Javier

There are some things that you just can't bring yourself to do - right?

And I'm not talking about giving your dad a blowjob - or double fisting - or even having your dick pierced.

No, it's more basic stuff than that.

I'll explain.

You've heard from me on this site before. And on those occasions I was, I think you'll agree, pretty upfront.

I told you where I went to pick up hot boys - and not just the country, Costa Rica, but the actual town, San José, and even the goddam place, Big Dick's Guest House (though why they bothered with the apostrophe still beats me).

Even now I can't believe I told you all that. I reckon I deserve a medal for service to the international gay community.

But there's one thing I didn't tell you.

My name.

"Oh, that's OK", I hear you say. "We don't expect that. Anyone would understand your hesitation."

But it's not shyness like you think. It's something else entirely. It's the name itself. And, in fact, the only reason I'm going to tell you my name right now is 'cos it's relevant to the story.

Here goes, then.

Homer.

All right, that's enough.

You can stop laughing.

I've heard every Homer Simpson joke in the book long ago - so you needn't bother with them either.

And now that's out of the way I'll carry on, if that's OK with you.

Big Dick's place, as I mentioned last time, is pretty much finished now, thanks to the local police chief who ordered San José's gay scene closed down with no ifs or buts (even though, as I told you before, his own son's butt was already one of the town's main tourist attractions).

But by then I'd got the Latino bug - so much so, in fact, that I began to think that, if Big Dick could do it, so could I.

I'd run my own guest house - not in Costa Rica but further north in Mexico.

Within three months I'd completed the formalities and was able to advertise Hacienda Homo in the international gay press.

Actually, to keep the peace with my neighbours, the sign above the door read Hacienda Homer - but I hoped that any taxi driver faced with some L.A. drag queen lisping "Hacienda Homo, per favor!" would just assume a mispronunciation and deliver her to the right place after all.

But, of course, before I could open my doors to the public I needed staff.

A particular type of staff.

They'd need to be extrovert.

Hacienda Homo's gimmick, after all, was to be that all its all-male (well, actually all-boy) staff worked naked round the clock.

So I was certainly looking forward to the auditions.

And I wished later that I'd videoed them.

There was the "chambermaid" who wielded his feather duster dextrously but somewhat unusually - with the handle shoved nonchalantly up his ass and the biggest smile on his face that you're ever likely to see…

The receptionist who wanted guests to autograph something other than the hotel register…

And as for the cook… well, the individual way in which he chose to stir the soup meant that, though never piping hot, it invariably came with its own distinctive flavour.

But, just as I was about to despair, Javier showed up for an interview.

He certainly didn't look too energetic - or even particularly interested - as he waited in Hacienda Homo's courtyard to talk to me about the job.

But he had a certain something.

Raw, hot sex appeal.

And he damn sure knew how to interview.