Horizontal Lives

True Tales of the Infamous Courtesan: Persephone N. Hades and her Horizontal Life underground. How she got there, her mis-adventures and her struggle to re-surface.

Monday, December 13, 2004

The 'Rain' in Spain Falls Mainly on his Belly


(Just a note: forgive my spelling in this one—‘Word’ didn’t help much!)


Last week, I had a call from a man in Barcelona saying he was coming to New York on business, saw my website and wanted to make an appointment to see me during his stay. We book an appointment for this afternoon. All week, I secretly anticipate his visit.

Isn’t it strange what tricks memory plays on the mind? I don’t know about you, but my brain seems to remember only the good, glamorizing and embroidering the past beyond truth, and simply deleting the negative.

But even if I had properly recalled my experiences, I am quite positive I wouldn’t have held him accountable for them, and still would have seen him as I did—as brand new.


Years ago, when Ibiza (an island off the coast of Spain) before it became the Euro-trash heaven/hell it is today, back when it was populated by ex-Pats, hang-on Hippies, lots of Euro and a smattering of Trash, my best friend B. and I, rented a seaside apartment in the quaint town of Santa Eulalia.


B. and her single mother A., had spend every year of B’s childhood summers there. Thus she was much less prone to romanticizing the Europeans than I was.


I sooo wanted to be European. Europeans seemed so sexy, so subtle. They were so educated. Even the dumbest of them spoke at least two other languages.

Adding to that, I never felt at home in America. Americans seemed so self-involved. So uneducated. So pedestrian and unevolved. The men all seemed sixteen, whether they were sixteen or seventy. I was convinced, given enough time spent on European soil, by some sorcery of proximity, I would magically alchemize into my ideal of a European.


Upon arrival, we tossed off our cumbersome clothes, slipped on breezy, gauzy calf-length frocks (nothing on underneath) laced Espadrilles on our feet and settled under the sun in the Center Square to relax, drink some café con leche, and practice our broken Spanish.

While I, alone, secretly awaited for the transformation.


Before our ‘café’s’ had even arrived, we heard a rumbling noise that shook the silverware on the table. Everyone turned to look.

A cherry-red, three-wheeled, triangular convertible sports car flashed to the corner, revved and fell silent. (Was it a Bugatti?) Over the door, leaped an obviously European gentleman, in his fifties, grayish hair slicked back, silver rings encircling both his thumbs.


His glance fell on us immediately and he sauntered confidently toward our table. B and I exchanged a look of: Is he coming to us? Do you know him? Before either of us could speak, he grabbed the extra chair at out table, spun it around, lit a cigarette, blew the smoke in between us and smiled as if his grin needed no words. I was intrigued. B was not.


For a few moments, the three of us struggled to coyly flirt, first in tattered Spanish until it was revealed that he was actually French. This made it a bit easier as my French is much superior to my Spanish.

(Actually, from all my travels, I speak a lot of languages but mostly horizontally. Somehow, when I sit up vertically, they all seem to fall down ward from my brain. Perhaps gravity taking hold? Or perhaps because I learned most languages horizontally?)

Finally we resorted to the universal language of the eyes. He quickly realized my friend had no interest in him so he focused all his energy on me. A few minutes later, he hopped up, spun the chair around to its original position and said to me:


"I want see you later. We have dinner. My ‘finca’. I pick you up here 7 of the clock. Oui? You come?"


I nodded shyly.


He leaned in, taking my chin, pulling it up to his face. I turned my head slightly, disallowing the kiss. Instead, he brought his lips to my ear and whispered,


"You so beautiful. I could cum just looking at you."


And then he was gone. I sat, mouth open, unable to speak.


"What did he say?" B. wanted to know.


"He said he could cum just by looking at me."


"What a creep."


"Do you think he really could?" I asked.


"What? Without touching himself at all? Do you think that’s what he meant?"


"I think so."


"Euro-trash." She commented. "And French."


"He seems so suave. So worldly."


"So arrogant. I hate men like that."


"I think you are taking it the wrong way." I sped to his defense. "He’s just so much more romantic, so much more, more, well…more…than American men."


"He’s full of himself. Just because he’s European doesn’t mean he’s not a man. All men are the same."


"Not European men. They are so much more evolved than American men."


"That really bugs me. Who does he think he is?" She takes a loud slurp of her café. "I think I know who he is. Did he say his name? I don’t remember."


"He did. Patrice, I think."


"Right! I remember him from when I was a little girl. He was younger then too of course. He’s the town’s playboy. 'Richie Rich'. 'Peter Pan'. He’s had every woman living on the island and now has had to work his slime on the tourists."


"You’re too young to be this cynical."


"I’m not being cynical. This is a man who has used girls under sixteen years old, promising them love and promptly discarding them. Just for the thrill of it. He has no heart. We have to fix him. We need a plan."


"I don’t want a plan. I want to enjoy a nice dinner, be charmed by a sexy foreign man, have a torrid affair, fall in love and live happily ever after with a French passport, driving in a three-wheeled car."


"He’s not 'the one'."


"You’re just crabby because you’re still suffering from jet lag." I say.


"And you’re just blind because you’re still suffering from romantic idealism. Wake up Cinderella."


I sip my café.


"You’re going tonight, aren’t you."


I nod. I can't help myself. I'm addicted to new adventures.


She sighs. Then says, "Let’s go for lunch in Old Ibiza town. I feel like a good Piaya." (I know--spelling.)


At the restaurant, our table sits on thousand year old cobblestones that wind between narrow alleyways amongst ancient white fortress buildings. Our waiter, Antonio Bandares or his twin, fawns on us, inquiring where we are from and how long we are staying. We delight in the flirtation, sipping our wine and giggling. We must be in Heaven. The two glasses of wine we drink before the Piaya arrives help to ease the jet lag more than the café con leche did. As the food arrives, I ask, in my only fluent Spanish dialogue, where I might find the bathrooms. He points to a two-story structure with stairs leading up to a single door. I nod and head that way.


As I reach the top of the stairs and my hand pulls down the handle to open the door, I feel a shove that pushes me into the dark cubicle. A man grabs me, crushing my body into his. His lips fall on my neck, peppering it with wet kisses as he mumbles in a Spanish I can’t understand. My hands react by pushing at his chest, trying to loosen his grip on me.


"Stop it! Stop it!" I yell in English.


"You want it. You want it. I see the way your eyes, they look at me."


Oh my god. It’s the waiter.


"Let go!"


Surprisingly he does. We stand panting in the dark room, so close I can feel the heat of his breath on my face.


"Here." he says, placing a small piece of paper in my palm. "You call me. I give you what you need."


I am too in shock to reply. My hand reaches for the door handle. His hand tops mine.


"I will let you go. You call me."


Just as he opens the door, allowing a sliver of light to slide in, he turns and says with a wink,


"You are so beautiful, I could cum just by looking at you. Is true."


Another wink and he is gone.


Suffice it to say, the remainder of the meal was uncomfortable. For me. The waiter however, seemed revived, winking every time he serviced our table.


Of course I detailed the adventure to B. who told me she was sorry and then gave me a look of ‘I-told-you-so’.


"So what am I going to do about Patrice?" I said finally.


"Stand him up. He deserves it."


"I told him I would come. I can’t break my word."


"You’re right. He deserves worse."


We down the rest of our wine.


"I have a plan." B. says with an evil twist on her lips.


I lean forward and wait as she unhatches her scheme.


"He’s old now. Not what he used to be. Not what he thinks he is."


"He’s not that old. Maybe fifties?"


"Old enough to have problems with getting it up." (Remember, this was pre-Viagra days.)


"Apparently not. Not if he can cum just by looking at me."


"Maybe he can. Maybe he can’t. Maybe it’s a skill he stupidly practiced."


"You got to give him credit. Studying sex is more interesting and more productive than golf. Headed in a better and more useful direction, anyway."


"No it’s not. It’s all about his ego. Nothing to do with pleasing you. Just as bad as golf."


"So what’s the plan?"


"You challenge him and by calling his bluff, you humiliate him."


"How?"


"Okay. You play sex kitten. You're smitten with him. You can’t wait to be with him. He makes you sooo horny."

"Um-hmm."

"Then you tell him you’re dying to see his little trick. No matter what, you hold him to what he said. You don’t let him touch you at all. He won’t be able to perform. It’s obvious, from what happened with the waiter, it's a common bullshit line that must work on tourists, and all the ‘playboys’ here have latched on to."


"I’ll do it. And if it works? Then what?"


"You make some mention of what a let down his inability to perform was and allude to the fact that you want to ask around to other woman about him, inquiring as to whether they had the same disappointment as you. Then he won’t be able to show his face in the town as long as we live here."


"That’s cruel."


"He’s cruel. Look what happened in the bathroom! Are you kidding me? This is a game to them. Not to you. Not to me. Not to women. But it is to them. This is your chance. You’ve got to do it."


"I just can’t believe this of European men. Maybe it is me. Maybe I inspire them. Maybe, in Europe, my look is considered beautiful and it makes men do strange things."


"You are beautiful and men in America are just trained to like something other than us. But that doesn’t excuse these guys treating you like meat."


"They were treating me like meat?"


She raises her eyebrows.


"Well, I’ve never been broiled and marinated with such finesse before."


"You’ll do it?"


We clink our empty glasses and head home to prepare for the evening’s chess match.


At 7, showered, shaved, lotioned, perfumed, eyelashed and coifed, I am waiting at the corner near the square. I hear the rumbling as my Prince with the automatic Prick zooms up in his tri-wheeled chariot.


The exterior of his ‘finca’ is a cozy, classic Spanish style with a 360 degree surrounding balcony sitting on the sand, steps from the ocean. The music of the waves ebbing and flowing adds a seductive tone to the evening. Inside, the floors are terra cotta and the room is furnished Euro-modern. His bed, king-size with plush white down comforters, sits halfway inside the room and half outside on the balcony. The white netting that encircles it sways in the breeze of the salty night air. It is the only piece of furniture in the bedroom. Except for a high powered telescope aimed at the moon.


How am I going to do this? I am already almost completely swept away.


He pours me a fishbowl glass of red wine. We toast to the beginning of a long friendship, starring into each other’s eyes. The silence goes on just a second too long.


"So what did you decide we are eating for dinner?" I inquire shyly, looking up at him under heavy seductive lids.


"You are so gorgeous. I decided we shall eat each other."


This is not only too soon and too obvious but I am starving. He promised dinner and I was looking forward to that part at least. B. and I came to Spain broke, spending our last money on the apartment rental and vowing to eat rice every meal. The Piaya lunch was a splurge.


I giggle. "But what about for actual food?"


"Ah, if I had you, I would never need food. My appetite would only grow and as it did, your body would satiate me."


Okay. Now I get what B. was saying. It is making me nauseous. And angry. I am ready for our plan.


I wrap my arms around his neck and whisper, "You know what I want?"


"Your every wish is my command."


He moves in to kiss me. I teasingly turn my head to his ear and whisper,

"I want you to do what you said you could do when you met me."

I lean back hitting him with a devilish smile.


"And what was that?" He rubs his nose against mine.


"Don’t you remember? Hmm. I was so intrigued. You said I was sooo beautiful that you could cum just by looking at me."


For a moment, an expression of alarm flashes across his face. He recovers quickly though and says,


"As I said, my lady," he kisses my hand, "your every wish is my command."


Huh. Okay. Let’s see where this goes.


We wander to the bed. He takes off his clothes and asks me to do the same. I do. We lie on our sides facing one another. Our eyes lock. We stay that way for what seems like minutes. My eyes catch occasional glimpses down to his member that seems to be engorging as the seconds tick by.


Suddenly, it happens. His balls contract, his cock jolts and pulses and indeed, he cums.


Wow.

I mean, WOW!

I’m torn.

On the one hand, I am so impressed that I’m rendered speechless.

On the other, I’m so humiliated that I’ve lost the game.


All of a sudden, it hurts to have lost this game. I should feel flattered. Flattered that my supposed ‘beauty’ inspired such a reaction. But I don’t because inside I feel a red shame in my belly and a tightness in my throat. What is it? At this moment, I hate him and I can’t put words to why. I just do.

I don’t know why I say it. It wasn’t planned. I hear the words fall out of my mouth, too late to edit them.


"Ooh! That was so hot. That made me so hot, I want you now. I need you inside me. Please give me your gorgeous talented cock."


I see myself, as if from a distance, rolling onto my back, spreading my legs, my fingers toying lightly with my clit. I close my eyes, moaning my demands.


Nothing happens.


I open my eyes to see him sitting cross-legged, a panicked expression contorting his features.


"What’s wrong?" I inquire innocently.


"I mean, you know. I, we, just need to wait a few moments. Just a few moments."


Wide-eyed and pseudo naive, I say, "But why my love?"


He doesn’t look at me. He gets up and covers himself with a robe and mutters something about having to get up early the next day.


Without planning it, my actions struck a bulls-eye in his Achilles heel. His age. I am young. He is not. He can’t recover the way he used to when he was sixteen. For most normal, healthy grown men, this would be no shame. But to him, a man who has lived a life as if he were sixteen up through his fifties, the realization thrown in his face is devastating and embarrassing. I won. We won.


I relay the events to B. We celebrate the fall of Goliath together and with the other women of the town as everyday, for as long as we stay, the red car fails to show its chrome in the main square. But inside, my bones ache at the sadness I brought to his spirit.


I never lost my love for Europe or my desire to emigrate there. As the years went by, I forgot about Patrice and the waiter.

Today, fifteen years later: The man from Barcelona and I, sit on my sofa, drinking wine as he delights me by reminding me of Spain and all the pleasures of his city, from the unique doors on every building to the amazing structures built by the architect Gaudi. We talk of life in Spain and I tell him how much I miss it there.


Interrupting the conversation, he suddenly says, "Forgive me if I cannot concentrate, but your beauty is distracting to me. I must kiss you."


Our lips come together in a soft, unhurried, tongue-less kiss. Slowly we break apart and press our forehead together. He breaks the silence,


"You know, you are so beautiful, I could cum just by looking at you."


My belly tightens and suddenly explodes with a guffaw so crude and loud, he actually backs up on the sofa. My body convulses with a laughter so fierce, that for a while, no sound comes out. I can’t catch my breath. Finally the entire cackling jag ends with me wracked and battling severe hiccups.


He stares at me, confused.


Obviously, receiving a response very different from the one he expected.


Oh well. Sometimes your past comes back to haunt you. That's life.


I did feel bad.


But not too bad.


I mean, my goodness, he was a smart man. Shouldn’t he have known how wide-spread that line was?


On the other hand, maybe it is a Spanish specialty.


Who knows?


I’m still not European enough to tell.












4 Comments:

At 8:05 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

So are you saying that Spanish Latin males are premature ejaculators and they think this is a "GOOD" thing? Talk about spin doctoring

 
At 10:49 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Are you saying I'm 'spinning' or they are? I was just recollecting a memory of what actually occured that I thought was incredibly coincidental and somewhat hilarious to me....Latin males are quite wonderful..just so happened to be a strange serendipity amongst these three from Spain! You noticed, perhaps, I did not blacklist them!
xx
Persephone

 
At 8:10 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

no not you! I meant they are spin doctoring. I was just trying to be humourous. I can see both sides of the situation. On one hand, they're telling you that your beautyis so overwhelming that the lose control. That's complimentary: but at the same time it kinda spoils further developments
I'll see your xx & raise you an o
the stranger at the other end of this letter

 
At 4:40 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Don't you think that "cum just by looking at you" is more than a little bit crude and demeaning? How does that square with the image of sophisticated Europeans?

 

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