spanish men

There has been no sex. This is good; as of late I have been striving for vaginal, as well as emotional clarity. I want to be clear in my decisions about men. I am not locking myself up in a bell tower, or pledging to put on a chastity belt until I get married. I am more realistic than that. I just was to make better choices. I just want my heart to be the one driving the bus from now on, not my cooch.

That being said, it’s a hard thing (no pun intended) to go without. It’s been March since I have had an episode that’s even worth mentioning. And it’s true what they say about women, because now, at this point in my life, there are moments where I feel like I could take on the starting lineup of the Cleveland Cavaliers (before the unpleasantness with Miami….), or David Villa and his champion friends (except the one who scored the goal against Germany. He’s just downright creepy). Sitting on this beach, the brazen sun, the lurid sand, the half naked men, the good food, it all contributes to making me feel a way.

I have been relegated to watching Spanish novellas on Spanish TV- besos y lagrimas, amor sin palabras, mi alma y my boca…. stupid programs where the man and the women both have long curly hair that shines under scene lighting and where both actors stand in front of fans too long, where both actors stand way too long and stare into space over the camera at the end of the scene to convey consternation. The nice thing is almost everyone is half naked.

I have thought about having a fling while I was here, just thoughts, even though I am not sure how to go about it. It’s been so long since I have seduced someone I believe I am completely out of the loop. Maybe I will just go to the beach, lay in wait, throw some shrubbery over my vagina and hope someone trips and falls in.

I found the weed man. His name is Luis. He’s typically Spanish; dark eyes, bearded skin, browned flesh that works in the sun. He speaks very fast and calls me morena. He asks me if I do other drugs and I tell him now. He asks me if I want to smoke with him. He’s attractive enough, though short (most men in Andalucía aren’t over 5’8. The common height is 5’5) and my Spanish isn’t good enough yet to try to make polite conversation over a shared joint, for the sake of my own self-preservation.

I thank him for his business, patronize his wares and toddle off to school. Not too bad. I figure if I can put Luis in the maybe box, if I get really desperate in the next 5 weeks. Probably not.

There is Jose, the very handsome periodista who works for the school and takes candid pictures of classes and activities. He’s very tall and dark, I don’t think he’s Spanish, he is possibly Latin American. He is very pleasant and kind, and laughs like someone who knows how to have a good time-never nervous or strained, and he has huge beautiful brown eyes, and large hands. He possesses a head full of thick black curls, the kind women want to use to pull a man up, and push a man down-directional hair that helps with the whole command process of making love. At the flamenco activity I found myself staring at his chest, wondering what it tasted like. Instead of inquiring, I just opted for asking for another beer.

There’s another Jose, my teacher, who is absolutely adorable and has a great laugh. He’s sweet, the kind of man you can take home to your parents (normal parents, not my parents) and they would love him right away. He’s smart, and loves to travel, and would probably make a good father because of his patient and gentle nature, even though, when it comes to straight fornication, I think I would scare him. He looks like the kind of guy that if you bone hard enough HE would get pregnant. And he’s about 5’4.

I lay in my bed this evening and thought that maybe I was going about this all wrong. As I sat watching the Spanish Disney Channel (it’s the same as the American Disney Channel except the mousketeers dance half naked on the beach) it occurred to me that I was missing something-foreplay. I don’t mean strawberries and whipped cream foreplay, or subtle seduction foreplay, or even oral sex foreplay. I mean real foreplay; I mean the significance of the encounter foreplay.

I miss seducing a man’s mind. I miss sitting in a moment with a man, perhaps even in silence, and having the two of acknowledge that there is something, unsaid, between us, that transcends the space we share and makes the air we breathe that much more necessary to sustain us. Those semi erotic moments that imprints a man to you, to your mind before your heart, to your heart, before the other parts.

I haven’t felt that in a long time. And the last man I felt that with will probably never speak to me again. When I think about it, really ruminate on it, all those parts of my body and mind and soul that I really want to be involved with such an encounter, all those parts of me that remember what real passion was like with him, die a little bit more each time.

And so…

There I was, thinking about encounters more that physical engagements, moments rather than “episodes”, connections rather that ejaculates, when I was struck with the worst coughing fit of my life. I had been feeling a little under the weather what with going to the beach everyday and falling asleep soaking wet in a 95-degree room. Now, I felt like I had AIDS of the lungs. I really couldn’t breathe. There was no one else in the flat, so (since Spain has like the best healthcare in the world) I went to the ER.

I took a cab to the Centro de Avenida Alameda, where the public hospital was and entered, trying to tell the EMT in the worst Spanish in the world what was wrong with me.

“Tango dwele en my garganta. No puedo respira buena. Ayudame, por for favor.”

Good enough. I was lead to a waiting room after my passport was photocopied, and, well, waited. I was hacking up half my lungs and part of my spleen when a doctor came to see about me. He told me in his most mutilated English that I would be seen soon.

Just then, a nice couple walked in, a blond woman and a dark haired man. They both spoke English, even though the man had a thick accent. He began to translate for the woman with the nurse who came to see about her. He was tall for a Spaniard (about 5’8) and dressed well (Cole Haan loafers, button down shirt). He was attractive enough without looking too metro sexual, the kind of masculinity that educated men exude.

The doctor called me into the private room. I worked up enough moxy (out of sheer desperation) and walked up to him before going in the room, and asking him if he would mind translating for me with the good doctor.

He smiled and agreed. His blond friend smiled at me and told me by all means….

We entered the room and I told him my symptoms, and he told the doctor. The doctor told him what was wrong with me after the examination (a lung infection) and he told me. He even turned his back like a gentlemen when the doctor did my chest exam.

She gave me some instructions and said she would be right back with my antibiotics.

He and I went back to the waiting room to check on his friend, who was in the bathroom. We sat and talked.

He was an engineer who lived in El Palo, right around the corner from where I was staying. He was currently working in Malaysia, and came home for holiday. He meant his friend at a party and she wasn’t feeling well. When she started throwing up he brought her here. He asked me about my time in Spain, and what I did back home. When I told him, he shared that he used to be a teacher and he loved it, but he couldn’t survive on the pay. We laughed about that. He touched my book (I had a book) and asked me if it was good. I replied yes, he commented about how much he loved to read and he was reading this great Arabic author, whose name escapes me, as I was too busy staring into his bright brown eyes. He smiled at me and we were quiet for a moment.

His friend came back (bitch) and sat down next to him on the other side. The doctor came out and gave me all the medicine I needed (that’s right-no need for a pharmacy) and wished me luck.

I got up to leave, and he got up as well.

“What is your name?”

“Breeanne”

“Breeanne, I am Manolo. It was very nice to meet you. I hope you feel better.”

Thank you.”

We kissed on the cheeks. Twice.

I love that name, Manolo. I always have.

I left the hospital holding two Dixie cups full of medicine and a Toni Morrison book with a doctor’s note folded between its pages. It was an extremely warm night. Downright hot. The air was stagnant, stubborn. The kind of heat that follows you like a cruel school mob at recess that screams dirty epithets and wont let up until the teacher sounds the whistle to come back in. Oppressive, like New Orleans in August. Mint Julep heat, but here in Spain, Mojito heat.

I wanted a drink, but I knew it probably wouldn’t be a good idea what with all this new free medicine coursing through my veins.

I decided to walk back to El Palo, since I hadn’t enough Euros for another cab anyway.

I was sure I knew where I was going, kind of. I passed the 24-hour helado store that I remember in the cab (Spanish people LOVE helado. They sit at the ice cream shops around town and eat ice cream at 1am in the morning). I think I took a wrong turn after the helado shop, as the calle started to look a little foreign. This thought made me laugh, as the whole county was foreign to me.

I walked down a side street, holding my Dixie cups, book tucked under my infirmed lung.

“Tu te vas lejos?”

I kept walking after I smiled.

The man on the motorbike who spoke to me in slow deep tones pulled up beside me and tried again.

“Morena, te vas lejos?”

“No tango ni idea que tu dice.”

He laughed. He had manly laugh for someone obviously so young. He sounded like Anthony Hopkins.

He was a little taller than me, and dark, almost indigenous looking. He couldn’t have been from the country, perhaps somewhere in Peru, or Central America, where the skin and the hair are thick and unbending. His crew cut was covered by the helmet until he took it off and stood up to flirt with me.

“Y tu te llama?”

“Breeanne”

“Que?”

I laughed. “Breeanne”

“Soy Anton.”

“Mucho gusto, Anton”.

“De donde eres?”

“Jamaica. Yo vivo en Nueva York”

“Ay, si, lu ciudad que nunca dormir”

“Vale! Si”

We stood laughing for quite some time, and I realized, even though we could barely communicate with each other, and didn’t know the other from Adam, we were flirting. It was a moment, and it was nice.

He convinced me a little later, to get on his bike, sin helmet so he could take me home. He put my medication and my book in the bike’s “trunk” and I climbed on. Later, he commented that I looked a little crazy walking the street at 1 in the morning holding 2 Dixie cups and book.

I have heard that before, from many men, and surmise that I must be really pretty, because they always stop anyway.

I was scared of the bike. Especially since I had no helmet, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I climbed on and held on to Anton tight.

I put my head on his shoulders and felt at ease. I reached my hands around his torso. He was chubby but not fat. He was the kind of guy who believed going to the gym was for soft men, and preferred a hard day’s work outside to a spinning class. His body wasn’t perfect, but it was still warm, and I imagine, could still make a woman feel protected.

I held on tighter as he turned down Calle de Juan Sebastian.

He drove with one hand, and put his other hand on mine that were around his body. Our thumbs chased each other, and our hands touched and pinched. I nudged his neck with my nose and he smiled.

The air was nice and comforting on the back of that motorcycle. The beach looked even more beautiful as we raced beside it towards my flat. The sea smelled more delicious as we rode together in the night.

We stopped in front of my flat and he popped the “trunk” and gave me my crazy pills and my book.

“Anton, tu eres muy simpatico.”

He smiled. He kissed me once on each cheek. I gave him a hug, putting my arms around him one last time, and whispered a grateful “gracias” into his ear.

I crossed the street and watched him ride down towards the beach before I went inside.

I sat in the dark of my room for a while before the medicine made me drift off to sleep, staring at the bell tower, thanking God a little for my brief remnant encounters. It’s nice to know, after heartbreak and self-doubt, that there are still instances you can have with men that make you believe….

Believe that connection is possible.

Maybe this will tide me over for a couple more months.