The Blond Foreigner

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.