Dancing with the Matadors

"I know now, yes," I said.

"But you didn't know before? If not, I'm sorry to be so forward."

"That's fine," I said. "I think I like the idea of sitting on this wall."

The waiter laughed. "You do know who that is, don't you?" he asked, a bit of a twinkle in his eye.

"I have no idea," I answered.

"That's Dom Manola dos Santos, perhaps one of the most famous matadors of all time in Portugal. Now retired."

Ah, another matador. I wondered whether this one was a schemer like the last was--but at least this one was willing to pay me. Both of them were beautiful, though--the young Juan and the more mature Manola. I wondered if all matadors were this handsome.

"It is quite an honor to be requested by him--in case you are so inclined," the waiter said.

"Then I must indulge the man, mustn't I?" I answered.

When I reached the table, the man said, "The waiter tells me you don't speak Portuguese, but you do speak English, so perhaps we can converse in that. You are a beautiful boy. I suppose all of your men tell you that, though. Not Portuguese obviously. You intrigue me because of your exotic look. What ethnic are you? Moroccan?"

"No, Sri Lankan," I answered. I don't know why I lied or why I picked Sri Lankan. It was just the first land of generally smaller-than-average berry-brown people that came to mind, and I liked the sound of the words. I think I was just going to play at the prostitute game with this man and make it up as I went along.

"Perfeição," he said, and then, when I gave him a quizzical look, he repeated it in English. "Perfection. I've never fucked a Sri Lankan before--to my knowledge."

He'd said it so matter-of-factly. But then he was a famous matador in his element. I guess he was accustomed to getting what he wanted.

"Do sit down and tell me how you come to be in Lisbon," he said, gesturing at the chair beside him. "Espresso and water?"

"Yes, please," I said, as I sat, and the man, whose voice was a deep, rich bass, motioned to the waiter in an elegant hand gesture. I proceeded, because it kept his interested, to spin a tale of woe for him. My mother was an English missionary in Sri Lanka who had been raped by a Sri Lankan Catholic priest and I was raised in a church orphanage in Kandy--another word that I liked and knew was the name of a city in Sri Lanka--where a priest had initiated me last year as I had become of age to leave the orphanage and sold me to a German planter of coconut palms. My name was Shiva, for the Indian god. I'd been brought here by my lover, the German planter, who was a man of about the same age as Manola, but not nearly as good-looking. Helmut had brought me to Lisbon but he'd abandoned me here, and I'd had to sell myself for the past three weeks or I would have starved. Sometimes I'd slept in parks. Other times I'd slept in men's hotel beds.

"But you are just a boy," Manola said, his voice full of sympathy, but I understood that he wanted to know how old I was. I knew that the age of consent in Portugal was fourteen and that I might have looked almost that young to him.

"I'm nineteen," I said. I wasn't going to lie about that. "Does that mean I'm too old for you?"

His eyes lit up and he smiled. "Perfeito--Perfect," he said. "You say you've had to go with men since you were abandoned by this Helmut. He was you lover, did you say? He fucked you often?"

"Yes. But he was cruel. He was very Germanic." I was thinking of Buck Thornton, of course, who always seemed Germanic--authoritarian--to me.

"So, you will go with me? You will let me make love to you?"

That was just a flowery way for him to see he wanted to fuck the hell of me, I assume. He looked like a man who would fuck a young guy like me silly.

"Make love to me or fuck me?" I asked.

"Both, of course," he answered and laughed.

"Will you be a cruel lover?"

"Do you want me to be cruel with you?"

I shrugged. "It is your money to be what you want to be."

"Then you will go with me?"

"Maybe, if you say it to me dirty--in Portuguese," I said.

"You will deixe-me foder; deixe-me ferrar--let me fuck you? Let me screw you? You will lay down for me, open your legs to me, and I will fuck you in your very core?"

"Yes. How do you say, 'Yes, I want you to screw me,' in Portuguese?"

"Sim, eu quero que você me ferrar." He was smiling on putting a possessive hand on my arm.

"Yes, that," I said, returning the smile.

His nearby flat was not large, but it was very expensively outfitted. I'm sure it was a very expensive building to live in. The artwork on the wall was mainly sketches of matadors with the bull. The ones in his bedroom were of matadors in various stages of undress. Some were of nearly undressed matadors masturbating. A couple of those obviously were of Manola himself, and, if they were true to life, Manola had had a magnificent body and an extraordinarily long cock when he was young--when he was dancing with the bulls. If the sketches didn't lie, his body also was covered in a riot of colorful tattooing. As far as I could see when we entered the bedroom, he still had the body depicted in the sketches. It didn't take long for me to know that he still had the tattooing and the extraordinarily long cock too.

The large sketch over the headboard of the bed was of Manola, a younger Manola, fucking another man--a young man--a youth with a small, willowy body, like mine. The youth of the sketch was depicted as enjoying the experience.

"I don't bring many into my bedroom," he said, his voice amused, as I stared at the sketch.

"No women?" I asked.

"There was a time, yes. There was a time I could have anyone I wanted, and my wants were universal. But now? No. Only beautiful young men--when they will go with me."

"Like the young man in the sketch?"

"Carlos. Yes, Carlos was my young man--for several years. But I got older, and Carlos didn't."

"You don't look old to me," I said, reaching out and touching him on the arm--on the forearm where his flesh was bare. I traced the tattooing there with a finger. "Will you do with me what you are doing in the sketch--with Carlos?" I asked.

"Do you want me too?"

"Yes. Fuck me. Screw me. Say it to me again in Portuguese. What do you want from me?"

"Quero foder-te. Quero lixar-te."

He had me undress in the bedroom and pose for him. He took photos and, for the price he was paying, I didn't mind. I was just visiting Lisbon. I didn't care what I left behind. I found it exhilarating that he seemed so enchanted by my body. He had gone to full erection almost immediately. When I asked him to give me the camera, he didn't balk, and I took photos of him as well. Of course, it was his camera. He had control over the photos.

He undressed as well, and he took his time fondling me and exploring my body with his hands. He promised to be, even at his advanced age, as arousing to me sexually as the younger matador, Juan Falcao, had been. I was learning that I had a fetish for matadors. At his age, he seemed even more of a master at this than Juan had been.

He had me panting and begging for the cock in murmurs of "Fuck me; screw me," when he put me on my knees in front of him and made me take him in my throat and suck him. When he was rock hard again and throbbing, he raised and turned me, bent me over the bed, and went down on his knees behind me. Just when I thought he was going to mount me, he, instead, pressed his face between my buttocks cheeks, pulling them apart with his hands, and I writhed under the attention of his tongue. No man had done this to me--for me--as totally before, and when he rose and I thought this was going to be when he penetrated me, I was panting and groaning and not wanting anything else in this world but that.

Even then, though, he didn't take me. Laughing, he pulled me up from the bed and led me back out into the living room. "Deixe-nos dançar--Let us dance," he said. "I love to dance with beautiful young men like you. You do dance with matadors, don't you?"

I laughed, and blurted out. "Why, yes, I was dancing with Juan Falcao just last night."

He, of course, took that as a joke--but a good one--and I did not further explain, as he had turned music on--a waltz just as Juan had played the previous evening, gathered me in his arms, both of us naked, and guided me about the floor. All he said was, "So, you know our matador of the moment. You know something of our bullfighting. That once was me in the ring with the bull. I once had the world in my arms, just like Juan Falcao does now." It was said almost wistfully and I had a stab of regret for him for the fame he'd once had that now was only a memory to him and muted adoration from his fans.

"Now you have me in your arms," I murmured.

"Yes. And, for now, that is enough. For now, that is more than enough."

"Ah, well," he said. "Enough of that. We're here to dance and to fuck," and he did not allow himself to sink into a mood.

It was obvious that he wanted to dance--and that he wanted to fuck. We were both hard and were swaying against each other. I was boyish and short. Although muscular and filling out a bit since his slender matador days, he wasn't a tall man either, but he was taller than I was. He was poking me in the belly with his shaft as we danced, but within a short time, he was lifting me with an arm around my waist, lifting my feet off the ground, and his long, long, hard cock had penetrated under my balls and between my thighs, and he was gently, rhythmically dry fucking me under my ball sac to the sway of the music.

He moved us to a wall of the living room, putting my back against the wall. With his free hand, he bent my right leg, hooking my knee on his hip. The hand in the small of my back rolled my tailbone up pressing my hard cock up his belly. He moved his cock into place, and I arched my head back and cried out, "Yes! Fuck me!" as he entered me, deep, in one long glide. I had been fucked by a thick shaft that morning--thicker than his--and was still open. He had no idea how long it had been, but he gave a little smile that I took him so easily. He would have known I was dilated, though, because he had just been tonguing me.

But then he thought I was a rent-boy, bought off the wall anyway.

He took my lips with his, and we held there, still swaying a bit to the music, as I opened and stretched to him and sheathed him. When he was in to my soft core and I had relaxed and stopped shuddering, his lips moved to the hollow of my throat. I clutched his shoulder blades, digging my fingernails in and groaned deeply, as he moved inside me--in, out; in deeper, out; in even deeper--fucking me, coaxing the muscles of my channel walls to clutch at the cock and undulate over it. In and out; in and out. Slowly, a long slide in and equally long withdrawal, until, as the beat of the music that was still running increased, his thrusts increased in speed and vigor, until I was writhing under him, crying out, being drilled hard and deep.

"Sim, sim, eu sei. Como aquele--Yes, yes, just like that," he murmured. "Such a good boy."

He fucked me in that position for a while and then turned me, cheek and palms to the wall, an arm encircling my waist and lifting my buttocks and jutting them back, as he stood behind me and fed his long cock deeper inside me, reaching even deeper than he had when we were face to face, lifting my feet off the floor, fully in command of the coupling. He fucked me interminably in that position, finding and exploring every nook and cranny inside my tender channel, fucking me completely, believing I was a seasoned male whore when I had only known four men, three of them within the last night and day. But I wanted this and I wanted him, so I lay, docilely in his embrace and took it and took it and took it.

Fucked by my dancing matador.

Later we did fuck in his bedroom, on his bed, too--in the same position initially of the sketch hanging above the headboard. He was a master of positions and patient in teaching them to me. After the conventional ones of doggy, missionary, and side split, he lay on his back, with me on top of him, my eyes counting the squares of tiles in the ceiling of his bedroom, working on not coming too soon. He held my arms trapped over our heads, my fists grasping the rungs of the brass headboard of the bed, his legs bent, feet flat on the mattress and my legs bent as well, my feet splayed out on his knees, as, taking advantage of the extraordinary length of him, he held steady inside me and I moved my hips, languidly, up and down, up and down, fucking myself on his shaft.

"Você é um menino lindo--You are a beautiful boy," he whispered in my ear as we fucked. "But I've said that before, haven't I? I'm sure all of the men say that to you. To be so beautiful, such narrow hips, brown as a berry, but with blue eyes and with a perfect, willowy body in Lisbon is to be desired by men. I could fuck you for weeks. And so open for a man, stretching to meet a man's need."

The narrow hips "thing" again. I'm glad I had them, but I hadn't realized before that that was a fetish for some men.

Yes, all of the men who had had me--Manola now being the fourth--had said I was a beautiful boy, so it must be true. And if I could make money from men as masterful and handsome as Juan and Manola...

If I could just be permitted to choose my own men.

"You have no one in the world to go to?" he whispered.

"None that I want," I answered, honestly. None until, possibly, now. Juan had been closest and he'd betrayed me--he'd fucked me just to hand me over to Senhor Mendes. Buck Thornton, my employer and father-in-law? He used me more than either of the others did. Manola was a master and he was paying me. And he was a matador--a man of bravery and mystery. And, though he had chosen me, I had chosen him as well.

"I sail for my home in the Azores tomorrow," he said. "You can come with me. I will take good care of you. You will not have to sleep on the streets again or pimp yourself to other men than me for your supper."

What was it with men who wanted to take me out on the water, I wondered. For that matter, what made matadors want to dance with me--and to possess me? But what did it matter as long as I wanted that too?

Of course I said yes. But I didn't want to live in lies. "You should know, though, that my name isn't Shiva. It's Jai, and I'm a mix of Danish and Indian, not English and Sri Lankan."

"I don't give a fuck about that," he said.

"Perfeito. Say it to me again in Portuguese. Say what you want from me."

"Quero foder-te. Quero lixar-te."

And then he fucked me again.