Words and images by Adam Ross
I’d heard stories. Things were a little different in Mexico City, I’d been told. The city was getting more progressive, but there was still a different culture to understand. I’d been advised to be cautious—or at the very least aware of how overtly queer I was appearing while traveling abroad. I’d visited before, but this time I was staying in CDMX for a full two weeks. I came with my best friend, himself Mexican, who had lived in the city a few years back.
He’d arrived before me, and had given me instructions on how to use and navigate the subway to get to our hotel. “Find the window at the station and ask for a card, 50 pesos con tarjeta nueva,” I was told. “Take the pink line and transfer at Pino Suárez to the blue line.”
As I waited for the train, I noticed a group of guys standing towards the end of the platform. Scruffy hair, tattoos, ripped baggy clothing; they looked like they might be more my crowd. After a few cursory glances, I stood by them, hanging back by the wall as we all waited. I could feel them looking my way. I knew this feeling—it was the same looking-without-looking I felt in bathhouses and gyms in New York. These guys were definitely cruising. When the train rumbled into the station, we all got onto the last car.
It was late, and there were only a few other people in the train car with us. Most of them were asleep, their heads slung down on their chests. I sat in the front corner seat, keeping an eye on the guys I’d boarded with who had all sat near each other.
The tension mounted stop after stop, as no one got on or off. Two stops later, I noticed one of the men had begun to shift his hands—was he rubbing himself? Yes he was definitely rubbing his crotch. It was obvious now, he wanted us to see. His eyes shot to the guys he’d boarded with. They met his gaze. Their eyes darted around to the other passengers to confirm they were all indeed asleep. More sly glances shot around the train car to see who was watching.
In the blink of an eye, two more guys had whipped their dicks out. The others were rubbing their hard cocks through their pants, watching intently. A part of me was shocked to see this kind of cruising—so overt, under the bright lights of the train, as we were ferried along underground between stations. Weren’t they worried that one of the other snoozing passengers would wake up? That we might arrive at the station where they’d be seen?
The one with a scruffy beard and tattoos on his hands who looked like he might toss me around a room met my gaze, his eyebrows raised, hard uncut cock in hand. Exhausted after a day of travel, I wasn’t ready to join in but I held his gaze, and watched as he used his precum as lube. I wasn’t about to turn down a show, and a show is exactly what I got. Two stops later, I had to get off the train to find my transfer.
I stood up to leave, gathering my bags. I glanced over my shoulder for one last look, but the men had already reset for open doors. As I stepped off, I looked back one more time. The doors shut, and I caught his eye, I smiled and winked as the train pulled away.
That night I did some research. There’s an active cruising scene in CDMX, parks and bathhouses, I’ve been told, are popular spots for those looking. But none are as well known or documented as the last car of the Pink Line. Lucky me, I’d stumbled right into it.
If you take the Pink Line (how apropos) and wait at the last car, there’s a good chance you’ll find a few other potential Cruisers. The Pink Line has long been a cruising hotbed, as documented by David Graham in his seminal book, The Last Car: Cruising in Mexico City.
Odds of an encounter increase towards the more gay areas of town obviously, but as ever where there’s a will, there’s a way. How you navigate the situation is of course up to you, but chance encounters are known to happen and you too could get lucky. Despite riding the subway again many times during my stay, my first was the most memorable.
