Chapter 7

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Oliver once interviewed me regarding who I thought was my perfect boyfriend. We were at Scales again, watching three male strippers on the stage who were dressed like Ecuadorian military men. They were hot fuckers with six-packs, thick thighs, and irresistible smiles. He was drinking a tumbler filled with whiskey, half looped, and I was relishing a vodka tonic with a slice of lime.

“You like redheads, right, Paulo?” he asked, more interested in me than the three guys on the stage who were earning their dollars to eat and pay rent.

I couldn’t deny enjoying the company of redheads. There was something about their flaming hair, freckles, and blue or green eyes that sent sparks of lust up and down my spine. Reds, as I called them, were my weakness, just as Latinos were. Each and every one of them that I dated caused me to sport a boner twenty-four hours a day, and seven days a week. “Of course, I like reds.”

“And you’d fuck any Latino man that even looked at you?”