Two Dicks in Barcelona
It was my last afternoon in Barcelona, and I was having an absolute mare. Photographic evidence had just surfaced of me making out with a three-foot-two rapper in order to get bottle service whilst my horror-stricken lover looked on in the background. Subsequently, I was sitting on my hostel bed hurriedly detagging nightclub pictures and trying to come up with ways I could convince said-lover that my perceived midget fetish was just a result of a lapse in depth perception.
All of a sudden, two French guys who could’ve doubled as homoerotic sculptures strode in. Tell-tale goggle marks showed in their deep, golden tans. Too-tight t-shirts stretched over perfectly-sculpted pecs. Freshly waxed chests competed with gelled hair for “World’s Shiniest Surface”. If I too had a penis, I would’ve been smitten.
The pair introduced themselves to my friend Alana and me as a Parisian couple: Jean-Marc and Julien. After some light conversation, the four of us trotted off to the most gringo part of La Ramblas to dine. As we browsed the menu, the boys told us how they’d first started dating, caressing each other’s palms with a tenderness not unlike that of a rare steak. Julien had apparently taken Jean-Marc out in a rowboat and arranged for a miniature remote-controlled helicopter to fly over to the vessel with a piece of paper that said, “Will you be mine? <3”
Alana and I sat enraptured, clutching our hands to our chests at the romance of the gesture. The two of us had been living across the road from a 24-hour pizza delivery place for two months now, and our generous girths made a Tinder match a luxury, let alone an actual date.
After a spot of wining and dining, we all walked back to the hostel and brushed our teeth together in the girls’ bathroom in our undies. We washed off our makeup; they washed off theirs. Alana even took her bra off. “Who cares?” we thought. “They’re gay!” Such liberation; nil inhibition.
Due to the moral hangover I was sporting from the previous night’s activities, Alana and I declined the boys’ invitation to party and instead called it a night.
I’d probably been in the land of nod three hours or so when I was violently shaken awake by a very perplexed Jean-Marc clad in see-through tighty whities.
“I left Julien at the club!” he whispered loudly.
“Oh, he is okay?” I replied groggily, wiping sleep from my eyes.
“Yes, I am gay,” asserted Jean-Marc, obviously having misinterpreted my question, “but I have no sheets!”
“Oh don’t worry – reception is 24 hours!” I assured.
“No, it’s okay: I’ll just sleep with you,” he declared, and swung his exquisite body and dangling manhood up into my bunk.
I lay there, paralysed in awkwardness and politeness as Jean-Marc threw a well-oiled bicep over me and began to snore. With each passing minute, my fear that Julien would come home and discover me in bed with his boyfriend mounted. I wriggled from Jean-Marc’s grasp and thought about top and tailing the fine French specimen instead, but worried we’d end up looking like we were 69ing. I ended up huddling as close to the edge of the bunk as I could without falling off and breaking my nose, though I was almost certain Julien was going to do it anyway whenever he stumbled in the door.
At 5am, my worst fears were realised and Julien crashed into the room. I lay morbid with fear as he discovered Jean-Marc’s empty bed and began to rant and swear. Thankfully, due to what I perceived to be an unbridled confidence in his lover’s sexuality, Julien didn’t even look to check my bunk, and instead passed out in his studded jeans and Ed Hardy tee in Jean-Marc’s empty bed.
A few hours later, I demounted my bunk looking like I had ball sacks under my eyes. I was so fucking tired, but managed to fake a smile when Jean-Marc stirred and beamed at me, his morning glory tenting the bedsheet.
“Let’s quickly swap mobiles!” he instructed. “I’ll give you my contact details – you and Alana have to stay with us in Paris!” He wrote something cryptic and French into the notes section of my iPhone, which I assumed to be something along the lines of “Come shopping in Monte Marte with your new gay best friends. Love, Jean-Marc.”
A week later, I received a message on Facebook.
Jean-Marc: Gemma, I was just wondering, did anything happen the other night when we were in the bed together?
Me: No, of course not don’t worry! You just fell asleep. I never would have taken advantage of a situation like that – don’t worry, I know you’re gay!
Jean-Marc: Haha, I am not really gay! I just asked because I would hate not to remember if we kissed. So when are you coming to visit me? x
I. Am. Such. A. Fucking. Twit.*
*N.B. Obviously, we went to Paris.