A typical Sunday night in Madrid; the air enveloping us with its warmth and the night young and full of promises, we headed down to la Latina where the gays gather to welcome a new week of festivities and grab on to one last cock before Monday brings his gloomy head.
Stuck against my will in El Atril, ram-packed like sardines and forced to listen to yet another Lady Gaga medley, I kept thinking that I could be at Cines Ideal on Plaza de Benavente, stuffing my face with popcorns and enjoying the latest installment of Sex and the City, that I still (bad queen!) hadn’t managed to see. A soon to be mating couple next to me grabbed my attention. They were doing the arousing dance ritual: I pinch your nipple, you pinch mine, I bite your lobe, you squeeze my pecks, I rub my crouch on yours, you step back and shake your head, you move forward, I hesitate. Back and forth, assessing who would fuck who and yet pretending that what was to happen might not. Fooling themselves they would not soon be found in bed, pulling down each other designer boxers and suck and fuck till they were out of breath. I thought of monkeys in zoos, parading their butts in front of one another. Look at mine! Mine is redder! Mine is bigger! You know you wanna! Why the pretences, the cat and mouse game? Why not just get on with it, jump the toilet queue and have a quickie over the toilet bowl? Something was definitely odd. Why the pretences? Why come here? Why not just head straight to Strong, slither their way through the dimly lit labyrinth of the dark room, grab hold of the biggest cock their hand can hold and get it on? Why the dance?
I realized there and then, while drinking a beer and not understanding a single word of the conversation I was supposed to be taking part in, what this was all about. Till recently I stood on my high horse advocating that I went out to spend time with my mates, that I drank to put me in the mood, to loosen up, that I wasn’t out on the prowl. What a load of bullshit! Unlike the more courageous ones of my friends, I didn’t want to admit that if I had spent two hours in front of the mirror trying on every single item of clothing I owned and spent as much time or more on my hair was because I wanted to fuck, to find someone to bring home. I wanted some skin on my skin action and a cock, preferably a big one, and icing on the cake, someone to share breakfast with – but that was optional. The inner romantic that fooled himself hoping that the next one would be the one, that it wasn’t just a one night stand, that something might come out of it, that we have to start somewhere, that it doesn’t matter if we sleep together mere minutes after we’ve met was doing just that: fooling himself. And that’s what the two buffoons were doing too. They were tasting the water. They were assessing first and foremost what could be hidden under those pants and if it was worth pursuing and secondly if something would come out of this little game: a spark? Connivance? Because if number 327 wasn’t the one, please God, can he at least be well endowed.
Staring at the ongoing drama of those two Muscle Maries rubbing their biceps against one another, I looked back at all the time when that had been me. But what was I doing there now? I didn’t need to pull. I didn’t need to bat my eyelashes at some random bloke way too hot for me. I didn’t need to scan the room constantly looking for a possible target, for some arse to get my hands on. I was already holding someone by the waist and best of all I had come with him.
So why did we come here to meet his mates? Well most probably because they are single and they need our support to find their next cock. A night out without cocks wouldn’t be a night out now, would it?