Thinking about you

Dilunes. OK I’ll stop playing the intellectual guy, it’s Monday, late afternoon for Barcelonados, that means half past eight and I’m trying to stop that silly movie inside my cabezza where Y. and R. are mingling up in my pathetic mind of an old drama queen. I’m acting, actually. In German with Y., yesterday, smart, handsome, likely to play rough sex with his lover, and photographer for a living. Slightly disappointed, no really deceived by Paris and the French in fact, and as I, very detached from what the today’s youngsters. But mostly handsome, with that little German accent when he speaks English that made some guys simply irresistible. That’s even how I came out, as not being totally French, because he didn’t notice my awful tongue twitching when I’m babbling in French. Rexx and S. needed some Babelfish, and I’d switch happily from English to French to German, trying to put some understandable sentences together, in Spanish. It was a quite nice evening.
Parading with my linguistic skills reminded me the little R. and that nice Saturday evening at Oh Fada Café two weeks ago. I’d promised him I’ll write some lines in English for his attention, so it’s done. We couldn’t see us last Sunday, he’d prefer to stay at his place with a big hangover from the previous night. That’s not nice, R., Mother won’t be pleased.
Back to work. About the midterm of my vacation period that I totally dispise for simple and meteorological reasons. No sunshine, except from some rare afternoons to be spent sitting at Cactus’ and licking the deep black aroma that the espresso provides. But mostly clouds, even rain. The afternoon has been dedicated to a usual workout at Sporting’s, painfully executed and rewarded by a comment stating my progress in doing the BodyPump sessions. Yes, my old, ancient, prehistoric bodies still keep mostly in shape, nevertheless I do not succeed in shaping away the smoothness that rounds my hips and belly. A three month's pregnancy, romantic and purely imagined. I’ll give birth later, at the end of the upcoming winter season. On a bar chair at Cox’s probably.
“Here comes the rain again”. Eyrithmics. And Juan-Carlos, the cute and lovely Bolivian is back. I really feel fine seeing him on this last evening in Barcelona, as I thought not really being able to manage a crescendo on my holiday activities. Stop it. Stop thinking, it just never happens as I plan it. Friday, work around in the city, no museum. Barcelona lives late and I am not used to it. But, a good nice dancing at Metro. The local fauna of boys, men and other turkey species is well furbished. I’d be able to set up my fuck successful weekend if I wish, what I do not. No sauna, Hiroshi is too young for this, nor sun bathing on the sea side, what I did on partly on Saturday. Oh oh, plenty of gorgeous guys, well build, straight therefor most desirable. Rexx and the city on Saturday night inspired the discovery of the famous tapas bacalao.
And Sunday night, when I thought it would be quiet, in fact T.Milkshake and I had a mojito cocktail and a long chat together followed by the most impressing storm I’ve seen for a long time. We tried to escape from the falling water by hoping from front door to front door, came up with the idea of going to a spa which of course was overcrowded, and got to a bear meeting point called - Bear Factory. Simple. T. left for home as he was tired, and I continued my exploration by a small stroll to Dietrich and the real Bear Factory.
So what’s left: tonight and I’m glad I’d met Juan-Carlos for an other time, at least someone to talk to. I must learn some Spanish, definitely.