Catalan Man. Mmmmm. Catalan Man .
His lips, succulent and irresistibly kissable…the corners curved slightly upwards as if he’s constantly lost in some mischievous thought or another.
His eyes are twinkling and intelligent.
His voice, deep and commanding…his slight singsong Catalan accent gives him an air of masculinity, confidence, and maybe even a tinge of Spanish royalty.
His head, closely shaved, is infinitely carressable…especially when he’s driving through the streets of Barcelona, completely lost, and I want to further distract him and make him purr behind the wheel.
(And if I nibble on his sensitive ears too, forget about it! You might as well write out the traffic ticket for reckless endangerment right now.)
His hands, small like mine (I had to break it to Raquelle, one of my traveling companions, that her small hands/small package theory is officially blown out of the water)…he would rest his hand reassuringly on the small of my back when he squired me about town and rub them up and down my back slowly and sensually in the morning to wake me up in the most delicious way.
His wit, razor sharp and always working…he would make me laugh all the time and tease me just the right amount and in just the right way.
His chest, broad and manly, sports a shock of dark curly hair in the center that I would rest my head and drift dreamily off to sleep after a long day of sightseeing and making love.
It’s ironic that I met my Spanish love in Geneva, Switzerland, of all places…and it almost didn’t happen at all. I had parted ways with the girls (my good friend Yonina and her sister Raquelle) and left Marbella, the little richy-rich Spanish Mediterranean resort town where we were staying for the first two weeks, and made a little solo sojourn to Geneva to visit Daniel, a French fellow who I had met 9 years ago in a London hostel and who has remained a friend ever since.
I toyed with the idea of also trying to fit in a trip to Berlin to visit another friend of mine, Jonathan, who was being put up in a 5-star hotel by way of his boyfriend’s entertainment touring company, but after a long-ass overnight train ride (during which an old Spanish fogey sitting in my train car would yell loud Spanish gibberish whenever he got up or sat down, which was often) and hopping a plane just to get to Geneva, I decided to relax and stay put. Besides, I liked Geneva and wasn’t quite ready to leave---even though it was colder than a witch’s titty, I had a free place to stay, the good fortune of reconnecting with an old friend, the opportunity to practice my French (which I thought was pretty good but then realized once I got there that I have completely lost my accent and much of my vocabulary, making me sound like a Garth Brooks/Jeff Foxworthy hybrid trying to speak French), and an opportunity to NOT be around Spanish, of which my lack of knowledge was causing me much distress and anxiety at the time.
Daniel and I have a good time that week. He takes me to little neighboring French towns where we eat fondue, drink hot mulled wine (“vin chaud”) and snap photos of us posing like silly idiots in front of a breathtaking backdrop of the snow-covered Swiss Alps. He flirts with me a little bit, giving me “butterfly kisses” with his eyelashes every once in awhile, but it’s strictly of the 12-year-old innocent slumber party variety.
Soon, it’s my last night. I start packing a little bit and getting all my flight information out for the next day.
Enter Catalan Man.
I remember that I immediately liked him. He walked in the front door, weighed down by his bags from his business trip to Vietnam, and his presence filled up the entire apartment. He probably called out something funny like, “Hi honey; I’m home!”
He soon joined us at the kitchen table, where after the initial introductions were made, he poured himself a glass of wine and settled back in comfortable repose---a king getting reacquainted with his castle---and chatted amicably about his trip, inserting a few mischievous “I can’t tell you that without my lawyers present” quips whenever we pressed him with questions.
We had an enjoyable, easy conversation-filled dinner. He was witty, smart, simultaneously self-effacing and cocksure, accomplished in his career as a muckity-muck in internet security (I have a weakness for reformed hacker boys; what can I say), interested and engaged in what Daniel and I had to say, and extremely, extremely sexy. When he laughed, which he did easily, he’d flash his vampiricly large canine teeth and let his gaze connect with mine for an extra half-beat when he was done. I felt like putty.
After I read them their astrological personal portraits on an online astrology site (which made for some lively and revealing discussion), we ducked out for a game of darts (Catalan Man killed us), Jack Daniels and karaoke at a local pub, and, exhausted from our respective adventures of the day, we retreated back home, where Catalan Man and I poured ourselves a drink and settled into the couch.
Daniel, acting a little pissy by this point from feeling a bit left out from the little flirting fest between Catalan Man and I, stood over us and announced that he was going to bed and that I should be quiet when I join him (I had been platonically sharing his bed all week, as the inflatable bed I was using kept sagging into oblivion halfway through the night).
He left. Catalan Man and I shrugged, smiled, nestled in a little closer to each other on the couch, and poured ourselves another drink.
TO BE CONTINUED…