Leaving Las Vegas.

"Vegas: What happens here, stays here," trumpets the slogan for Sin City. With promises of more adult-themed attractions than ever before, Vegas is hell-bent on ushering in a whole new era of hedonism. The invitation to misbehave is cute, but you're preaching to the choir. Dinah Shore weekend. The White Party

Gay people already know that in order to maintain some semblance of sanity in your life, every once in a while you have to go out in the desert and act like a great big whore. But the Las Vegas desert is off-limits, at least to me. My father lives there.

My dad doesn't even belong in Vegas. He doesn't gamble or drink and has absolutely no interest in watching Celine Dion fly. He moved there from San Francisco because the cost of living is shockingly low and he loves the desert climate. Like me, he likes things hot and cheap.

But having your Filipino Catholic father live in Las Vegas is like having your mom chaperone your prom. Your anonymity is shot. It doesn't help that the Vegas hotels and casinos employ the entire Filipino population of Nevada. Maybe you don't know this, but we all know each other. My dad's on a first-name basis with everyone from the beret-wearing staff of Paris to the compact gladiator standing watch outside Caesars. If there's an Asian person walking around in a culturally incongruous costume, chances are they know Mr. Mapa and his son, the big homo.

If I were to engage in any sort of seedy behavior, like perhaps accept an invitation from a couple of really hot guys from Seattle to finish off a lid of Humboldt in their suite at the Bellagio, word would get back to my dad, and I'd have to go to confession.

This isn't the first time my father's stood between me and a good time. I grew up in San Francisco right up the hill from Castro Street, and we'd often attend revivals at the Castro Theatre. Singin' in the Rain, Mildred Pierce--you get the picture. No, my dad isn't a fag. He just has queer taste in cinema. Whenever I was with him on one of these outings I'd get cruised like crazy. Do you know what it's like getting cruised while you're out with your dad? It's like getting cruised while you're out with your dad. There's nothing you can do.

The truth is, I've been out to my father for years, and he's fine with everything. It's just that whenever I'm around him I revert to my true emotional age, which is about 4.

Years before my father and I had "the talk"--before he promised he'd love me no matter what, gave my boyfriend a bear hug, and said he was welcome in his home anytime--their existed an entirely different relation ship between us. In that relationship, a deeply religious, short-tempered control freak tried to mold his bewildered, willful son into an entirely different person. The teenage years alone left marks on both of us that neither time nor medication nor forgiveness will ever alter.

That's why I can't act like a big hoochie in Vegas. I'm too self-conscious. My visits are spent wandering around the drag-queen architecture of the Strip, marveling at the huge slabs of concrete and steel trick-or-treating as foreign landmarks. I outlet-shop, go to O, worship at the altar of Gladys Knight. But I leave Sin City sinless. On my last visit my father pointed out a billboard advertising one of the Strip's most celebrated magi clans. "Did you know that he's gay?" he asks. "No, Pop, I didn't. I can name any number of gay magicians in Los Angeles, but this isn't my territory." "Don't be such a smart-ass," be snaps. "He's gay, and get this--his boyfriends Filipino! You could be dating him!"

What's this? My father's not only dishing about some closeted celebrity, he's setting me up! I giggle with equal amounts glee and discomfort. I'm barely comfortable with my father as a friend; I'm not ready to have him as a girlfriend. As we walk arm in arm down the street, I start to think maybe I could relax around him ... one day. But don't tell anyone. What happens here, stays here.