Turpitude Read online

  “Thus Els Quatre Gats was created on June 12th 1897. This building was designed by the famous Catalan architect Puig i Cadafalch. Everyone who was anyone patronized this place when Pere Romeu presided over the social gatherings.”

  Andy chimed politely, “We were told by our hotel concierge that Picasso frequented this place.”

  Encouraged by this proclamation Sergio continued eloquently, “In 1899, when Picasso was 17, he started to come here. In fact, his first art exhibition was held in this very room,” he pointed at the cover of the menu before adding, “He made this poster, which we now use as the title page for our house menu.”

  Instead of leaving my guardian and me alone, he rambled on, “Many famous musicians, like Isaac Albéniz, Enric Granados and Lluís Millet frequented our restaurant, not to mention famous architects such as Gaudí and Ricard Opisso. During those early years, many luminaries had retained tables at Els 4Gats.” This time, he directed our gaze to the adjacent walls, which were filled with framed pictures and photographs. “You can see their artwork hanging on the walls,” he remarked proudly.

  “Look over there,” he pointed with aplomb to a Picasso, a Casas, an Opisso, a Nonell and a Rusiñol. “These gave inspiration to this place.” Hoping to divert the attention of the man, I asked courteously, “I’m quenched. Are our beverages arriving soon?”

  Sergio brushed my request aside. He furthered, “If Señor Pere Romeu were alive today…” the maître d’hôtel gave a hearty laugh before resuming, “Unfortunately, the poor man died a pauper from Tuberculosis. He, being an idealist, did not have a head for business. The brewery closed in 1903.

  “After his passing, this premise became the meeting place for the artistic circle of Sant Lluc until 1936, when three gastronomic entrepreneurs, Pere Moto, Ricard Alsina and Ana Verdaguer, reopened its doors a year ago. Since then, business has been thriving.”

  Just when Sergio was finishing his account of this historical eatery, our food arrived. Andy and I were famished. Needless to say, I did not get a chance to conduct a private conversation with my beloved about the issue that had been unnerving me.

  Barri Gòtic, Barcelona

  We wandered around the nearby Gothic Quarter of old Barcelona after a hearty meal. I was relieved to be alone with my chaperone. As we strolled hand in hand in silence through the charming Ciutat Vella (Old City), I was blissfully reassured that my world had not changed after all, but my active imagination had orchestrated my disquietude. No dialogue between my lover and me was required. Love’s unspoken rhapsody had again enshrouded me within a cloak of dissimulation.

  We meandered into a discreet calle (street), shielded by worn brick walls and framed by narrow archways. My lover leaned me against an antediluvian column and kissed me passionately. Transfixed by his dazzling greenish blues, I stirred to the closeness of his masculinity. Whiffs of his oxalated ruggedness bewitched my innocence, hypnotizing me like an intoxicating wand. Without uttering a single syllable, he rendered me into his virile web of wizardry. Tuned to my desires, my handsome Valet unbuttoned my dress shirt, pulling me to himself. His fervent kisses never left my delirious elation arousing my manhood to attention. Our rapturous urgencies only served to expedite my longing to savor his throbbing manliness. I unfastened his trousers as rapidly as he did mine.

  Before I knew it, I was on my knees supplicating to my strapping maestro, desiring to satisfy the exigent bulbousness that held me captive. His aerated intensity filled my frenzied soul as I jostled my path towards his sexual liberation.

  My lover’s vigorous libation poured into my receiving oral orifice just as my intrinsic offering gushed forth, flooding my chaperone’s athletic thigh with overflowing cogency.

  Not sanctioning any residuum to waste, I mixed the remainder of his spewing life force with my adolescent splotch, before smearing the succulent mixture around his bobbing hardness. I suckled every drop down my euphoric countenance. My beloved held my head firmly against his groin. His thumping curvaceousness remained buried within my inner recess until I was fully satisfied with my fill. Only then did we embrace in a lingering French kiss. We were immensely in love.

  By the time we sauntered back to El Palace at the wee hours of the morning, my scruples had dissipated, at least for the moment.

  Chapter Five

  Fight Club

  “There are two powers in the world;

  One is the sword, and the other is the pen.

  There is a great competition and rivalry between the two.

  There is a third power stronger than both;

  That of two Alpha males competing for dominance.”

  Bernard Tristan Foong

  La Rambla de las Flores

  Touring Barcelona was fascinating, especially with friends who were near and dear. Oscar and Alfonso joined us the last couple of days before we departed for Aubigny-sur-Nere to spend Christmas with Baron Pierre at Chateau Rouge.

  The morning of that weekend, Alfonso, Oscar, Mary and Jewel came to collect us at our hotel, which was located a short distance away from La Rambla, a colorful street filled with interesting Catalan products. It also housed an extensive plant market known to the locals as La Rambla de las Flores, (the Rambla of the flowers).

  During the 19th century, this was the only flower market in the old city. It was named after the Rambla de Sant Josep convent, located at the same location until the year 1839. Since then, this religious landmark had been transformed into the Boqueria Market. This wet market was filled with fresh produce and housed many aromatic cafes and patisseries, enticing shoppers to savor the abundance of homemade delicacies.

  While the men in our group were salivating over their beverages and the women were shopping for fresh produce, I was drawn to the copious arrays of blooms, the succulent vegetables and the abundance of mouthwatering fruits. Lost in this tutti-frutti jungle, I was unaware of the stalker who had been trailing me since we entered the market. A hand reached for me as I inhaled the saccharine aroma of a large amaryllis.

  Thor stood behind me with an alluring smile. ”I did not expect you here. Where you disappear last two days?” he enquired in broken English.

  “We are staying at the El Palace Hotel,” I chirped excitedly.

  “Where Andy?” he questioned.

  I pointed to the café where I had left the men but was unable to locate the shop. ”Oh! He is somewhere in the market,” I replied, ”Are you here alone?”

  His prurient eyes undressed me as he declared, “Pratnah shopping in market.”

  “Will you like to join us at the café?” I queried without looking at him.

  He held my arm and gave me a lubricious smile before gently guiding me towards the market’s exit. ”Where are we going?” I asked, puzzled.

  Before I could question further, he had ushered me out onto the street. “Wait, I’ve to inform Andy where I’m going. Otherwise, he’ll be looking for me,” I voiced.

  The Swede did not answer. He tugged my hand to follow. I resisted, but his muscular hands gripped me roughly. I yelled for him to stop. Passersby were staring at me. He paid no attention. He continued to drag me with him.

  From the corner of my eyes, I saw Andy, Oscar, and Alfonso heading in our direction. Thor released me abruptly when he saw them. Not knowing what to make of the occurrence, I stood frozen. By the time my friends arrived, my abductor had expeditiously turned on his charismatic persona.

  My chaperone questioned with concern in his voice, “Young, where did you disappear to? We were looking for you when I heard your shrieking. What happened?”

  I stood speechless, not knowing how to respond. My kidnapper seized the opportunity to speak, ”I want show Young store.” He shrugged his shoulders to simulate ignorance to my sudden outcry.

  Alfonso questioned in Spanish, ”“La tienda se puede mostrar a los jóvenes (What store were you showing Young)?”

  “YO le estaba llevando a la tienda de chocolates en la misma calle que yo creo que él va a gustar (I was ta
king him to a chocolate store across the street I thought he’d like),” the hippie stated imperviously before adding, ”No tengo ni idea de por qué es tan reacio a venir conmigo a la tienda (I have no idea why he is so reluctant to come with me to the shop).”

  Andy looked at me for an explanation. Since I did not wish to appear a wimp in front of my friends and didn’t understand Thor’s intention, I muttered coyly, ”I wasn’t sure where he was taking me and I wanted to tell you before leaving with him.”

  Oscar mollified the awkward situation by asserting, ”I’ll find Mary and Jewel to inform them that we’ll be at the chocolatier across the street when they are ready to join us.” He ran towards La Rambla de las Flores to locate the women.

  Andy gave a detesting glance to my abductor as we walked in silence towards Coco Chocolate. My guardian was obviously figuring out a civil way to confront the Viking about ever trying this again.

  As soon as I entered this aromatic establishment, my perturbation dissipated. Rows upon rows of enticing chocolates drew me to the counter; my uneasiness had been replaced with gluttonous exuberance. Before I could utter a word, my chaperone vociferated, ”Don’t you go overboard with your order, I don’t want you throwing up on me like in Venice.”

  Thor gave me a nefarious wink, as if to influence me to defy my Valet’s counsel and eat all I wanted. I gave my guardian a conceding nod. When his back was turned, my stalker pinched my backside. He lured me to defy Andy’s admonition by seducing me with a come-hither Cheshire cat grin. His provocative temptation did prove irresistible, especially when it came to artfully decorated chocolates. I ordered more than I could devour.

  At Palau de la Música Catalana

  Mary and Jewel suggested we watch a Flamenco performance after our scrumptious chocolate interlude. Since I had never been to a Flamenco performance, I seconded the idea. Off we trotted to Palau de la Música Catalana (Palace of Catalan Music), a stone’s throw from the flower market.

  This concert hall, designed and built by the famous Spanish architect Lluis Domenech i Montaner, was inaugurated on February 9, 1908. It was specifically constructed to house the Orfeo Catala, a choral society founded in 1891 that was a leading force in the Renaixenca (Catalan Rebirth) cultural movement.

  This project was primarily funded by the society’s wealthy industrialists and bourgeoisie contributors. In 1909, a prestigious architectural award was bestowed by the Barcelona City Council to this top-notch musical establishment. It was within this scrumptiously decorated concert hall I witnessed the spectacular Ballet Nacional de Espana, otherwise known as the Ballet Lirico Nacional, performing their bedazzling ‘Flamingoes’ flamenco dance spectacular.

  The moment we arrived at this bewitching venue, I was wonderstruck at the decorative details encasing this 19th century architectural masterpiece. I couldn’t help but photograph the ornamental splendor of the Catalan art.

  As soon as we entered the main auditorium, I was greeted by Antoni Rigalt’s large stained-glass inverted dome, illuminated entirely by daylight. Twinkles of blue glass sparkled amidst golden panels gave one the impression of sitting under the sun.

  The wall decorations were masterpieces of creativity and imagination in and of themselves. Every facet within and without this spacious hall had been carefully considered.

  This hall was not built as a theater or a church. The massive sculptures flanking the rostrum or the monumental pipe organ gracing the apse-like area above and behind the stage made the use of sets almost impossible.

  Flanked in a semicircle on either side of the podium reared 18 female figurines, popularly known as the muses (although there are only nine muses in Greek mythology). It was Eusebi Arnau who sculpted their uniquely protruding upper torsos, while Lluís Bru created their colorful mosaic lower bodies as part of the wall. Each of the muses played a different musical instrument. These are regarded as the best sculptural works within this expansive concert hall.

  A number of winged Pegasi enjoy a commanding position in the upper balcony. Sandwiched between Andy (on my right) and Thor (on my left), I was rattled and held spellbound by the visual overload.

  ‘Flamingoes’ Flamenco

  The minute the guitarist strummed the first dizzying note on his contemporary viola de mano (a Spanish lute instrument from which the modern day guitar originated), I was already hypnotized by this Andalusian experience. I stared unblinkingly at the troupe of stunning women that had emerged on stage in the most lavish frilly dresses I’ve ever seen. Refined men in tight pleated pants and crisp white shirts, open to the navel, accompanied these exotic birds of paradise. My mind cascaded to their riveting footwork, and the claps and the captivating sounds of the castanets drew me into a hypnotic web of sensuality. There was nothing sloppy or amiss in this ensemble’s showmanship. They were the crème de la crème of flamenco.

  I sat transfixed by such artistry, when a hand from my left made its way under my buttocks. I did not move from such daring conspicuousness, especially when the hall was filled with engrossed spectators. I sat beguiled, staring at the performers as they narrated their erotic love stories through a series of exotic gesticulations. Simultaneously, the hand was also challenging my riposte, testing the inner tumult that I had so skillfully concealed from my chaperone, whose hand now lay affectionately on my lap. Like the turmoil echoing inside the terpsichoreans’ minds, I was equally seduced by the interlocking turbulence playing out at my anterior and posterior. The stage served only to heighten the lustful fervency that until now I had so cleverly coveted through my imprisoned external masquerade.

  This divine collection of passionate assemblage was rendering me helpless. On the one hand, I needed Andy’s guiding assurance that no harm would befall me. On the other, I yearned to explore the web of uncharted precariousness: that which the Viking was temptingly weaving to trap me in like a spider. As the dancers reached their impassioned crescendo, so did my lover’s grip on my upper thigh and the ardent palm clutching my erogenous derriere. Both these persuasive ribaldries combined with the onstage tempestuousness aroused my libido to unbridled erection. My manhood was straining for adjustment, yet I remained motionless, imploring for this misadventure to subside. I sat immobile, afraid that my secret would be discovered. The further I petitioned, the stiffer my hardness grew. I had little choice but to excuse myself to the men’s room.

  In the Fight Club

  There was nobody in the lavatory, so I left the toilet door ajar. The rugged arm of a brawny man clasped my slender waist when I was adjusting my organ. He wasted no time to swivel me around to cup my mouth from hollering. I struggled to free myself from his hurtful grip, but his bullishness had pinned me onto the dividing wall. I stared into my captor’s menacing eyes as he pulled out a gag to secure it across my mouth. I was grappling with the very same man that had not so long ago tried to abduct me. I booted my knee against his crotch, sending him screeching onto the tiled floor. He cupped his scrotum in pain.

  Before I could decide on my next move, a punch landed on the Viking’s jaw, sending him rolling on the floor. To my amazement, Andy was kicking my captor’s midriff fiercely, making the hippie double over. My guardian rushed over to me to see if I was hurt. Without warning, Thor drove himself like a charging Toro toward my toreador (bull fighter), knocking my Valet onto the toilet seat. My captor caught hold of me and dragged me to the exit. The next few moments were a blur. The two men were wrestling on the ground when I came around.

  To my astonishment, the washroom door flew open and in came Alfonso and Oscar. The Spaniard pulled Thor from under my Valet, pushing the bull out of the room while Oscar held my toreador at bay in case he lunged at the hippie again. My savior cursed at the Viking. Judging from the Swedish Toro’s intonation, he too was swearing and waving his fist at my champion when Alfonso led him out of the concert hall.

  By the time Oscar, Andy and I returned to our respective seats, we had cleaned up sufficiently to not alarm the women. They didn’t suspect anything had g
one askew during our absence, though I was positive that they had their suppositions when the Swede and the Spaniard never reappeared. When asked, we told them that Alfonso had to drive Thor back to the commune because of his excessive drug and alcohol consumption.

  Thanks to the professional tapping of heels, snapping of castanets, clapping of hands and strumming of guitars, the exuberant presentation had drowned out the ruckus in the men’s room. My ex-BB and I were glad that my guardian had suffered only minor bruises, unlike the bull, who ended up with a black eye and bruises on his torso, not to mention the endowment that I had so artfully hoofed.

  This dance performance was indeed a breathtaking piece of precision and passion, a presentation of a lifetime. This Catalonian high-energy experience not only showcased the grace of Flamenco but also the art of Corridas de toros Españolas (Spanish bull fighting) at its best.

  Chapter Six

  What Happened By the Lake?

  “He was a swindler and subsequently a conniving brute.”

  Andy Frankenstein

  1967

  Farewell Soiree

  On the final evening of our vacation, Andy was reluctant to return to Strawberry Fields Forever for a communal dinner. Under Mary and Jewel’s levelheaded persuasions, we agreed to return to Andorra only when Alfonso promised my chaperone that the Viking and Pratnah would not be at the farm that evening.

  Both of the children had gone off to stay with their respective grandparents or relatives, leaving the adults to their bacchanalian revelry. After a scrumptious dinner, several lodgers strummed folk songs on their respective musical instruments. They had stationed themselves in various sections of the two-story farmhouse. Others were puttering and dancing around to the latest pop music being played on the gramophone. Recreational drugs were consumed and cigarettes were puffed, as was the norm among the communal residents. Since Andy and I were not into these pastimes, we wandered around the various cliques to espy their eurythmic merriment. Andy had a couple glasses of wine and I didn’t drink, and although we danced intimately, we weren’t “zoned,” like the others.