*****

“Cancun?” Visions of noisy bars, hot girls, plenty of Margaritas, and since he was talking to Lance, plenty of gay caballeros, did the Mexican Hat Dance through Chris’s head. He told the voice in his head to shut up when it pointed out that he was too old anymore for the girls who went to Cancun on spring break. Chris would never be too old for spring break.

“Yeah, I thought we could hit the beach, have a few drinks, maybe some laughs.” Lance didn’t sound like he’d been laughing a lot lately, and for that Chris blamed the latest boyfriend. Every time Chris turned around, Lance was getting dumped. Then he’d find a new guy and dump him in return. It was a vicious circle and Chris was determined to put an end to it. He had stubbornly refused to learn any of their names, which annoyed Lance to no end, but Chris had decided that there was only going to be one name for Lance to remember from now on. His. Which shouldn't really be that hard.

“Sounds good to me, Bass,” Chris said, trying to remember what he’d done with his passport. He tucked the phone under his chin and started digging through the junk drawer in his kitchen.

“So, next week?” Chris hated the sad note in Lance’s voice. He frowned at the pile of old matchbook covers, used twist ties, and out of date pizza delivery coupons on the countertop in front of him. He didn’t see his passport anywhere.

“Yeah, sure. Pack your sombrero. I’ll call you when I get to LA.” Chris thumbed off his phone and squared his shoulders. He knew what he had to do.

He went upstairs to see if he’d stuck his passport in his sock drawer.

*****

“What?” Chris shouted over the Mariachi band that surrounded their table. They were singing Celito Lindo for approximately the tenth time. Chris knew the words so well by now that he was tempted to join in.

Lance leaned closer to Chris and yelled gleefully in his ear, “Donkey polo!” He settled back into his chair, his eyes sparkling as he dragged a chip through the gigantic bowl of guacamole sitting between them, popping it into his mouth with a loud crunch. Their server had made the quac tableside, aggressively elbowing the guitar player out of his way. Chris waited uneasily for the rest of the band to retaliate.

“What the fuck is donkey polo?” Chris considered the question, then shook his head. “Never mind, I don’t think I want to know.”

“No, seriously, Chris. It’s amazing.” Lance had a bit of margarita salt on the corner of his mouth and Chris wondered, if he leaned over and licked it off, if maybe the Mariachi band would move on to serenade a different table. It was worth a try.

Lance smiled fondly at him as Chris pulled back, his tongue coming out to touch the place Chris had licked. “The bus leaves at 2 o’clock this afternoon,” he said.

Chris drained his margarita and tried to catch the waiter’s eye. As the Mariachi band, stubbornly loyal to the end, launched into yet another rendition of the Mexican Hat Dance, Chris decided donkey polo was obviously the sort of thing he needed to be drunk to fully appreciate. His knee was already aching.

“Is it like dwarf bowling?” he asked around a mouthful of hamburger. “We shoulda brought Eric with us.”

Lance laughed and a warm feeling spread through Chris’s chest. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the sound of Lance’s happy laughter, but he guessed whatever caused it, it meant he was going to spend the afternoon playing donkey polo.

*****

“Son of a bitch,” Chris complained bitterly. His donkey, who was named Pablo, ambled to the left, the complete opposite of where Chris was trying to point him. The problem was, Chris had no idea how to steer a donkey, and the helpful folks standing around trying to shoo the donkeys into cooperating weren’t really all that helpful.

Chris tried to use his knees, squeezing Pablo’s ribs in an attempt to communicate go that way! but he only succeeded in sliding off the donkey’s back, tipping slowly to his right, clutching at the ropes around Pablo’s neck.

“Lance, you fucker,” Chris yelled, as Lance’s donkey trotted obediently towards the goal, or whatever it was called in polo. The sport of kings, and Chris wasn’t exactly suited for it.

And then Lance’s donkey veered off at the last minute and Lance whacked wildly at the ball with his mallet, missing completely and slipping sideways off his donkey. His feet got hopelessly tangled and he landed on his ass, hands thrown out behind him, laughing so hard he didn’t seem to be breathing.

Chris grinned appreciatively at the sight. Donkey polo was chaotic at best, and Lance was in danger of getting trampled by either a donkey wrangler or another careening player, but he didn’t seem to care.

Chris hobbled over to him, dodging donkeys and laughing tourists. He reached out a hand and hauled Lance to his feet. Lance’s smile was so big Chris could see every one of his shiny, white teeth. Chris smiled back so big his face hurt.

*****

Chris and Lance sat on the beach, watching the moonlight on the waves, the soft Gulf breeze making Chris shiver. Or maybe it was Lance who was making him shiver, with his soft, slow, deep wet kisses, and whispered words. Words like Chris and finally and please.

Chris pulled back, his hands lingering on Lance’s waist, thumb rubbing softly over warm skin. “Dude, donkey polo rocks.

Lance’s smile was smug and superior, but Chris didn’t call him on it, just this once. “I told you so.” Lance cocked his head and looked at Chris, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into going parasailing tomorrow?”

“Not even for you, Bass. Not even for you.”

*****