The men sitting at the café formed a motley crew. They had come together on the covered terrace of the Café Viggos between the Plaza Del Mar and the yacht basin of the ancient harbor fishing village of Puerto de Mazarrón on Spain’s Mediterranean coast. They were widely disparate in profession and age. They had been coming together here for an hour after work for years to watch the sun set over the water and to drink beer, wine, or brandy, according to their taste.
The only foreigner among them, the late forties English ex-patriot, Howard Harden, was the most recent arrival. It was an anomaly that he was accepted in this close-knit group who decried the guiris, the foreign tourists, who passed by, but that he had been accepted. He, as the owner of the ex-patriot weekly newspaper published out of a small, three-story building across the Plaza Del Mar from the café, was the one who brought the group the latest news to give them something to talk about rather than the phenomenon that brought them all together and held them like glue. Perhaps it was because he’d lived in Spain nearly his entire life and spoke Spanish fluently that made him acceptable. But maybe also it was because he was bitten by the same affliction as the others.
What had brought them all to this particular café was that one of the original members of the group, the mid-fifties Gervaso Ortega, owned the café and was generous with his servings for what little money they were able to spend. None of the men was wealthy. The two youngest, in their early twenties and both beautiful and well-formed, if forlorn-aspected youths, were Lonzo Alvarez, a mailman, and Santos Diaz, a hospital orderly. Older and more morose than any of them was Esteban Ramos, once a famous Flamenco guitarist in the region, but having suffered a tragic love loss that had dipped him into despair and had silenced his guitar and made him a virtual ward of the café owner, Ortega, until he would recover and return to bringing nighttime business to the café.
What held this group together more than anything else, though, was their love for other men. They all were or had been in love and in affairs with other men. This common bond was never spoken between them and they would have expressed disbelief in public if they were in hearing when it was attributed to another of them, but they all knew, accepted, and hung together in their frustration and the memory of what had been and lost or that could not fully be.
Howard Harden had loved a fellow newspaper man in Cartagena when working on an English-language weekly there. Both men had been married and had families at the time, but that hadn’t prevented them falling into each other’s arms. It had prevented them from continuing their relationship, though, with both of them leaving their families, but for separate locations. Harden didn’t even know where his former lover had gone. In coming to the Mediterranean seaside village of Puerto de Mazarrón, he had not given up his seeking for young men who would top him, but he didn’t indulge often and when he did it was somewhere away from Puerto de Mazarrón and with professional rent-boys, usually muscular thuggish dockworkers who would treat him rough and punish him for what he saw as having been his sinful life.
Esteban Ramos’s mistake had been falling in love with a notable Flamenco dancer he accompanied on the guitar on the Costa del Sol, who had left him behind when Seville beckoned. The story of the rest was more complex and entangled. Gervaso Ortega pined for the submissive hospital orderly Santos Diaz, while the mailman—and occasional rent-boy for men to make ends meet—Lonzo Alvarez, pined for Gervaso Ortega. Ortega had once accorded himself of Alvarez’s sexual services but had met and been smitten by Diaz soon thereafter. Nothing came of his pursuit of Diaz, who fancied younger sailors, but Alvarez lost his heart to the well-endowed Ortega. The young men, of course, were aware of the conundrum and stuck the knives in each other over it when they were able, but Ortega seemed oblivious to his position in the triangle.
It had been Alvarez who had brought Harden into the group. When he’d first arrived and was establishing his newspaper, Harden picked Alvarez up in a bar where they had both become nearly passed out drunk. Alvarez had awakened in Harden’s third-floor bedroom in the newspaper building to the discovery that nothing had happened between them. They were both submissive and had gone to the bar in the mistaken belief they could find a fit. As they drank themselves under the table, they spent so much time trying to determine if they were fit, that they mistakenly thought they were. They commiserated about their mistake with each other over breakfast and the newspaper publisher was brought into the men’s group at the Café Viggos.
One of the customs of the group was to look down into the plaza in the early second hour of their daily vigil, when topics of conversation were waning, to observe the arrival there of the daily bus from Grenada to let off and take on passengers in its routine trek on toward Cartagena. They would watch to see who had arrived and would speculate on what the travelers were here for. A half hour after that the bus from Cartagena, headed for Seville, would stop in the plaza to discharge and take on passengers, and the game of assessment of those coming off the bus here from Cartagena would start all over again.
“Just another guiri—a foreign tourist,” Santos Diaz said dismissively on an early evening that was momentous, although none of them would realize that immediately. He had spied a tall, achingly handsome and well-built blond man descend from the bus from Grenada, carrying a duffel bag and a guitar case and look around the plaza.
“Not just a guiri, I think,” Howard Harden said, with a low whistle. He’s a beautiful young man—a man’s man. This was as close as any of them got to declaring their affinities, but all of the men at the table took a closer look at the new arrival.
“Yes, he does look divine,” Lonzo Alvarez said, which right there and then, backing up his original assessment, set Diaz against the young man wearing a loose white-cotton shirt, tight jeans, and cowboy boots—and wearing them quite well. The young, tanned, fair-haired man with the face of a movie star was broad shouldered and chested, but with a narrow waist. In other circumstances, Diaz would melt to him. But, since Alvarez, was inclined in that direction, Diaz wasn’t.
“More of El Extranjero Rubio,” Howard Harden declared—The Blond Foreigner. A lot of the foreign tourists who alighted here—mostly German—were Nordic blonds. This one didn’t quite fit that bill, while still be a sunny blond. “He looks to be English.” And thus it was that Martin Warren became El Extranjero Rubio, or ER, for short, during his time in Puerto de Mazarrón. “What do you think, Esteban?”
Esteban turned from his inward thoughts and said, “He’s carrying a guitar case. I hope he doesn’t fancy himself a Flamenco. He is, after all, just another guiri.”
“But the young man himself, Esteban?”
“The young man is a blond god,” the Flamenco guitarist uttered.
“Well, if he does play the Spanish guitar,” Gervaso Ortega, who was standing by the table having served another round of drinks, “he can play here in the evening. He is a handsome man and would bring me business—unless, of course, you wish to pay your way by taking up the guitar here again, Esteban.”
Esteban Ramos grunted, turned his face away, and took another drag on his wine.
Accustomed to their evening game of observing those getting off the bus from Granada, they continued talking about El Extranjero Rubio, as the young man looked around the plaza, spied what he was looking for, and walked to and entered Harden’s newspaper office.
Harden stood from the table. “It appears he is looking for me,” he said. “I’d best check that out.” His heart had fluttered when he saw the young man enter the newspaper office—indeed, it was more than just Harden’s heart that had fluttered. The young man was just what Harden dreamed of merging with—the two men were of a similar age and they both walked with assurance and command and were divinely built. This El Extranjero Rubio was a blond, English rendition of the dark, sultry Teyo Torres, Harden’s former lover.
* * * *
Harden woke in the firm embrace of El Extranjero Rubio, embracing him from behind, the two of them stretched, naked, against each other. Harden struggled a bit, not fully realizing yet what was what here. He knew he was in his own bed on the third-floor of the newspaper building on the Plaza Del Mar, but he wasn’t fully in tune with another man being in bed with him—a tall, blond man, well-muscled and strong—and as Harden slowly, but well, could remember was hung, virile, and vigorous.
Martin Warren held the older man close until he gave up struggling. Then he palmed Harden’s belly, pulling his buttocks into Warren’s belly, while rolling Harden’s pelvis up, putting the younger man’s renewed thick and long erection in position again. Harden gasped and yelped, as Warren entered him strongly for the third time since the dark of night, and fucked him hard and deep in a side split. Warren brought an arm around Harden’s hip, possessed the older man’s cock with his hand, and stroked him off as he plowed the man’s channel. Harden gave up, relaxed, and took the cock and the jackoff, coming not long after Warren had. Warren had barebacked him. Harden didn’t care.
Harden turned his face to Warren’s, exhilarated by how achingly handsome the young man was and astonished that he’d fucked him three times in the night—no, three times here in the bed, but once before, downstairs. But it had been Harden who had gone down on all fours on the floor in front of the young Canadian the previous evening, babbling of his need, and had surrendered to Warren mounting him and riding him hard. In the throes of passion, Harden had called out a name—Teyo—and given up his seed. Warren had ridden on to his own release, surprised at the name the older man had invoked but unstinting in the attention he gave to his new boss.
The two men kissed deeply, both of them smiling for each other as they came out of the kiss. Warren slapped Harden playfully on the buttocks, rolled off the bed, and went into the adjoining bathroom. He stood at the toilet, holding his cock, and pissing into the stool. He’d left the door open. Harden watched him from the bed for a couple of minutes, neither of them self-conscious, responding as if long-time lovers. Then, with a grunt, he rolled out bed, pulled on the boxer shorts scattered loosely on the floor next to the bed along with commingled clothes from both of them, and trotted, barefooted, down the stairs to the living and kitchen area on the floor above the newspaper offices to put the coffee pot on.
Did he regret that it had all been so easy—that he’d shown how badly he wanted and needed it? No, he did not. He hummed while he moved around the kitchen putting a breakfast together. As famished as he was, the big hunk upstairs must be starved. Warren had done a lot of work. He was quite vigorous and athletic. Harden smiled to himself at the thought of it. He hadn’t had such a complete lover since he’d split with Teyo.
When Warren came down stairs, he was wrapped in just a towel. Harden melted at the muscular, blond beauty of him. He’d taken a shower and was looking a bit apprehensive.
“I’m sorry, if—”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Harden answered. “I’ll finish fixing our breakfasts and then we can resume our talk from last night that we left off when we’d had one drink too many.”
“Is that how you think of it—as having had too much to drink?”
“No. I thought of it as ‘about time to be fucked like that again.'”
They both laughed, whatever tension they might have been experiencing flowing out of them.
The young man had come to the newspaper office looking for a job. Word had gone out in the region that Harden was looking for an English-language editor—not someone to track down the stories; someone to put it all together in acceptable English. He’d also come looking for a Spanish guitar teacher. He had come to Spain to pursue Spanish guitar music. He was Canadian, but he’d gone to Oxford. He was twenty-five.
“You already have a name—El Extranjero Rubio,” he said, explaining where it had come from, what it meant, and saying, with a laugh, that most English tourists and ex-patriots in town were given much less flattering names. He followed that up by saying, “I think I have a friend who can take you as a guitar student. He is a brilliant Flamenco guitarist who is going through a bout of depression and hasn’t performed in a while. A student may be just what he needs. I’ll have to introduce you to the group we’re both in.”
The two had gotten along famously from the time Harden walked back into the newspaper office and Warren stood, solid, tall, and gorgeous in Harden’s eyes, and handed him his résumé. The CV covered everything Harden would want in a copyeditor and that it was just a parttime job with low pay didn’t faze the young man at all. Harden quickly got the impression that Warren had enough money of his own to sustain him—that he wanted the experience more than anything else. He also was quite clear about wanting to learn Spanish guitar music, and especially the Flamenco.
It wasn’t just Warren’s background melding almost perfectly with the needs of the job. The young man himself fit in with Harden’s lifestyle.
“I have my peculiarities,” Harden had said, broaching the nature of what had brought him here—disappointment in finding he was a gay submissive—rather delicately.
“Not any more peculiar than my own inclinations,” Warren had said, “although I am more of a dominant than a receiver. I had heard of you when I was asking around about this job vacancy. I am quite comfortable with your interests.” Warren didn’t say who exactly he’d heard about Harden’s proclivities from.
“Are you comfortable with that, really? Because most of the young men working on the paper—”
“No, it’s fine. Really.”
When Harden realized they had been talking for some time and finding mutual interests and views on country and world issues and that the young man followed wide-ranging issues and displayed considerable depth of knowledge on several topics, he realized that they were well into the evening meal period and he invited Warren to accompany him across the plaza for dinner at the Café Viggos. The café owner, Gervaso Ortega, was, of course, there and holding court with the diners, most of whom were regulars. But Esteban Ramos was there as well.
Harden introduced Warren to the accomplished Spanish guitarist, and although he mentioned that Warren would be looking for a guitar teacher, he didn’t press Esteban to take the young man on. He just got the two going on discussing the various modes Spanish guitar and the well-known composers and guitarists of the region, already knowing that Warren’s knowledge was broad in that area and his enthusiasm infectious. Having been warned that Ramos was in a sensitive, withdrawn state, Warren didn’t press the possibilities either, but he engaged enthusiastically with Ramos on the topic and, to the eyes of Harden and Ortega, drew the man out more than he had been since he had been disappointed in love.
It was nearly midnight before Harden and Warren returned to the newspaper office. The publisher had proofs to go over for the next edition of the newspaper, and Warren volunteered to help.
“It will be an opportunity for us both to see that it’s something I can handle,” he said.
“Well, I won’t turn down the offer,” Harden said. “I’ll be happy to bring out something that will make the chore easier.” The “something” was Greek brandy.
By the time they were finished with the proofs and Warren mentioned that he would need to find someplace for the night and until he could rent a flat in town, it was really late and the two were fast drinking buddies.
“It’s much too late to find something tonight. I have an extra bedroom upstairs. Come on up and stay the night here. You can go looking for a flat tomorrow. You can start with the ads in our own paper.”
They initially only made it as far as the next flight above, which essentially was one long room with a kitchen wall at the far end. They continued drinking as they sat in the living area of the flat. They continued acquainting themselves with each other and the discussions got more intimate. Although the signals were coming fast and thick from Harden, it was the young Warren who turned to him on the sofa, touched him, and moved into the first kiss. The kiss was followed by fondling and even more honest and open talk of what the two wanted from a man—and, eventually, what they would like to have from each other.
When Harden slipped to his knees on the carpet between Warren’s spread thighs, unzipped the young man, pulled him out, and gave him suck, Warren made no effort to pull away from him. He just sighed, laid back into the sofa, cupped Harden’s head in his hands, and helped control the blow job.
When it came to the fuck, Harden went down on the carpet on all fours and the young man mounted him on top and rode him like a dog in heat. From there they moved up to the bedroom level, but the second bedroom was not put in use that night.
The next evening, after a day of training the blond foreigner in on the job, Martin Warren accompanied Howard Harden to the group gathering on the covered terrace of the Café Viggos as the sun was going down on the Mediterranean. The young mailman, Lonzo Alvarez, was enthralled with Harden’s El Extranjero Rubio guest, but a glowering hospital orderly, Santos Diaz muttered “guiri” under his breath. The senior group members, Gervaso Ortega and Esteban Ramos had already met and been favorably impressed with Warren, so there was no open opposition to welcoming the young Canadian into their regular fellowship.
Warren didn’t go looking for a flat that day or any subsequent day. He was content with the second bedroom Harden offered him in his flat above the newspaper offices, even though he didn’t use the bed in that room often.
Martin Warren was a perceptive young man. It didn’t take him more than a couple of evenings with the Café Viggos men’s group to figure out both what held them together and what kept them apart. He also was surprised to find how small the world in Mediterranean Spain was.
* * * *
Esteban Ramos slept in a bedroom in a warren of rooms about the Café Viggos, having gained acceptance there years before when he was performing nightly on the Spanish guitar in the café. It was here that he gave guitar lessons to El Extranjero Rubio and where, eventually, the two men—the skillful and brilliantly performing Spanish guitarist once more becoming in tune with life and his enthusiastic student—fucked.
Warren was taken aback when he entered Esteban’s room above the café. The walls were covered by posters and photographs of Flamenco dancers. One stood out prominently—a transvestite dancer named La Perla—the Pearl. Warren did the double-take because he’d only recently left La Perla—in Grenada, where there was a Flamenco club Warren went to and where La Perla, once quite famous but now somewhat down on her luck, danced.
“Have you played for any of these dancers?” he asked Esteban, fishing for the answer he halfway knew was coming since La Perla figured so prominently on the man’s wallpaper.
“Yes, that one there. One of the greatest dancers there ever was. La Perla. She danced here. I saw her talent and we went to Costa del Sol, where the best money for such entertainment is to be found—among the guiris, though, a bastardization of the art. She was discovered there and went on to greater fame to where Spanish music is appreciated by Spaniards. I returned here to pine and decay.”
Should he tell the man? Warren wondered. La Perla didn’t last that long in pure Spanish appreciation. The transvestite club in Grenada was mainly for the foreign tourists—the guiris—and La Perla was a forlorn person there, speaking of a glorious past she once had had and the lover to go with it, the finest Spanish guitarist she’d even danced for. Warren could only surmise that it was Esteban she had been speaking of and that she was as sunk in depression as Esteban was.
“Come, let us get to work,” the teacher said. “First you learn the different forms of Spanish music—and the various ways the guitar serves it.”
“I’m mostly interested in the Flamenco,” Warren said.
“You must build up to the Flamenco. When you have learned to live the Flamenco with your guitar, there were be no more you can learn of music.”
It was hot in the small room and the air was close. Both men were stripped down to just shorts and sat side-by-side on Esteban’s bed, each with a Spanish guitar held lovingly in his arms.
“Flamenco is a way of life,” Esteban said. “You must become one with it either to dance with it or to play it on the guitar. It is love, the very essence of Spain. It isn’t the only form of Spanish guitar. There are other forms—palos—you must master, calling forth other moods on your way to being one with the music in the Flamenco. There is the Taranta for melancholy, the Alegria for joy, the Tango for sexual energy.”
Esteban demonstrated them all, holding off on the Flamenco.
“You say you play the guitar already. Hold your guitar in the position you play and place your fingers on the strings, ready to play. No, that is all wrong. We will have to start from the very beginning. Place your right hand like this, the fingers there. Yes, yes, it is painful. With the proper fingering you will have to rebuild the calluses on your hands. You will bleed and you will suffer for your music. But you will remember the suffering and it will come out as it should eventually in your playing. In Flamenco, your hands will work entirely separately. The left will be playing the chords of the melody. But it is the right hand that matters in Flamenco—it provides the fire, the rhythm, the urgency of the music.”
The first hour was spent just on learning to position the fingers—how to automatically place them where they needed to be when the guitar was picked up—and then how to tap out the rhythm of the beat on the case of the guitar while playing the melody with the left hand. Eventually, Esteban called a stop to this part of the lesson, seeing the frustration of his student but also impressed by the intensity Warren was showing in trying to learn and for his fingers to remember.
“Here, you are tired, and we are getting nowhere. No, no, it is well enough. This is good for a first lesson. Rest. I will play the more complex palos for you to show you what can be, what will be if you truly have the talent for it and apply yourself to learning.”
Esteban took Warren’s guitar from his hands and lowered it back into its case. The two men remained seated close beside the other on the bed. “Concentrate on the music. Watch my fingering,” he said. “I will start with the Taranta.”
He started playing, losing himself in the music, seemingly forgetting that anyone else was in the room. When he got to the Tango, Warren rose and stood in front of him, eyes closed, moving with the music. The more Esteban played, the more the two moved to two different planes, lost in themselves but also melding with each other. Warren’s swaying became dancing. He was dancing a Tango, almost believing and making Esteban believe he had a partner sexually fused with him in the dance. When Esteban changed to a Flamenco, Warren changed with him.
Both men were panting, breathing hard, and fusing with their eyes, as Esteban’s playing became more frantic and Warren’s dance became wilder, showing that, as large he was of frame, he was flexible and masterful, as fiery as the dance demanded, and he knew more than the rudiments of the dance.
“It’s like La Perla. You dance like Le Perla,” Esteban cried out in amazement.
“Yes,” Warren cried out. And, indeed, there was a reason he did. In immersing himself in Spanish music and dance, he did just attend the transvestite dance club in Grenada where La Perla now danced. He’d studied the dance there, under La Perla, and had dressed the part himself and danced for weeks in the Grenada club review.
Becoming overwhelmed, Esteban abandoned the Flamenco and returned to the slow-moving, sensuous Taranta. Warren came close to him, standing in front of Esteban at the side of the bed. The music faded out, Esteban wrapped his arms around Warren’s waist and buried his face in the young blond’s belly. Warren cupped the man’s head with one hand and moved the other one lower, unzipping and flaring his shorts, letting them fall to his ankles. Esteban’s lips moved down through the blond pubic hair and he took the young man’s cock in his mouth. Warren swayed in front of him, crouching between the older man’s spread thighs, cupping the Spaniard’s head in his hands, as Esteban gave him suck.
When Warren was in full erection, he pressed gently on the Spaniard’s chest and Esteban lay back on the bed. His shorts slid down his legs, and the younger man, leaning over him, coaxed Esteban’s ankles onto his shoulders, and moved his cockhead into position.
Esteban cried out La Perla’s name, Paco, as Warren penetrated deep and began the dance of the fuck, completing the master Spanish guitarist as the dancer did at the height of the combined performance of the two lovers.
Esteban kept alternating between “La Perla” and “Paco” all the time Warren was fucking him. They didn’t mention again how it had started or whether it would continue, but Warren continued to come to Esteban’s room three nights a week for lessons and the lessons always ended in a fuck.
Esteban’s morose demeanor changed a bit during the evenings the men’s group reformed on the covered terrace of the Café Viggos, but, although the other men surmised why, the change was never mentioned there either. Esteban continued to barely acknowledge Martin Warren in the evenings and Howard Harden ignored the change—as long as Warren was sleeping in his bed and maintained the vigor to fuck him, he didn’t care who else the young man fucked. Ortega, himself a top, had no designs on either Harden or Ramos, so he ignored the changing dynamics in the group. Sensing that Warren was doing both Harden and Ramos, the mailman and parttime rent-boy, Lonzo Alvarez, exhibited increased interest in El Extranjero Rubio. And, although the hospital orderly continued to exhibit disparagement for the guiri among them, his sense of competition, coupled with Lonzo’s interest in Warren, piqued his own interest in the man.
* * * *
“This letter has come for you from Grenada, ER,” Lonzo Alvarez, the young postman, said one evening as Martin Warren was sitting by Esteban Ramos in the Café Viggos covered terrace with the men’s group. Warren and Ramos had their heads together closely watching Warren fingering a soft Taranta tune on his guitar. The men had turned to calling Warren ER, shortened from El Extranjero Rubio. “The man of the sender is familiar. Teyo Torres. I wonder who—”
Warren turned abruptly and took Alvarez’s lips with his in a kiss. He eyes, though, had gone to Howard Harden, sitting across from them but his head turned to say something to the café owner, Gervaso Ortega, standing behind the table, serving wine from a jug.
Taking the letter out of the mesmerized postman’s hand, and surreptitiously dropping it into his guitar case, address side down, Warren murmured, “Sorry, Lonzo, I have wanted to do that for some time.”
Touching the fingers or one hand to his lips and touching the young Canadian guitarist on the chest with the other, Lonzo, eyes sparkling, whispered, “And I. I have wanted the kiss from you. Does this mean—?”
“Tonight, later, I will come to you at the Club Miramar. I will not pay, though. So, if you will not take me just because we both lust for it, tell me and I will not come.”
“Yes, yes, come,” Lonzo said, breathlessly, no longer giving any thought to the letter he had passed to the beautiful young, blond stud who had been signaling his interest for several days now and who had Lonzo in deep heat for him. “I have a room at the club.”
And so Lonzo did have a room at the Club Miramar, reached along with the rooms of two other male whores with whom the club serviced the male brothel needs of the men of Puerto de Mazarrón through a beaded curtain-covered doorway at the end of the club’s bar.
Warren looked up beyond where Howard Harden was seated and met the gaze of the café owner, Ortega, who nodded at him, the two men having discussed the dynamics in the group, Warren having learned the desires of the café owner and agreed to help him toward his newly formed goal now that Esteban Ramos had begun to emerge from his sulk and was again playing on the Spanish guitar at night for the growing clientele of the café. Howard had brought the proofs off the next newspaper with him and returned to looking over them while, at the side, a sultry and sour Santo Diaz, the young hospital orderly, looked on and assessed the sensual undercurrents in the group, not being completely sure what he wanted—just knowing it was something more than he was getting. He particularly was displeased with the kiss between the guiri, Warren, and Lonzo Alvarez.
An hour later Lonzo was getting what he’d been dreaming of, having turned his attention from the café owner Ortega just when the man had begun to notice that Lonzo fancied him. The young mailman was on all fours on his bed in a back room beyond the beaded curtain of the Club Miramar, in the Mazarrón port area, catering to the sailors of the port, with, by his choice, his arms stretched over his head, his wrists bound to the bed’s brass headboard railing. The gorgeous blond Canadian stud, Martin Warren, was mounted on his tail, grasping his hips, and rising and falling in a deep fuck.
As he fucked, Warren leaned over and placed his lips beside Lonzo’s ear and whispered what he was dreaming of doing with the young postman—that he would like to share him with another, older man in a threesome or even maybe a foursome. Reveling in the El Extranjero Rubio‘s thick cock stretching and working him deep, Lonzo moaned and acceded to whatever Warren dreamed of doing with him whenever the blond stud wanted it.
The next day Santos Diaz had a day off from the hospital and, being somewhat of a solitary person who needed to relax from the life-and-death situations he got involved in at work, he went to a private beach along the Mediterranean coast outside of Puerto de Mazarrón on land belonging to the café owner, Gervaso Ortega, that Ortega, doing what he could to curry favor, let the young man use. The small pebble beach opened to the sea with rock walls on the other three sides. It was very private and, as he’d done many times before, after Diaz swam in the sea naked, he came back onto the beach and stretched out on his back on a large beach towel. He cleared his mind of all of the illness and death he’d seen in the previous week, let his sexual frustrations and musings on the interworkings of the Café Viggos men’s group float through his mind, once more unsuccessfully rectifying the mixed emotions he had on that and the remix of relationships that had been stirred up by the appearance of the sexy guiri, Martin Warren, and, eventually, he fell into a doze.
The beach was on an incline down to the sea, so when Santos slitted his eyes open, he could see the blue expanse of the Mediterranean. He assumed he was dreaming when he saw the beautiful, blond, naked figure of a young man rise from the sea and walk up, through the surf, toward where he lay. Martin Warren moved slowly, majestically, sunlight reflecting off his sea droplet-embellished blond, lightly muscular body. One of Warren’s hand cupped his balls and thick, long cock, in full erection. The man was smiling, capturing and holding Santos’s attention.
Santos moaned. Almost involuntarily, he spread and bent his legs, putting his feet flat on the pebbled sand and lifting his pelvis. As Warren knelt down on the towel between the young hospital orderly’s thighs, Santos arched his back and moved his arms to embracing the young Canadian’s broad back. He arched his head, looking heavenward, and crying out the glorious penetration as Warren thrust up hard and deep inside his channel and started the conquering of the cock.
As he fucked, Warren leaned over and whispered in Santos’s ear all that he dreamed of doing with the sultry young man who was surrendering all his previous indecision and defensiveness in a flood of lust and passion. His channel was stretching, betraying his need for the possessing, mastering cock, the muscles of his passage walls grasping at the conquering shaft, undulating over it, caressing it. His hips moved into a coordinated dance of the fuck.
“Yes, yes, whatever you want,” he whispered in response to Warren speaking of his dream of three or four men locked in an entangled embrace, fucking, engaging in an orgy of sexual give and take.
And that, by the agreement between Warren and Ortega, was where they were three days hence, in Ortega’s flat overlooking the Puerto de Mazarrón yacht marina on the third floor of his Café Viggos. Two couples were on the bed, Lonzo Alvarez and Santos Diaz both on the backs, side by side, touching and kissing each other, as Ortega, holding Diaz’s legs raised and spread, knelt between the young man’s thighs and fucked him. Martin Warren likewise knelt between Alvarez’s thighs, with the young man’s ankles hooked on his shoulders, and he was fucking him as well.
The café owner and young Canadian moved on to sharing the young postman and hospital orderly separately in double penetrations, Ortega on his back, first Lonzo and then Santos, on top of him, riding his shaft, facing him, and with Warren behind, running his cock in on top of Ortega’s and driving the fuck. When Lonzo and Santos weren’t in the sandwich, they were flitting around encouraging the other young man and touching and kissing him. At long last the two were no longer rivals in any sense of the word and had become two aspects of a shared need and lust.
At length, duty performed, Warren withdrew, first to across the room, as Lonzo and Santos shared Ortega’s prodigious shaft, and eventually, with the other three no longer needing or noticing him, from the room altogether.
For the next several days, the evening meeting on the covered terrace of the Café Viggos was one of humming and smiles, with affectionate banter touching while Esteban Ramos and Martin Warren wove their soft musical magic on the Spanish guitars, Warren’s expertise increasing by the moment and Esteban moving fully into his former glory. All of the men were being well fucked. Ortega was covering Lonzo and Santos and Warren was taking care of Harden and Ramos.
Such harmony could have gone on forever—and it did go on, but not as it had now been developed.
* * * *
It came to pass that Martin Warren built up enough vacation time to be gone for nearly a week. He chose to travel from Puerto de Mazarrón randomly across Spain to have his vacation, taking his Spanish guitar with him. Esteban had declared that the young Canadian was good enough on the guitar now to play in cafés, and Warren planned to do that for a few nights at places he had stopped for a short time while traveling about. His friends at the Café Viggos opined that if he had settled in as well elsewhere in Spain as he had done in Puerto de Mazarrón, he would have opportunities to play—and they weren’t talking just about the Spanish guitar.
Thus, it was one evening just before dusk that they all waved to him from the rooftop-covered terrace of the Café Viggos, all somewhat feeling the loss already not to have his glorious presence, as he got on the bus headed for Grenada in the Plaza Del Mar. And they gathered at the railing there when the bus from Grenada pulled in six days later and Martin Warren disembarked. They had gathered there the two evenings before that in the hope that he returned early.
It was with great surprise—much greater for two of them—when, after Warren came off the bus, he was followed, first, by Le Perla—the transvestite Flamenco dancer, Paco—and then by Teyo Torres, the once-upon-a-time lover of the English-language newspaper publisher, Howard Harden. Both of them arrived with considerable luggage. They weren’t, they hoped, there just for a visit.
Neither Esteban Ramos nor Howard Harden held back in their welcome of the lovers who had sent them into depression and to Puerto de Mazarrón and into the company of men who pined for men. The reunions were celebratory. Warren had brought both Harden and Ramos back from the brink and taught them to love again—and to appreciate what they once had had in sexual fulfillment that they were fully prepared to fall full-tilt back into their former relationships.
That Warren had become a bridge between Esteban Ramos and La Perla wasn’t happenstance, and neither was that he reconnected Howard Harden and Teyo Torres. Warren met and worked on a paper with Torres before he met Harden. It was Torres who told Warren about the job Harden had on offer in a coastal town were Warren had already said he’d heard of a brilliant Spanish guitarist he wanted to study with. It had been Paco—La Perla—who Warren had danced with in the Grenada gay club who had voiced the reputation of Ramos. Torres had asked Warren to assess the chances of a reunion with Harden, and in his time in Puerto de Mazarrón, Warren had determined for himself not only that this reunion would be desirable but also that La Perla reuniting with Esteban Ramos was what both of them needed.
Martin Warren was a highly sexed and highly desired young man; he could satisfy himself sexually anywhere. He did not regret giving up bed space with Harden to Torres or in sharing Ramos with La Perla. In the latter case, the presence of the Flamenco dancer just added dimension to Warren’s developing expertise in working with Ramos. The café owner, Gervaso Ortega, was delighted, as the trio entertained regularly at the café at night, and business burgeoned.
In the short run, Warren was sexual satisfied with being part of a foursome with Ortega and the young men, Lonzo Alvarez and Santos Diaz, but a new sexual interest for him had arrived in the Plaza Del Mar at the same time as he, Torres, and La Perla had stepped down from the bus from Grenada.
* * * *
As Martin Warren, La Perla, and Teyo Torres stepped down from the bus from Grenada, a sleek black Porsche 718 Cayman coupe rolled into the Plaza Del Mar and Alessandro Romero, also sleek, elegant, and fifty, climbed out, doing a double-take when he saw La Perla, whom he recognized, as he was in the same business. Seeing the Flamenco dancer told him that he was in the right place and that prospects were probably rather better than he had supposed they would be. Romero was the owner of the famous Theatre Alegrías, in Madrid, the center of the Flamenco world in Spain, albeit the Flamenco that the world of tourists to Spain was accustomed to seeing. Romero had come to Puerto de Mazarrón in search of the famed Spanish guitarist, Esteban Ramos. Imagine his delight to have discovered that just maybe Ramos was being reunited with his creative other half, the Flamenco dancer, La Perla.
He slipped up to the covered terrace of the Café Viggos and found a remote table in the shadows of a bougainvillea vine to observe the joyous and boisterous homecoming celebration at the table where the three who had arrived from the Grenada bus merged in with a table of men who appeared to have possession of the café’s terrace. Although Romero’s goal was to convince Ramos to come to Madrid and to play for the tourists in his theater, now enhanced by the possibility of landing the dancer La Perla as well, Romero couldn’t help but letting his attention periodically go to the gorgeous young, blond guiri, who people were referring to as Martin or ER, and who appeared to have engineered this homecoming.
Romero was an active submissive to men and he quickly assessed manflesh. The young blond was someone he could ache for and open his legs to. He already could imagine lying under the man, his knees hooked on the blond foreigner’s hips, his eyes locked with those of the young god’s, and the young man’s shaft inside him, doing its magic. He was here on business, but just perhaps his business could be mixed with pleasure.
The homecoming party extended from the group’s usual “sundowner” evening meeting into the dinner hour, with La Perla taking the dance stage for the adoring patrons with the accompaniment of Esteban Ramos and Martin Warren on the Spanish guitars. Romero was delighted to discover that the delectable guiri also was adept at the guitar. He drew closer to the performance, his eyes meeting with those of the blond, and a mutual interest flickering up between them. He sensed from the young man’s gaze that he also was thinking of covering and being inside Romero. He also caught the eye of Ramos, who recognized the Spanish music impresario from Madrid.
Between sets, Ramos brought La Perla and Warren over to Romero’s table, introductions were made, and Romero spoke of his interest in engaging Ramos and La Perla to play at the Theatre Alegrías in Madrid. Warren had seated himself beside the impresario and the two exchanged knowing glances. Romero included Warren in his invitation to play in Madrid as well, complimenting the young Canadian on his guitar playing and being able to complement a master such as Ramos.
“I’ll bet you are accomplished at much more than the Spanish guitar,” Romero said, giving the young blond a knowing look. “You look like a very capable young man.”
Smiling, Warren put a hand on Romero’s knee under the table, and the handsome older impresario boldly took it and moved it to his basket, where it remained, rubbing him and cause a rise in the bulge at the crotch, for several minutes. With that, the deal was done. The two would fuck.
When the two had shaken hands upon being introduced, Warren had folded his thumb under into the palm of the Spaniard’s hand and Romero had instinctively—a universal signal of a submissive to a dominant—encased the thumb and stroked it several times. From that moment on, although Ramos and La Perla were included in the conversation, the action at the table was a dance of signaling and dealing between Warren and Romero.
“Think about it. You can’t do better in establishing yourselves about the masters of Flamenco than a run at the Theatre Alegrías in Madrid in Madrid,” Romero said. He was turned toward La Perla and Ramos, speaking to them in earnest tones, although he maintained a grip on Warren’s hand under the tabletop and on his crotch. The guitarist and dancer were leaning in too, wrapped in each other’s arms like they couldn’t remember what fiery exchanges had pulled them apart together before but intent now on never losing each other again. They knew it was true what Romero said about performing in Madrid, especially at his theater. But they would have to compromise their art to do so. The Flamenco in Madrid was for the visiting world, not the Spanish at home.
“I will be here for a couple of days, so you have time to make your decision.” He turned and smiled at Warren, who had been included in the invitation. It was fairly evident that the young Canadian, just now honing his expertise on the Spanish guitar, would accept the invitation. It was equally clear that he would accept other invitations the elegantly dressed and handsome Spaniard might extend. It only now was dawning on Warren that his success in bringing La Perla back to Ramos and Torres back to Harden meant he had no place himself to bed down that night.
Unless . . .
“I will be staying at the Hotel Dos Playas,” Romero said as if he read Warren’s mind. He was speaking to Ramos but he was looking at Warren. “I came straight here. I haven’t been to the hotel yet, and I have no idea where it is. Perhaps someone—”
“I would be happy to guide you to your hotel,” Warren said. “It isn’t far. On the other side of the harbor.”
“That would be very fine,” Romero said, squeezing the hand that was cupping his basket.
The celebrations continued at the group table, as Romero and Warren were left alone to consummate their private deal in the shadows of the café. Romero, his eyes remaining locked on Warren’s, slouched back in his chair, legs spread, as Warren, leaning over the small table, unzipped Romero’s fly, pulled the Spaniard’s erection out, and stroked him off. Warren brought his lips to Romero’s for a deep kiss, as the Spaniard jerked and came and jerked and came again in Warren’s hand.
Taking surreptitious glances in their direction, those at the group table were fully aware of what was happening in the shadows—and they were more than fine with it.
* * * *
One drink in the hotel bar downstairs with no mention whatsoever of what they both knew was coming, and then Alessandro Romero rose, gave Martin Warren a pointed look, and headed for the elevators. Martin followed him.
Romero wanted to be the one cocked, but he also demanded to be the one in control. Warren was slouched in an upholstered chair, naked before he’d danced a bit of a sensual dance to a Spanish guitar recording on the bedside radio, and had lowered himself into the chair upon demand, hooked one leg on the arm of the chair and masturbated while Romero, drinking brandy, also naked now, and sitting on the edge of the bed, watched the gorgeous young Canadian with slitted eyes. Romero was stroking himself off as he watched Warren doing so.
Before Warren came, the older Spaniard rose, placed his nearly empty brandy glass on the bedside table, came over to Warren, and, holding the young man’s thick, long, and hard erection in one hand, hovered over Warren’s pelvis, slowly impaled himself on the young man’s shaft, and, gripping the arms of the chair, raised and lowered his tall, trim, black-curly haired hirsute body on Warren’s cock, pulling moans and an ejaculation out of the young man.
Even when they reached the bed, it was Warren stretched out on his back and Romero settled on his hips, facing him, Warren gripping the man’s waist between his hands, and Romero palming Warren’s pecs as he rose and fell, fucking himself on the young man’s shaft.
Warren had no trouble with where he would bed down for the next three nights. The evening after the third night, the two drove in the black Porsche coupe to the Plaza Del Mar to say their good-byes to the “sundowner” group that appeared on the covered terrace of the Café Viggos nearly every evening. Any sexual tensions that had once moved among that group were now gone. Lonzo Alvarez and Santos Diaz were now moving around the tables, helping the café owner, Gervaso Ortega, respond to the needs of the café patrons. The three laughed with, touched, and interacted with each other comfortably. Howard Harden and Teyo Torres had their heads together over a sheaf of newspaper print, but happily murmuring with each other. Esteban Ramos and La Perla were in fiery temper, arguing with each other. It was their natural, chosen state. It was obvious that they were immensely enjoying discussing their music.
Romero tooted the horn of the Porsche as he and Warren folded themselves into the coupe’s seats. The group of men who had gathered in the evening for several years to share their sexual preferences came to the railing to wave the two off. Ramos and La Perla had decided they would not compromise their art by playing for the guiris in Madrid. They wished El Extranjero Rubio—the blond foreigner—well in both playing guitar and stud for Alessandro Romero for as long as that worked out for their young friend before Warren decided to move on and help other men disentangle their lives as he had done here in such short order and so well. Martin Warren waved back, ready for any Spanish adventures—and hot Spanish men—that came his way and wanted to lay down for him.
