Sunday, August 5, 2012

i didn't know how to say lucky in spanish, though he knew how to say it in english

It has now been a few days since I have been back from Spain - I arrived back in New York's thick heat on Thursday evening - and I still find myself recalling memories of men from that country when I am jerking off, recalling experiences I had and ones that I only wish I had.

The one I keep coming back to is this guy from Sitges. I was only in that town for one night, following a bender of three nights in Barcelona in which I crammed in beaches, backrooms, endless wandering down beautiful streets, and a bit of art. After exploring some of the beaches and cruising woods of that beautiful little town on the Mediterranean, Sitges, I found myself crammed into the only open bit of sand on the gay nude beach in town. There was this incredibly sexy man who I kept on watching whenever he walked to or from the water. I thought he was perfection. He had a beautiful dick, a beautiful body, and beautiful feet. My appreciation for feet was reaching new levels of fetish in Spain. So many of the men wore flip-flops and just about all of them had beautiful feet. This man was one of them. I was insanely turned on by him. I did not talk to him. Instead, some older British man started talking to me and then followed me in the water. We talked about George Eliot and Middlemarch, and he was charming at first because he was someone to talk to, which one always appreciates at first when they are traveling alone, but soon I found myself wondering how I could shake this man. When I said I was going to leave and head back toward my hotel, he said he was going to leave to and we could walk together. As he was getting ready, I told him I was going to stay on the beach. He then stayed too. When he went to the concession stand to get something, I literally took off running across some rocks in the other direction to escape him.

Out at bars that evening, I saw the sexy guy from the beach, now dressed, hanging out with his friends. I smiled at him a bit but never got up the nerve to talk to him. I ended up having a threesome with this British couple after we stayed up until six in the morning smoking cigarettes nonstop on my balcony and talking about life.

The next day, I slept too late and only had an hour or so to hit the beach again before I had to leave to catch a train back to Barcelona in order to catch my train to Madrid. My time in that town was coming to an end and I was wishing I had longer there, so in love with just lying on the beach and looking at the parade of cocks going into and out of the water. I went for one last swim, knowing I only had about ten minutes left before I needed to leave. I was about to leave the water, took in the scene of the beautiful city from the water, and then saw the sexy guy I had been eyeing the day before heading into the water. I floated down the shore in his direction. We bobbed around in the water near each other for a bit. I said hello. He said hello back. We immediately started making out, the hellos being all the introduction we needed. Everything I had wanted happened in these last moments before I had to leave. I took this as a sign that the universe would provide, that things always eventually work out. We stroked each other's cocks. I straddled his hips and he rubbed his beautiful erect cock against my asshole. We touched and touched. He wrapped his legs around my hips and I rubbed my cock against his ass and I reached around behind me, grabbing those feet I had been desiring since I first saw them. We moaned and stroked faster and faster, it clear that both of us were about to come. We both did so into the Mediterranean. I said bye to him, explained I had to catch a train to Madrid. He told me some bars to go to while I was there.

That is the main scene I keep replaying when jerking off. It was one of the hottest encounters I have had in the longest time. There are other memories from this trip that occasionally get projected up on to that big screen of my erotic imagination. In fact, quite a few other memories. The week was a sexual binge.

There were other aspects to the week surely. There were pangs of loneliness that would occasionally hit me when I looked for places to eat in Madrid and walked past tables and tables full of couples in love with each other, so pleased to be in this city in each other's company. There was the thrill of not understanding conversations happening around me, of seeing the world as bigger than I often do. There was an intense feeling that I so rarely get looking at art when, out of the corners of my eyes, I glanced Picasso's "Guernica" only a room away when I was in the Museo Reina Sofia. I actually got nervous, jittery, about walking into the next room to see it full on, knew that this moment could never be repeated, that this was an encounter I had been wanting to happen since we spent a couple classes in my 11th grade European History class talking about just this painting, the first work of art I had ever heard talked about in such depth and with such a probing level of analysis. It's a fucking powerful experience to see this thing in person. There were numerous amazing Bosch paintings at the Prado. There were also several Goya paintings that I saw at the Prado that had effects similar, though not as intense, as seeing "Guernica" in person, of my heart and breath both taking a pause, astounded to be seeing these things in person.

So I wasn't particularly excited when my plane left Spain. I spent a few hours wandering around Frankfurt because I had an eight hour layover at that city's airport. I got on the plane back to New York finally and took some Benadryl and passed out even before the plane took off. I woke up at some point over the Atlantic. I watched some shit movies that were on offer, a movie Zac Efron was in, a movie Chris Evans was in. And I had no clue what I was heading back to. I still don't know what I have come back to. I have come back to co-habitating with my ex-boyfriend. I have come back to a thick and heavy humidity that weighs down on me. I have come back to a job I don't particularly like and that hinders my ability to enjoy much of nightlife with its 7am start times.

And so it is very tempting to escape again. Logistically and financially though, I cannot just pick up and go back to Spain right now, despite how nice it would be to be in a position to do so. I can, however, lie on my back and stroke my dick and think about the time I did so in the Mediterranean with this sexy man off the coast of a small beach town, other people around us in the water and neither of us caring, both so sure of what we wanted that nothing else mattered.

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