Titpig's Frustration, or Sitges Part 1
Jean-Marc, April 1990
On N'oublie rien de rien
On S'habitue, c'est tout
The late morning sun blazed hot and dry into the little Citroen Deux Cheveaux winding through the hairpin curves of the coastal road between Barcelona and Sitges. The cloth top was pulled back and the radio blared static more than music. The back was piled high with a mountain of mismatched luggage which shifted as we swung back and forth, Mediterranean on the left, vineyards on the right scattered across the dry craggy landscape.
I lit a Ducado and looked at the beautiful boy driving. He was a twenty-one year old student at the university. I was a thirty year old libertine plotting the second leg of my hedonistic adventure, having just spent two delightfully slutty weeks in Barcelona sampling as many pleasures as I could given my utterly retched Spanish and barely-remembered, thoroughly barbaric high-school French. My driver was just the latest in a string of pearls. I was in heaven.
The drive isn’t that long, about thirty kilometers, but it took a forever. By the time we had located my hotel, brought up all my bags, had lunch and enjoyed a farewell fuck, it was happy hour.
As I made my way down the large tile staircase I heard laughter and voices coming from the courtyard. English, in a variety of accents hit my ears for the first time in weeks. I strolled out through the large French doors and looked around.
“Don’t be shy, luv”, a voice called from a small crowd of men seated at scattered tables, “We’re the friendly sort. Oh my, dear, you look confused. Do you speak English? Where are you from?”
I opened my mouth, but the words didn’t pour. I had pushed English so far into the back of my head that I had trouble finding it again. Finally:
“Yes, I speak English. I’m from Boston.”
“Another American, how lush! Although my name is Charles, everyone here calls me Sydney after my hometown.”
I manage a big smile and shook his hand. He’s quite tall, wiry thin, past forty, over six feet tall, with a mop of strawberry blond curls. “Oh she’s too cute! We’ll be the best of friends, I just know it.”
“Australian?” A dull, flat Chicago voice spoke up. “I thought you were English.”
“No” I said, still looking up at Sydney as I stood next to his table, “Definitely Australian. I can hear it.”
Introductions continued as a burly bear of an Irishman asked what I’d be drinking. I took a beer, knowing full well that I’d never remember all those names. Syd asked all the particulars and I gave him a brief synopsis of my time in Barcelona and a description of my lovely driver, how we met and how he came to drive me there. “Oh you are a nasty little whore” Syd smiled and winked, “We have so much in common!”
We finished our beers and hit the town. Sitges is a small fishing port turned artist/poet retreat turned Eurogay beach resort with over a dozen bars, saunas and discos. The narrow, winding streets were packed with people on that warm evening in May, 1990. Syd showed me around, with most of the gang in tow. We hopped from bar to bar, surveying the crowds and making witty observations regarding who might be inclined to which sex act with whom how often. The endowment of one might be discussed, the voracity of the other analyzed with many scatological references thrown around. Syd had been there for a month, and was planning to stay all summer, so he knew everybody already and showed me off like a new toy. I returned to my room early for once during this vacation, around 2:30, and crashed into a black sleep.
I quickly established a pattern. Syd would set upon the beach at the prearranged spot near a breakwater like a mother hen. A young Cockney named Tony and I had a place of honor on his blanket. The assorted Brits brought straw mats and clustered around. We were all gathered by noon, lotioned up and lazy in the heat, mercilessly critiquing the pale and overweight Americans and Germans stretched out on the beach lounges. The gang made a wager as to who amongst us would be the first to land a Russian. The Berlin Wall had fallen that previous winter and we all anxiously anticipated a flood of Eastern Europeans. They never materialized, alas!
Late afternoons were given over to a nap in our rooms, or reading and letter writing. It was a quiet time to recharge before the riots of evening.
We’d regroup in the courtyard of my hotel before packing off for a small, elegant bar named Azul. The décor at Azul was bright white, accessorized in brilliant cobalt (of course). The bar was run by a pair of very friendly English guys as a cruisy early bar, with bright blue shots passed around every thirty minutes. Needless to say, by the time we left Azul, we’d already be quite lit, singing loudly and ass-grabbing each other.
After Azul we might go to the Parrot for more drinks or straight to dinner, then on to the early discos like Bourbon’s or Mediterraneo (which opened during my stay in Sitges). The late disco, Trailer, didn’t ever open until 2:00. Bourbon’s was a small dive that played old Disco Hits, cheap and always crowded. Mediterraneo was also popular, very chic and contemporary, with the most peculiar urinal arrangement I’ve ever seen. They had six of them arrayed on a four-foot high partition in the center of the room, three on one side, three opposite. No matter where you looked, all you saw was spraying dick, left, right or straight ahead. It was an odd sensation staring directly into the eyes of the guy pissing in front of you. The ceiling was mirrored for a full panorama.
One evening shortly after I arrived, Sid and I were having beers at Azul when he asked me my type. I rattled off my usual tripe about finding something interesting in almost anyone.
“But surely you must have a preference: short, tall, young, mature?”
“Well” I slowly replied, “I like my men masculine”
“Not much taller than I”
“They have to be a bottom. I don’t get fucked.”
“Never?” Sid looked aghast.
“So what do you like in a cock?”
I thought for a second. I wasn’t in the habit of announcing preferences at that time. Finally I looked up into his eyes and said with mock seriousness:
“I like dicks and balls so small that I can fit everything in my mouth at once and chew on the foreskin with my molars.”
Sid hugged me. “My dear Bucko, I have just your match. He’s this divine German with the smallest equipment I’ve ever seen!”
I didn’t quite know what to say. Sid had taken me too literally. He hadn’t seen that, in addition to cocks and balls, I frequently had my tongue planted in my cheek. We let it drop with a good laugh just as the bartenders started mixing another round of complimentary blue shots.
That evening Sid brought this absurdly small, balding blond man over to where I was standing at Mediterraneo. “This is Peter. He’s German, luv. He’s been dying to meet you.” Syd made a silly face at me and practically made me shake Peter’s freakishly small hand. We quickly established that Peter spoke almost no English, but had a fair command of French.
“Peter will make you very happy, dear” Sid beamed. “He’s hung like a ten-year old!”
“Oh, gawd!” I looked away. “That was a joke!”
“You sounded serious”
“Well” I replied irritatedly with Peter’s tiny face smiling dumbly at me, “I wasn’t.How do I get this midget to go away?”
“I’m afraid you’re stuck with him, luv.” With that, Sid turned and ran.
Peter grinned idiotically.
“Mon dieu” I muttered.
I had gained a new puppy. Peter followed me everywhere, interrupting me whenever he saw me talking to someone. My buds thought it was funny, but I’d been in Sitges for several days and hadn’t hooked up yet. I found the whole thing vastly demoralizing. The more I shooed Peter away, the more enamored he became. Insults, threats and ignoring only made matters worse, as he seemed to like it. Two additional nights of this lunacy went on until, on a quiet night at Bourbon’s, I relented and went back to Peter’s room.
He reached his tiny head up to me and began covering me with soft, pillowy wet kisses, an urgent tongue darting around my teeth. It felt like an evil, dimwitted goblin was cleaning the inside of my mouth with a leech. I leaned back and took my shirt off, grabbing his boyish hands toward my nipples. He tugged sluggishly and reached down to open my fly. I pushed him back on the bed roughly. Peter looked confused for a moment, then his simpleton smile returned.
I tore roughly at his clothes. When I ripped open his jeans, I finally saw it. His hardon was no bigger than my index finger! It was paired with the smallest testicles I have ever seen, each no bigger than the end of my thumb. His thin body was frail and did little to entice me. I rolled him over and saw a very shapely ass, however, and I stroked it, making the hairs stand up in static charge. “Spank me” he hissed, first in French then English. “Hard, please…”
I gave Peter a good spanking until my hand hurt, his cheeks going pink then quickly red up to his tanline. His voice became progressively urgent until it was a shrill screech imploring more. I grabbed his miniscule cock and balls and gave them a good hard squeeze, but his reaction was one of pain undiluted by pleasure. I was familiar enough with the difference to stop, as I had no wish to do harm. As he was kneeling doggy-style on his bed, I finally opened my pants and pulled out my half-hard dick, waving it in his face. Peter moved his face to the side, so I jerked it back and slapped my dick against it a few times. He responded with tightly closed eyes and mouth, so I figured I wasn’t going to get any head. I reached back to his red stinging butt, licked a couple of fingers and felt between his cheeks. “Just slap it” he whispered. I’d had enough.
Jumping off the bed, I went to grab my shirt.
“Where are you going?” he implored, in French.
“I don’t know, I don’t care”
“But we are just starting”
“Tu ne rien veux faire” I shot back.
"Tu ne veux rien faire" he corrected.
I screamed that the only thing I hate more than someone correcting my French is a lousy lazy lay, threw my shirt back on and left.
I went to Bourbon’s for a cool-down. After the second beer and I felt better. So far the luck I had enjoyed in Barcelona hadn’t rematerialized. I was cranky and feeling horny. Moving near the dancefloor I surveyed the offerings. From across the room I spied a very cute little muscleboy. He was wearing a most unlikely combination of tanktop, white jeans and black dress shoes. I am just 5’6, he couldn’t have been more than 5’4, with beefy chest, strong shoulders and killer legs nicely filling out the jeans. I smiled and made eye contact, but he looked away. Moments later a tallish American walked over to him and handed him a beer. Shit! Just my luck!
I stayed for a few more beers but no one seemed interesting, so I hit the john on the way out. As I took my place in the waiting line, the door swung open and there was the cute muscleboy again. We made eye contact immediately and both smiled broadly. As he approached me, he stuck his index finger in his mouth and slowly ran it down my chest and crotch. I turned to follow him but the crowd closed in and I lost sight of him.
On the beach the next day I put off Syd’s inquiries about my terrible evening, but he begged for all the details, both he and Tony hungry for dirt. Angrily I told them about what a bust the evening had been, and how sour my luck had been in Sitges.
“Well, luv,” Syd stated with a roll of the eyes, “Maybe you should hit the gym. You’re not going to get anyone on your face alone anymore.”
I was suddenly white hot angry. “What do you mean?”
“I just think that you’re a bit plump in the tummy.”
I stood up and without thinking bitch-slapped him.
The Brits were shocked. My frustration had boiled over and I’d behaved horridly. I quickly apologized, but Syd wouldn’t accept it.
“I had that coming, but you’re still a plump bugger.”
I grabbed my bag and stomped back to the street running along the beach. I felt angry and ashamed and wondered what the hell I was doing. I lit a cigarette with a shaky hand and walked back toward town. About fifty yards up I bumped into the studly Frenchman named Claude, a boyfriend of one of my Brit buddies. He asked what was wrong and I spilled out my guts with a couple of tears.
Putting his arm around me, he cooed some words of encouragement to me in French and rubbed my shoulder. We sat down and talked everything out, his hand gradually inching up to my thigh and stroking it. I returned the favor, making circles running from his thighs up to his rapidly thickening bulge. Our breathing became labored and quick, but sitting on a bench with pedestrians passing all around, we had to break the spell or cause a scene.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
“My hotel’s just up there”
“Do you want me to come over?”
I thought a moment, lighting both of our smokes. “What about David?”
“We broke up last night. He’s an imbecile.”
“Are you sure?”
“We broke up.” We looked into each other’s faces
“Well, come on then.”
Walking up the hill to my hotel, we bumped into Muscleboy and his American heading down to the beach. Claude waved them over.
“You know them?” I asked.
“The Frenchman, yes. The American no.”
We stopped and said hello and I was introduced to Jean-Marc, just like that.
The American was a therapist from San Francisco. He ran a weekly support group for men coming to grips with the circumcisions they suffered as newborns, which even in my mania for foreskin I found absurd. He and I were cordially distant. Throughout our little four minute chat, Jean-Marc and I kept making eye contact, but I couldn’t follow the lightning fast, slurry French he and Claude spoke.
They excused themselves and continued on their way. I looked back just once.
Claude and I raced into my hotel room and stripped each other naked in the empty hallway outside my door. His superb cock stood at attention as he grabbed my tits and twisted them tightly. I flushed and instantly got piston hard, dripping copious precum.
“I have a friend back in France who likes this. I see you do, too.”
All I could do is growl and implore him to continue as I turned the key and pushed open the door. Real titpigs like myself are always on the lookout for someone with the right touch and Claude was an expert. I fell to my knees and slurped down, easily taking all of his dick into my throat. Making our way to the bed, I reached up and began massaging his ass, exploring for his hole in the tangle of hair between his cheeks. He smelled tart and very manly. Pulling me to my feet, he pushed me on the bed and blew me poorly, with unnecessary gagging and coughing and teeth much in evidence. At least his hands stayed on my nipples, helping me to focus. Finding his hole, I wet a finger and played around the opening of his anus.
“I might be tight” he breathed, “I haven’t been fucked in a while.”
“It’s OK, I’ll go slowly.”
I was slapping my balls against his broad ass less than five minutes later.
We came in waves and torrents, curling up like two puppies afterwards. I dozed off for a bit, my arms wrapped around his broad chest, our smell in my nose.
I woke up to a pounding migraine all alone in the dark. Rolling over, a wave of nausea roared up and I barely made it to the bathroom. Streetlights cast slivers of puss-yellow light against the walls of my room as I staggered out. The music and laughter from the rowdy bar across the street pounded into my aching ears. I fell back into the bed but could not get comfortable. Outside my door I heard shuffling against the tiles as every sense was heightened to increase my discomfort. I buried my head into a pillow and moaned softly.
Hours passed with me coming in and out of awareness, mixing dreams and reality in a blurry mental soup. It must have been just before dawn when I opened the French doors and stepped out on the balcony for some air and a smoke. Leaning against the rail on the balcony adjoining mine was a tattooed English Skinhead fag. He nodded at me and softly said hello. I smiled wanly. Asking if there were anything wrong, I lifted my head enough to make eye contact and explain that I was sick with a migraine. He asked if I had any water and fetched me a fresh bottle, for which I was most grateful. I thanked him and returned to bed for the next thirty hours.
To be continued…