Titpig's Satisfaction, or Sitges Pt 2

Jean-Marc Jarousse, April 1990

I opened my eyes and felt around for my watch, squinting. The migraine had passed, the nausea had dissipated and my mouth was dry and sticky. Fumbling for the nightstand I knocked over the water bottle, found my glasses and put them on. My watch said it was 7:30, the street below was quiet. Pulling myself up to sit on the edge of the bed, I rubbed my head and neck for a moment and lumbered toward the bathroom. As the water from the faucet was salt, I couldn’t drink from it. Instead I squeezed a small dollop from my toothpaste and pushed it around the roof of my mouth with my tongue. Looking in the mirror, I needed a shave, my eyes were red and sore, but I’d live. I wet my hair and combed some gel through it, threw on some jeans, grabbed some cash and went downstairs.

The morning was warm and sunny. Aside from the street cleaners washing down the sidewalks everything was still. At the bakery I purchased some croissants (xocolat)and a large bottle of water. I made my way through the town to the large church right at the edge of the harbor, jutting out on its own breakwater. Sitting on a bench, I opened my bag and ripped at the treat, melting the chocolate between my lips before chewing the flaky pastry. Bending down for my water, I saw Syd’s familiar form sashaying toward me, wearing a batik throw tied around his waist and some sandals. I waved shyly.

He broke out in a broad grin and accepted one of my croissants as a peace offering. As I began an apology he cut me off.
“It takes more than a little love tap to scare me off, luv.”
“I just wanted you to know how badly…”
“Enough! Where have you been hiding?”
“I had a terrible migraine.”
“Poor doll! We all thought you were escaping David. Very naughty boy topping his top like that.”
“You know about that?”
“Bucko, Aunt Sydney knows everything. It seems you were spotted by a certain swishy Swiss in flagrante delicto. Couldn’t wait to get in the room, huh?”
I looked askance. “He said they’d broken up”
“Just a lover’s tiff,” Syd’s face pulled up in a conspiratorial smile. “You’ll have to pay the piper for that one. David wants to hang you by the balls.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“I’d just ignore him, really. He leaves tomorrow anyways. Just come down to the beach at the regular time, we’ll work it out.”
“I’m going to feel like a fool.”
“Now look: You had some fun, right?”
I nodded.
“You never seemed like the martyr for guilt before.”
“I’m not.”
“Well don’t be one now. We slutty tramps have to be strong and brave in the face of mere mortals. Don’t be growing any scruples or I’ll loose all respect for you.” Syd gave me a kiss and hugged me tightly.

I showed up at our usual beachsite around noon, and took my spot on Syd’s blanket. Tony had almost finished oiling my back when David and Claude showed up.
“Will you look what washed up on the beach in his black rubber bikini!” David squeaked in his best Bette Davis. “I didn’t think you’d have the nerve.”
I reached into my bag and pulled out a bundle of parsley I’d purchased on my way down. “Here, dear,” I said, throwing them at his feet, “I thought that you might enjoy some bitter herbs to match your lovely attitude.”
Snorts and giggles raged for several minutes among the Brits. Without even moving his head or seeming to open his eyes, Syd quietly said “Touché, darling.”

I was down to my last three nights in Spain and took a mental inventory of all I’d seen and done. My memories of the time spent in Barcelona had already taken a mythical tone. I assumed that the highlights of my whole vacation had been spent there, and that my time in Sitges, though fun, wouldn’t have the same wildly sexual aspect. As I dressed for the evening, I smiled and reconciled myself to enjoying the Brits’ company and maybe do some shopping for clothes and souvenirs. It was time to just relax and enjoy.

After the usual round of early bars and dinner with Syd and the gang, I dropped by Bourbon’s to see what was going on. Sitting on a stool at the bar, head down in his folded arms, was the little Muscleboy, Jean-Marc, wearing a red and white striped tank with those same white jeans and unfortunate shoes. One hand was wrapped around a beer bottle and he was sobbing quietly. I approached gingerly and put my hand on his arm. He raised his head, eyes glistening and distressed, and met mine.
“What’s wrong, cheri?” I asked very seriously in French.
“My boyfriend leave…” English, then in French, “Il m’a quitte. Tu me comprends?”
“Perfectly well”, I responded, “Why would he leave someone so adorable?”
Jean-Marc sniffed and blew into a bar napkin I handed him. “He loved me only for my foreskin.”
I pulled him close. “That bastard”, I whispered, “Me, I love to get acquainted with the whole man.”
We laughed as I wiped his face and ordered him a fresh beer.
“So you only like the French boys?”
“I only like the beautiful boys” I said, passing him the cool bottle.

Jean-Marc quickly cheered up. He told me that he lived in Paris with an old friend, but that he needed to find another apartment as their building was going to be renovated. I told him a bit about my life in Boston, my job managing the furniture store, my friends. He listened very attentively, graciously helping out when I had difficulty with a word or phrase.
“Where did you learn French? You speak rather well.”
“I studied six years at school, but that was twelve years ago. I have no occasion to speak it in Boston, and I’m afraid it’s barbarique.”
“Barbare” He smiled, “The word is barbare”
“Well my French certainly is!”

We left the bar and stepped off to the side, away from the steady stream of pedestrians crowding the narrow sidewalk. I looked deeply into his big brown eyes counting the lashes. I was enthralled by his muscular torso and found myself stroking his shoulder absent-mindedly, hypnotized by the melody in his voice, so musical in that way French sings its songs. He smelled sharply of man sweat and cigarette smoke. I had been uncharacteristically nervous and had drunk far too many beers. My tongue felt thick and heavy in my mouth, getting caught on my teeth trying to pronounce his language with a minimum of error but falling short. I was exhilarated and full of glee, floating on a cushion several inches off the ground.

I suggested that he return to my hotel with me, and Jean-Marc accepted heartily. We weaved through the crowds, my arm around his shoulder, his around my waist. A short distance up we saw Syd’s head bobbing up ahead coming toward us. I introduced them, Syd getting out a bit of heavily accented French being most solicitous. He leaned in and said “Looks like you got what you wanted. He’s lovely.”

We made it to my room quickly, his hands going under my T-shirt as I fumbled with my keys. I turned around, pushed the door open and pressed his mouth to mine, holding the back of his head. We stumbled to my bed and rolled in. I felt for those awful black shoes and pulled them off his feet as he yanked at my belt. Opening my pants, he inhaled half of my fiercely hard dick in one gulp, reaching up to my tits and pulling gently.
“Harder, do that harder” I murmured as my mouth traced across his hairless belly up to his own perky nipples.

We wrestled around for several minutes, our hands groping and searching, mouths closing around each other’s skin. I sucked hard on his armpit, inhaling the strong scent of a man unaccustomed to using deodorant. Tracing down, I locked on to his right tit and sucked hard, rolling it with my tongue and flicking it against my top teeth. With my left hand, I reached into his jeans and massaged his hard cock, pulling the foreskin up and pinching it up over his glans. It was delightfully proportioned, just the right size for easy gobbling. His lightly hairy balls rolled in their skinsac as I toyed with them. My mouth continued on its path down his abs, stopping momentarily to kiss his out-turned navel.

Chowing down on his dick had a magic effect on me. I was lost to delirium, hands alternately running up to his pecs and probing his plump little ass in waves of urgency and delight. Surveying his thick legs, I lifted one and dived onto his hole, plumbing it with my mouth and index finger.

I reached for a condom and the bullet-shaped bottle of lube in my nightstand drawer, rolling on my back. Jean-Marc flipped over on top of me, kissing deeply and rolling my tits between his thumbs and index fingers. Ripping open the foil with my teeth, I pulled out the latex ring and found its direction, unrolling it a turn or two. Sitting up, I squeezed the bottle, a puddle of lube poured between his cheeks. I put the condom on and pushed the lube into his winking ass with two fingers, keeping a steady rhythm on his dick with the other hand. I rolled him on his side, lifted his left leg and began the penetration.

His hips rolled back to meet my thrusts as I easily entered his beautiful ass. Resting for a moment, I carefully gauged his reaction before beginning the slide in. He was blissed, breathing rhythmically and groaning softly. Rising on my knees but not withdrawing, I maneuvered him onto his back and drove it home. Leaning down, I met his open mouth with hot beery breath.

Then, as if someone had given me an injection, blackness overcame me and I passed out cold in mid-stroke.

I woke up with a start. Shaking my head and coughing up a throat snotclot I suddenly wondered if the entire evening mightn’t have been a sick dream. I was alone in the bed, and the very dim memories of the night before had the hazy unreal quality associated more with reverie than an actual event. It was only when I saw the foil condom wrapper near my watch that I was certain that I’d really had Jean-Marc in my bed. He must have thought me a terrible fool for passing out when I did. Lighting a cigarette as I made my way to the bathroom, I convinced myself that I’d fucked up royally.

On my way down to the beach I saw Jean-Marc leaving the bakery, balancing a rolled woven mat as he put the white bag into his knapsack. I called out, and he looked up.
“I am such an idiot.”
“You fell asleep.”
“I drank too much because I was nervous. You didn’t have to leave”
“I thought you’d be more comfortable.”
“I wanted to wake up next to you.”
He smiled.
“Will you sit with my friends at the beach?”
“I don’t speak in English” he said, in English.
“No need.” I replied in French. “You need but to speak with me.”

Jean-Marc and I oiled each other before stretching out on our bellies, head-to-head, all shit-eating grins and stammering conversational phrases. I fell completely totally irredeemably in love on that wonderful hot day in May, the scent Bain De Soleil in my nose, his big brown eyes etched right into my soul. Later that afternoon, after the beach, we finished what we’d started the night before, with Jean-Marc spraying jets over his head.

We met up again at Azul after a separate shower and change of clothes. My gang of Britbuds was very kind and inclusive, trying to bring him into various conversations until the burden of translating every remark grew too great. We nuzzled and cooed into each other’s ears, coming up for air and free blue shots only occasionally.

The rest of those next twenty-four hours have blended in my memory into a runny watercolor of rapid heartbeats and a devouring passion, the bars and the beach, hot sex and cool sheets. We were immoderate in our leap into the brambles of love.

In the courtyard of my hotel the next day, Syd announced to the gang that he had arranged a private dinner party for us at the best French restaurant in Sitges, with reservations for the very Spanish hour of 11:30 that evening. We were to arrive smartly attired with big appetites. He had everything planned for all ten of us, only the bar bill was our responsibility. It was his thank you for our singular company. We treated him royally that evening, picking up rounds and singing “Skippy, The Bush Kangaroo” over and over as we made our way through Azul and The Parrot on the way to the restaurant.

The dinner was magical in a garden courtyard lit by lanterns and candles. Champagne flowed as we made our way through appetizers and salad, Jean-Marc remarking favorably on the authenticity of the food. But the main course, Duck Confit incurred his scorn and he spit his first mouthful into a planter, refusing to eat anymore. I tried to ignore it and poured some more Champagne, but his behavior seemed petulant, to say the very least. I scolded him lightly but he remained indignant. Only when I reminded him of my departure the following afternoon did he relent.

In the hotel later, I finally brought up the whole subject if AIDS.
“Have you been tested?”
“Yes”, he answered firmly. “I am negative. And you?”
“I don’t know, don’t want to know.”
"What do you mean?”
“I’ve lost so many friends and lovers, more than sixty. If I tested positive I don’t know what I’d do.”
He gave me an inscrutable look and lit a cigarette. “I used condoms even before it was commonplace.”

Loathing condoms myself, I asked him why.

Flicking a piece of tobacco from his tongue, he answered “I have a horror of shit.”
I found his answer strange, I pondered it for a second, then let it pass, choosing to paw at his pants and pull off his shirt. Gobbling his beautiful cock, I pushed him back for a nice, long session of fellatio. As he passed the point of no return, he pushed my head back and shot his load all over his pecs. I grabbed his still hard dick and milked it so the last few drops oozed from his foreskin. Instinctively I opened my mouth and juiced.
“What are you doing?” He asked in a panicky voice.
“Don’t worry, you are negative, nothing will happen to you if I do that.”
“Well don’t”. His eyes looked deeply into mine. “You should not do such things.”
“I’ll take my chances” I said as I rubbed his semen into his chest and curled up to sleep.

The next day started quietly. We had a big breakfast with Claude then went back to the room so I could pack. I was due to leave late that afternoon and was dreading returning to my staid life in Boston. I thought for a second about Ruben, the Puerto Rican boyfriend I was seeing back home and my heart grew very heavy. If I’d felt one-tenth for him what I felt for Jean-Marc, I probably wouldn’t have even taken this trip. Zipping up my shoe bag, I started sniffling.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here forever with you.” Tears sprung into my eyes.
“I feel the same.” Now we were both welling up.
“What are we going to do?” My voice cracked as I wiped my cheeks. I found it beyond comprehension that I could fall so passionately in love so quickly.
“We still have a few hours. Let’s make the most of it. Come on, let’s go have a glass.”

We pulled ourselves together with a hug and deep, soulful kiss.

Azul was empty except for the bartender who greeted us warmly. We took up some stools and sat down. I avoided Jean-Marc’s eyes to avoid another outburst, scanning his T shirt and stroking his arm. I swallowed and staggered blindly to the men’s room for a little sob, my heart too full. As I came out, I noticed the music: The Girl From Ipanema, Antonio Carlos Jobim. The swingy, soft jazzy music was so unlike the usual Gay Bar Boom-Boom they usually played, changing the atmosphere to mellow instead of riotous. I made it back to my stool and Jean-Marc, who was talking softly with the bartender. We sat quietly and rubbed each other’s thighs, listening to the Bossa Nova.

“When can you visit me in Paris?”
“I have no idea. I’m almost out of money and will not have another vacation for a long time. I work very hard.”
He paused, pulled up my chin and gazed deeply into my eyes. “Je t’aime.”
“Je t’aime aussi” I managed to croak before my eyes filled up again. “You are perfect.”
Song change: Landscape In Black And White, a plaintive ripped nerve of a ballad. The air was heavy and impossibly sad.
“No man is perfect, me least of all.”
“Pour moi, tu es parfait." I turned my head and wailed to the bartender “Can you please change this fucking music?”
Sudden quiet…then Boom-Boom.
Jean-Marc held me and said “We will work something out.”

As the cab pulled away, I looked back at Jean-Marc. He was waving with one hand and wiping his face with the other. I was inconsolable.

Once in the plane, I opened a magazine and tried to focus on an article but couldn’t. The movie screen started a short series of announcements and features. I ordered a drink, lit a cigarette and settled in.

An American Express commercial came on:
A man on the phone, a woman on the phone… They had no luck in meeting up, couldn’t find the time. He calls American Express, gets into a cab in New York. She sits forlornly, then grabs the phone. She runs into his arms and they spin in an embrace in front of the Eiffel Tower…
And once again, on that long long long long day I lost it, wailing like a baby on the crowded plane.

The flight was endless, almost twenty two hours with the connections from Barcelona to Madrid to New York. I was a spent, emotional rag emptying out of the cab in front of the Victorian brick rowhouse I lived in, happy to get to my bed and sleep it all off. Trudging up the stairs, my roommate James opened the door and welcomed me home.

“How was it? What happened?”
“Oh, it was indescribable. Barcelona’s the most beautiful city in the world. Sitges is like Provincetown but more fun. I have a million stories…”
“I’m sure you do. I’m dying to hear what this is all about this one, though.” He pointed to the answering machine on his desk, smiling. “How many hearts did you break in three weeks?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Listen for yourself…” James pushed the play button.

Beep…Static…Je t’aime, Je t’aime, Je t’aime…Static…Beep

To be continued...