Those of you who know us intimately, know that Gio and I have had our fair share of misadventures. We've snuck into and starred in the WB (now CW) network up fronts at the Gramercy Park Hotel rooftop, gotten kicked out of Le Cock, Urge and the Sunflower Diner all in one night, countless public pants-droppings. The list is mostly rated NC-17, a bit hazy and endless. But last Friday night was a first for us. 
It started out innocently, with a family dinner at the Mesa compound complete with two Cuban abuelas and an aunt and uncle who are not related to Gio's family.  There were inordinate amounts of meat, rice and frijoles negros. There was also an inordinate amount of leftovers because we Cubans are the worst food planners in the history of recorded history.  Gio had a pleasant surprise waiting for me on the fourth night of Hanukkah: a "Sweet Talkin' Ken" doll that bore an odd resemblance to lesbian Justin Bieber.' Near midnight, after sharing a delicious meal and lots of laughter, Gio Kathy and I set off to meet up with a friend at Villa 221 for a holiday drink.  Eyeing the line out front and the chachi wardrobe of its characters, we promptly nixed the outing, dropped Kathy off and set sail in quest of gayer pastures. Gio and I sailed down Biscayne to Magnum Lounge, which we had heard about at a holiday party the previous night. Gio complained the whole ride, bitching that it was so desolate and we were too far north (he lives in Harlem!). We parked my mom's sexy Honda Odyssey mini van, stocked with not one but TWO car seats and told Sweet Talkin' Ken (heretofore to be known as STK) to behave.  We wandered around the sedate and cozy outside bar and immediately dismissed it.  Gio and I wanted to have a gay ol' time and we were definitely NOT having it sitting around on lawn chairs.  So we explored and found the door that led inside.  An unpleasant and unidentifiable odor wafted out as we opened the door.  Magnum, as we learned, is a piano bar and restaurant.  The pianist was hammering out "Benny and the Jets" while a man well into his seventies was singing lead.  Gio rushed over to the piano and belted out the finale while I lamented the gay scene in Miami.  Magnum reeked of dirty bordello, and though Gio and I are dirty gay bordellos aficionados, we decided it was better to explore other options.  So we decamped and began our trek back south.  
I texted a local friend for gay recommendations and he directed me to Wet Bar, located deep in the heart of Little Havana.  Now, you may be saying to yourself: isn't all of Miami Little Havana?  Sorta.  But Little Havana is a quaint little neighborhood where men still wear white Hanes tank tops as daily wear, wives still make coffee (Cuban coffee would be redundant as no other coffee exists in their eyes) for every meal and snack and playing dominoes is the national past time.  Oh, and NO ONE who lives in LH speaks English.  Most people live in an efficiency, an illegally built extra room or separate building with all its own amenities where refugees set up camp for meager or free rent.  We were both hesitant to venture over to Wet but figured it would be a fun trip.  So off we drove, Gio passing out minutes after we hit the highway.  Blocks away I could pick out the gays walking over to Wet. Their rafts were carefully parked in metered spaces.  Even with the windows up, I was sure that the conversations being had were in Cuban Spanish because Cuban Spanish requires the use of your hands to convey the true wealth of emotion.  There was a valet (plus) but the crowd outside said it all.  No way in hell was I going to step foot in that place.  Defeated and ready to call it a night I shook Gio to life, gave him the Cliffs Notes on Wet, and circled back so he could see for himself.  Well, lo and behold, Gio rose to the challenge and said "We're going here tonight and we're going to have fun!"  So I pulled into valet, sat STK in the center console as the fat valet guy merengue-ed his way over to the Honda Odyssey.  We asked him to take care of STK and walked away.  But Gio dallied because it is Little Havana, after all, and one can't be too trusting!  So we made sure to wait til the valet attendant came back and drove off in search of a parking space. 
As we approached the door, I was a bit doubtful I'd be let in — you see, I had left my wallet at home and didn't have my ID.  But then I realized the guys who frequent this upstanding gayborhood establishment surely aren't card-carrying US citizens so I figured I'd be alright without identification. Besides, if they needed proof of age, I'm sure the mini van would've served as good evidence.  Gio invested $10 (cover charge) in our fun adventure and we got two tickets for a raffle to win a bottle and a table in the bee eye pee (translation: VIP section).  Once inside, we were surrounded.  I wondered whether I had stepped into a gay bar or an immigration center.  Seconds later, we were at the bar with Gio elbowing his 125 pound body to the front to grab the bartender's attention.  Anyone who has ever tried to order a drink at a crowded bar knows it's no easy feat for those dumb-as-a-post meathead bartenders to get the drinks right.  Well, imagine a crowded bar and a dumb-as-a-post meathead bartenders who don't speak English!  "Vodka Sprite and a vodka soda" suddenly became more difficult to decipher than an obscure Urdu scientific tome.  The ounce of patience that cavorts in Gio's frail body quickly dissipated as the bartender made his way to the other side of the bar so I could clarify the order.  Yes in Spanish. (Thank you mom and dad for making me learn Spanish.  I knew it would come in handy one day!)  

There were, of course, LOTS of short gays because apparently, at 6'1" I'm a Cuban anomaly.  There were short twinky gays who were actually 12 years old because despite their waiflike bodies, they had full mustaches.  There were short chubby gays with clothes that was way too tight.  Lots of heavily tweezed eyebrows.  Mounds of asses that could rival black girls' booties.  Hips on men and no, NOT men who dress like women. Men men.  Oceans of cheap cologne and aftershave perfumed the air. Yards and yards of synthetic fabrics covered up many a hairy back.   The DJ, who apparently moonlighted as a radio DJ chatted over the music — in Spanish, por supuesto.  The hiss of smoke machines and the mirrored walls called to mind the banquet hall en la sawesera where your tacky cousin hosted her quinceañera.  Except at this quinceañera we were getting all sorts of fondled!  In short, I immediately knew that first thing the following morning, I'd be sitting at my computer writing one hell of a motherfuckin' blog post for all my 305 peeps. 
We strolled outside so Gio could bum a cigarette, and while standing there a guy asked him, "Oye papito, me regalas un cigarrillo?" (Hey papito, could you give me a cigarette)  I couldn't even make this up.  Later in search of another cigarette, Gio unsuccessfully tried to grab a guy's attention in English three times before having to switch to Spanish to get a response.  Back in the jungle, we spotted Elian Gonzalez (on the DL).  The boys were getting down and showing off their moves doing casino style salsa turns, dancing bachata and grinding to raggaeton.  Every song the DJ played was in Spanish.  Well, except for Pitbull but since he's Cuban it doesn't really count.  Eager to get a bird's eye view of the whole joint, Gio and I ascended the 2 steps up to the VIP lounge.  Nary a snooty bouncer, velvet rope or clipboard/iPad list in sight.  We watched from our perch in the VIP lounge laughing all the way and hamming it up as we danced to Elvis Crespo's 1998 hit song, Suavemente.  The scene was a far cry from the pop/dance/electronic spots Gio and I know and love in NY.  But we were into our groove and having all kinds of fun, and like a good blogger, I make certain I had enough material for the post!
Around 2:30 AM, a few vodka sodas in, Gio and I called time of death.  We fetched the car from valet, made sure STK was still with us and headed to Burger King for a little drunky nutrition.  Then, our bellies full and our hearts content from a night that could've turned out a tragic disaster, we headed home thankful for our little Christmas miracle. 
... and they heard us exclaim as we drove out of sight, "Merry Christmas to all and to all a [gay] night!"