In the dimly lit, narrow corridors of Mexico City's historic center, gay desires fester and burst like pimples. A young, tattooed local, his jeans riding low on his hips, beckons a gringo tourist, hungry for exotic flesh. Their hands clasp, fingers entwining, as they disappear into a doorway, the scent of cheap cologne and stale beer lingering in the air. The room is bare, save for a mattress on the floor and a crucifix on the wall, the irony not lost on the two men as they worship each other's bodies, their movements frantic, desperate, as if trying to outrun the judgment of a thousand eyes.