The Blond Foreigner

Romero was an active submissive to men and he quickly assessed manflesh. The young blond was someone he could ache for and open his legs to. He already could imagine lying under the man, his knees hooked on the blond foreigner's hips, his eyes locked with those of the young god's, and the young man's shaft inside him, doing its magic. He was here on business, but just perhaps his business could be mixed with pleasure.

The homecoming party extended from the group's usual "sundowner" evening meeting into the dinner hour, with La Perla taking the dance stage for the adoring patrons with the accompaniment of Esteban Ramos and Martin Warren on the Spanish guitars. Romero was delighted to discover that the delectable guiri also was adept at the guitar. He drew closer to the performance, his eyes meeting with those of the blond, and a mutual interest flickering up between them. He sensed from the young man's gaze that he also was thinking of covering and being inside Romero. He also caught the eye of Ramos, who recognized the Spanish music impresario from Madrid.

Between sets, Ramos brought La Perla and Warren over to Romero's table, introductions were made, and Romero spoke of his interest in engaging Ramos and La Perla to play at the Theatre Alegrías in Madrid. Warren had seated himself beside the impresario and the two exchanged knowing glances. Romero included Warren in his invitation to play in Madrid as well, complimenting the young Canadian on his guitar playing and being able to complement a master such as Ramos.

"I'll bet you are accomplished at much more than the Spanish guitar," Romero said, giving the young blond a knowing look. "You look like a very capable young man."

Smiling, Warren put a hand on Romero's knee under the table, and the handsome older impresario boldly took it and moved it to his basket, where it remained, rubbing him and cause a rise in the bulge at the crotch, for several minutes. With that, the deal was done. The two would fuck.

When the two had shaken hands upon being introduced, Warren had folded his thumb under into the palm of the Spaniard's hand and Romero had instinctively—a universal signal of a submissive to a dominant—encased the thumb and stroked it several times. From that moment on, although Ramos and La Perla were included in the conversation, the action at the table was a dance of signaling and dealing between Warren and Romero.

"Think about it. You can't do better in establishing yourselves about the masters of Flamenco than a run at the Theatre Alegrías in Madrid in Madrid," Romero said. He was turned toward La Perla and Ramos, speaking to them in earnest tones, although he maintained a grip on Warren's hand under the tabletop and on his crotch. The guitarist and dancer were leaning in too, wrapped in each other's arms like they couldn't remember what fiery exchanges had pulled them apart together before but intent now on never losing each other again. They knew it was true what Romero said about performing in Madrid, especially at his theater. But they would have to compromise their art to do so. The Flamenco in Madrid was for the visiting world, not the Spanish at home.

"I will be here for a couple of days, so you have time to make your decision." He turned and smiled at Warren, who had been included in the invitation. It was fairly evident that the young Canadian, just now honing his expertise on the Spanish guitar, would accept the invitation. It was equally clear that he would accept other invitations the elegantly dressed and handsome Spaniard might extend. It only now was dawning on Warren that his success in bringing La Perla back to Ramos and Torres back to Harden meant he had no place himself to bed down that night.

Unless . . .

"I will be staying at the Hotel Dos Playas," Romero said as if he read Warren's mind. He was speaking to Ramos but he was looking at Warren. "I came straight here. I haven't been to the hotel yet, and I have no idea where it is. Perhaps someone—"

"I would be happy to guide you to your hotel," Warren said. "It isn't far. On the other side of the harbor."

"That would be very fine," Romero said, squeezing the hand that was cupping his basket.

The celebrations continued at the group table, as Romero and Warren were left alone to consummate their private deal in the shadows of the café. Romero, his eyes remaining locked on Warren's, slouched back in his chair, legs spread, as Warren, leaning over the small table, unzipped Romero's fly, pulled the Spaniard's erection out, and stroked him off. Warren brought his lips to Romero's for a deep kiss, as the Spaniard jerked and came and jerked and came again in Warren's hand.

Taking surreptitious glances in their direction, those at the group table were fully aware of what was happening in the shadows—and they were more than fine with it.

* * * *

One drink in the hotel bar downstairs with no mention whatsoever of what they both knew was coming, and then Alessandro Romero rose, gave Martin Warren a pointed look, and headed for the elevators. Martin followed him.

Romero wanted to be the one cocked, but he also demanded to be the one in control. Warren was slouched in an upholstered chair, naked before he'd danced a bit of a sensual dance to a Spanish guitar recording on the bedside radio, and had lowered himself into the chair upon demand, hooked one leg on the arm of the chair and masturbated while Romero, drinking brandy, also naked now, and sitting on the edge of the bed, watched the gorgeous young Canadian with slitted eyes. Romero was stroking himself off as he watched Warren doing so.

Before Warren came, the older Spaniard rose, placed his nearly empty brandy glass on the bedside table, came over to Warren, and, holding the young man's thick, long, and hard erection in one hand, hovered over Warren's pelvis, slowly impaled himself on the young man's shaft, and, gripping the arms of the chair, raised and lowered his tall, trim, black-curly haired hirsute body on Warren's cock, pulling moans and an ejaculation out of the young man.

Even when they reached the bed, it was Warren stretched out on his back and Romero settled on his hips, facing him, Warren gripping the man's waist between his hands, and Romero palming Warren's pecs as he rose and fell, fucking himself on the young man's shaft.

Warren had no trouble with where he would bed down for the next three nights. The evening after the third night, the two drove in the black Porsche coupe to the Plaza Del Mar to say their good-byes to the "sundowner" group that appeared on the covered terrace of the Café Viggos nearly every evening. Any sexual tensions that had once moved among that group were now gone. Lonzo Alvarez and Santos Diaz were now moving around the tables, helping the café owner, Gervaso Ortega, respond to the needs of the café patrons. The three laughed with, touched, and interacted with each other comfortably. Howard Harden and Teyo Torres had their heads together over a sheaf of newspaper print, but happily murmuring with each other. Esteban Ramos and La Perla were in fiery temper, arguing with each other. It was their natural, chosen state. It was obvious that they were immensely enjoying discussing their music.

Romero tooted the horn of the Porsche as he and Warren folded themselves into the coupe's seats. The group of men who had gathered in the evening for several years to share their sexual preferences came to the railing to wave the two off. Ramos and La Perla had decided they would not compromise their art by playing for the guiris in Madrid. They wished El Extranjero Rubio—the blond foreigner—well in both playing guitar and stud for Alessandro Romero for as long as that worked out for their young friend before Warren decided to move on and help other men disentangle their lives as he had done here in such short order and so well. Martin Warren waved back, ready for any Spanish adventures—and hot Spanish men—that came his way and wanted to lay down for him.