The Blond Foreigner

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."