you ask to go to the “fiesta gay” but without a Cuban guide getting in can be tricky.

Tearing through the streets while Madonna mixes with Spanish divas on the stereo, Peter bops seductively in the front seat. Grazing our knees with his hand he turns around occasionally with a huge smile to sing us the Spanish lyrics to his favorite tracks. Feeling a mix of fear and excitement we finally arrive at a long gravel driveway that leads to a nondescript cement building. We move down a stone hallway lit with a spinning disco light to a waiting room decorated with dusty pop-homo snapshots including one of universal boner David Beckham.

A blocked off chain door cracks open revealing a walled-in stone courtyard with a small bar, a section of tables and a runway attached to a stage accented by the green skeleton of a wrought iron gazebo. The place is packed with close to 150 dead sexy gays carting around a few fag hags with only a small number of white tourists to be found. The crowd is well dressed and fashionable with glowing grins that emit uproarious laughter and the occasional cat call. An overwhelming feeling of freedom and revelry hangs in the air. Told by Autero that it’s customary to treat your guide in every way, we pay the six CUC (Cuban travelers currency) cover and grab some beers before soaking up the stage show.

An army of classical trained ballet dancers made up of boys and girls take to the stage sporting Caribbean coloured tuxes and tutus. Their soundtrack comes courtesy of the synth heavy Phantom of the Opera score and after dips, dives, and aerial twirls the crowd gets to its feet for a standing ovation. Then out come the drag queens in sequins, high wigs, and glamorous dresses singing Spanish translations of Celine Dion and Cher tracks with such passionate fury as to make North American queens seem comatose. After dancing to a few grimy Latino dancehall tracks and attempting awkwardly to learn some of Peter’s favourite dance moves we decide to call it a night. Peter’s masculine charm and deadly smile is no match for these ferocious divas or the dangerously cheap beer. When we find out that no Cubans are allowed to enter our hotel unless they pay for their own room we gladly accept a pantomimed offer to drink at Peter’s place only a short distance away.

His house is more like a garage than a home, complete with a handful of broken cars in various states of disrepair. We plop ourselves down in Peter’s bedroom, which is completely bare and tragically simple aside from the most colorful area of the room - Peter’s closet that is littered with sexy designer threads. Fashion is one of the few outlets for Cuban queers to express individuality. After some drinks things devolve into a smutty fashion photo shoot that ends with a surprising lack of fashion and the kind of cultural exchange that can only be followed with the largest of Cuban cigars. We hope we were gracious guests and the smile on Peter’s face as we trade emails while walking to grab a cab seems to be a sure sign of our diplomatic success.

Sitting on the rooftop patio overlooking the Havana skyline at night the outline of the Capital building glimmers like neon in the moonlight bringing to mind Cuba’s new modern revolution. Raul Castro has just recently taken over leadership of the party and in no time began allowing consumer electronics and more private business ventures. His daughter Mariela Castro has become a vocal champion for queer rights by organizing free sex change operations for transsexuals and tabling an equal rights bill for gays and lesbians set to go through in the coming weeks. Although gay establishments are currently not allowed they seem to be the future for this island paradise that’s begun to embrace homosexuality officially. If you want to see its underground queer culture before Havana turns into another Miami go now and enjoy the hunt. You never know which Latin heartthrob might come to your rescue.

Matt Thomas is fab’s associate editor and a macho marricone.