by Aden Ray
(02/18/09)

Arturo owned a hole-in-the-wall sherry joint in Hell's Kitchen. It was called Fino, and he let me drink on a quarterly tab. Once upon a time I had enthralled him and he let me drink for sex. Later he let me drink for something we thought was love, but maybe it was more like the comfort of attachment -- equally a comfort I loved. A little later still, Rafael wandered into the bar looking for somewhere quiet to read El Diario. There was nothing I could do: he and Arturo took each other by surprise. All at once it was absurd to think they weren't together.

I could hardly be jealous of Rafael. There was every reason to conclude he was better for Arturo than I was. They lived near each other in Morningside Heights. Rafael worked as a cardiac nurse. His sex appeal was immense. The way he said Arturo's name made even my pulse hammer, and when they spoke Spanish together and laughed and looked at each other with such admiration, they seemed like mythical lovers. Even their arguments sounded like foreplay: Rafael would storm into the bar and bark in Spanish at Arturo, who would holler back. I would practically come just listening to them.

Of course I had to set him free. Oh yes, Quin the gracious. Quin the martyr. Quin who could have been less selfish and intemperate and more devoted to love and less to drinking. I could have been all those things. I remember thinking with drunken logic it was The Philadelphia Story and I was C.K. Dexter Haven. Arturo was Tracy, my true love abused and abandoned and regretted ever after. But all along maybe I was madly in love with James Stewart, and Arturo was lost on the cutting room floor. I suppose I could have been kinder. I could have thought less of myself. I could have thought the best of him, and so on and all that. What goes on, Quin? You've got tears in your eyes.

I remember one afternoon, when their love was still new, I had settled into my usual spot in the shadows down the end of Arturo's long wooden bar. He brought over half a carafe of manzanilla from a fresh cask and poured us each a glass. Johnny Hartman was playing on the stereo, singing about how wonderful it is, so they tell me...

Arturo looked quickly over his shoulder and leaned across to kiss me on the mouth.

"How are you, querido?"

"I'm okay."

"You will like this new one. My brother sent it." The men in Arturo's family were sherry connoisseurs. His brother lived in Madrid. "I think it's perfect for the springtime."

I tried it. "Very delicate. Lovely. How is Rafael?"

"He's in Miami. We're buying a humidor." He thumbed at a conspicuous space on the bar. "Rafa is bringing back cigars. There is a small company making them by hand. Come back maybe Tuesday next week and I'll give you some."

"Where do they get the tobacco?"

"Nicaragua."

"Oh. Nice."

I raised my glass and we toasted in the sentimental way of old lovers.

"How are you?" I said.

"I am happy. You look tired, my sweet boy." Arturo reached out a hand to my cheek. His fingers were warm. "You haven't shaved."

"You shave too much. It's not good for your complexion."

He laughed. "But I am already ugly. You are beautiful."

Like a fool I closed my eyes and rested my face into his palm. He smelled like lemon and kitchen soap.

I moved his hand away and poured more sherry.

"Not for me," he said. "Are you all right, Quin?"

"Magnificent! I'm magnificent."

"I don't feel it."

"I'm fine, angel. How else would I be? Just let me drink for a while, will you? Pass me Don Quixote."

Arturo kissed his fingertips and pressed them to my cheek. He fetched the book from an alcove beside the register. We both had a copy, mine in English and his in Spanish, and we had been reading together for about six months. With typical generosity Arturo deferred to my pace, so we were only fifty pages in. He left me to it and went about his duties, sweeping and washing and stacking and decanting.

As my eyes moved over the words I drifted with my thoughts, back in time to the ancient drama of Arturo and me. I pushed away dark memories of my terrible temper and his silent acquiescence, instead returning to the time we shared in each other's arms. I needed, inexplicably, to know I still remembered how his hands felt on my skin, his tonguetip slipping down my hip, his gentle, unhurried fellatio.

I remembered we once made love in my spa bath. It was my first time being taken by Arturo, though why I should have resisted so long I did not remember. I was drunk very often. I remembered quite clearly, on the other hand, the way the warm water and a bottle of moscatel had softened my mood and returned my thoughts to sex. I remembered being horrified Arturo had not had me. Perhaps I hadn't offered. I still remember panicking, sitting in the blooming foam of jasmine-scented bubbles in that massive bath, abruptly certain my spare-change blow jobs and half-baked drunken rooting could not possibly satisfy a Spaniard.

I remember sitting there wondering where the hell he was. I called out, but the running water was loud. I thought he might be downstairs washing up. His helpfulness was unrelenting. I was afraid if I closed my eyes I would wake up and he would have been a dream. I was afraid if I did not rectify the situation now and let him have me, he would finally summon the courage to walk out.

At last he came upstairs. I turned off the water. He was naked and stirring, standing in the doorway looking at me with dark heavy eyes and fingering his cock.

No arguments, I said. I want you to have me right now. I mean it. I want you to have me.

He said, Oh querido.

And don't be a fucking pansy about it.

Oh my sweet boy.

He was shaking his head.

I shook mine: Shut up. Don't say anything.

But I like--

Shut up shut up--

But I like the way we make love.

For God's sake will you please please please please shut up.

I was shaking with frustration and incompetence. I felt like a teenager. Arturo looked at me for a long time.

I'm sorry, he said. I didn't know you were feeling so much about this.

He came to me then, and I gripped the back of his neck and kissed him viciously. He was always so polite. I wanted him to hurt me, or almost hurt me, or at least threaten to. Grab me by the throat. Put his cock in my mouth. No words. No consideration. Hold me down and choke me.

Let go, he said. I have to get the stuff.

I sprung my fingers open. He went out to the bedroom.

I called out: You didn't shave.

No.

It hurts. You always shave.

Well then. Everything is new for you today.

He paused at the doorway with the tube in one hand, hip cocked. My heart leaped. I turned around and bent over.

Oh the glory of a penis up your bum, I sang.

What is that?

My new theme song. Do you like it?

I mean what is the music?

The Battle Hymn of the Republic. The Buggery Hymn of the Ass.

Arturo laughed. You're obscene.

I whistled and wiggled and grinned at him upside down under my arm. He was standing back, lips parted, hand on cock, tense and hesitant, and then panic hit me again. My smile fell away. I thought, What the hell am I doing? Look at him, he's enormous! How the hell will I get that in? I thought about not going through with it, at the last minute yelling, Surprise! and jumping him. I looked away. I thought about wrestling him down and the small angry grunts he would give and the cold hard pain of the tiles bruising my knees.

Bubbles ran down my belly and arms and the insides of my thighs.

I said, Don't rush yourself.

I moved my legs apart a little. Arturo did not speak. I felt him hovering, and then his long warm finger, thickly lubricated, pierced me and I gasped. My panic vanished and all my presence focused on the maddening fusion of pain and bliss.

Is it too much? he said.

No no no. Shut up. Harder.

He greased my ass with ponderous care, and then took his finger out.

What the fuck are you doing?

He put two fingers inside me and scissored them slowly. I moaned and banged my head against the wall, and then he took them out.

Fuck. Fuck! Will you stop doing that? Jesus.

Oh my sweet boy.

His fingertip circled my asshole. I was faintheaded. I looked at my cock and it was hard red and I could see Arturo's legs between mine over the rim of the spa, and it was almost more than I could take. My pulse thundered. I thought about turning and jumping him--

And then he was in me again, two fingers, three, and I shuddered and groaned as he massaged my prostate. His fingers flexed slowly, stretching me out until all three were inside me. It hurt like hell, and then it stopped hurting. I smelled flowers and baking bread. The pleasure was impossible, and then he withdrew.

My sweet angel boy. You take my mind away.

My legs trembled. He pressed yet more lubricant inside me, and I slapped the wall and moaned desperately, and then he was gone altogether. I heard running water through the ringing in my ears, the sound of soap squelching between hands.

I butted the wall in rhythm: You're not a fucking surgeon...

And then I felt his triangled fingertips stretching me out again, and I was not angry anymore. His cocktip eased inside me, and for a moment, as his fingers slipped away and he wrapped his hands around my hips, my heart stopped.

And then I was alive.

Oh my God. Oh fuck.

He pressed in deeper, and I put my hands on the wall and pushed myself backwards, and all at once he broke me open and a vast relief spread through my body. I cried out and gasped and laughed at the pleasure, painless and free--

Forgive me, Arturo said. I want you another way.

And he slid back out.

I wanted to kill him. Even remembering it I wanted to kill him. But to have done it I would have had to stand up, and I couldn't stand up.

You bastard. You fucking bastard--

He caught me and turned me around and kissed me hard on the mouth. I was sweaty and the water was hot and Arturo grunted savagely. He lifted my balls and brushed the undertip of my cock with his wrist, and I cried out and gripped his arms and hung off him, quaking. He laughed. I shivered and looked at myself strung down his hairy body like spiderweb.

Fuck. I hope I got you in the face.

Filthy angel.

Serves you right. Bastard.

Arturo laughed. His eyes were wicked. He said, Craig David all over your body?

I screamed. He sandwiched my come between us and rubbed it with his belly. I said, Stop! Don't! I can't stand up.

Okay okay. It's okay. Relax, he said. Let's relax.

There was a noise in my head like ice cracking. I was weak in his arms.

I said, Please don't do that.

He kissed my face, my cheeks and eyelids and forehead and nose. Hola, guapo, he whispered. Hola. Hola. Hola.

I took his cock in hand and he pulled me forward at the hips. I tucked him underneath me --

Uno. Dos -- and he slipped inside again. I gasped and wheezed and clung to his shoulders.

Wait, I said. Wait.

I breathed. He waited. I nodded, and with one long debonair stroke he filled me up, and I was gone.

Oh God. Oh my God. I moaned my passion as he lowered me into the bath. I smelled jasmine and sweetbread. His strong thin hands supported my neck and rested me against the tub, and still kissing my face he moved my balls out of the way. I groaned and grunted at his ear, and he rested his cheek against mine and fucked me in lazy circles, round and round and round. Water sloshed over my shoulders.

I forced my eyes open. Don't slip, I said. I pushed hair off his brow. Don't slip on the bath.

He nodded vaguely. His English faltered: And you tell me -- if it -- if it is too much big. His cock twitched. He held his lip between his teeth. I said, Big? You're -- you're dreaming! and he laughed, and gasped, and said, Oh God don't make me laugh.

I watched him now preparing carafes for his evening regulars. I could have thought better of him. I could have been kinder. I could not be jealous.

I remembered the satisfaction that crept across his lips as he drew loops deep inside me. We kept on like this for a little while in absolute contentment, until his cheeks reddened and his smile thinned out and his breath began to stammer, and he got that look on his face.

He let out a groan that rumbled through my body and I reached for his ass to make him really fuck me. I couldn't reach. I grabbed his hips instead and rolled them, whispered, Come. Don't stop. Come.

And then at once the moment was upon him. He hesitated with a grimace and swore in Spanish, then started pounding wildly. I lost my grip. The bathwater splashed overboard. Arturo's feet slipped and squeaked. I rose up hard as he rubbed against my prostate and I knew I would come again.

We were a beast, grunting, fixated, choked with need, and I let out a strangled cry as a lovely soft wetness spilled up my cock; but there was no jolt, no orgasm. It was like watching a shellburst far off in a hot white sky. You see it pop, but hear nothing. Seconds pass. Black smoke rolls away and the crickets go on singing in the rustling trees, and then out of nowhere the explosion --

With a roar Arturo locked his hips, and I gasped in shock at the strange distant warmth. I slackened and let go and slid slowly down. Water closed over my face. I blew bubbles. As my breath ran out, his fingers breached the surface and his hands cradled my head, and he raised me to his breathless God-thank-you lips, Oh thank you thank you oh God my sweet boy.

Later he showered while I rinsed out the spa. Arturo is a hairy man. In the shower he sang a song in Spanish, a lullaby, I thought; but I was wrong. It was a folk song from the Spanish Civil War.

I tried to pour myself another glass of sherry. I could not stop my hands from shaking. I hated my memory, my lousy heart. The regulars were falling in at the bar.

"Arturo." I waved him over. He frowned at my hands and hurried to take the carafe, filling my glass almost to the brim.

"Are you okay? Are you cold?"

"I'm fine. Do you remember that song you used to sing--"

He clapped a hand to his chest: "Los cuatro generales..."

"That's the one."

"I'll put it on. Do you want me to?"

"Yes, please."

"Do you want to eat? Are you feeling sick? Why are you shaking?"

"I'm fine. I'm not shaking."

"Look at your hands."

"Your eyes must be shaking. Go see a doctor."

He gave me a look.

I said, "Listen, come out for lunch tomorrow. I had a date Monday night. I want to talk about it."

His smile was wicked. "Tell me now."

"I can't. It's all dirty sex. Your customers will be offended."

"Qué va! You're crazy. Tell me."

"Not here. It's even dirtier than us."

"Oh, I can't believe it. No one could be so dirty. You know, querido, I can't make love any more after you. Everything is too boring." He winked. I snorted.

"That's why I keep coming here. The comedy."

"Ay, okay, okay. Tomorrow lunch. Can we go to Peter's?"

"Yes, we can go to Peter's."

"Good. I want to have the meatloaf again."

"Then you'll have it," I said. "Let's make it one o'clock. I'll meet you there. It doesn't matter if you're late, I'm not going to work tomorrow."

"Okay. Don't forget what you want to tell me."

"Don't be late."

"You said I could."

"I was kidding. I'm not kidding. Don't be late."

He moved a shoulder. "I'm never late. You don't forget, okay? And don't be drunk."

"I never forget."

"You? That's very funny. Don't be drunk."

I raised my glass. "To us."

He laughed and went away.

In a while I heard a whistle from across the bar and looked up to see Arturo pointing at the stereo. I tuned into the lonely bright guitar of his favorite version of Los Cuatro Generales, The Four Generals. He hummed along softly, building plates of olives for the bar. I watched him and thought of Rafael and how sweet and exciting he was, and how his voice made Arturo melt, and how they were surely mythical lovers reunited after aeons.

When they danced together late at night, the customers gone home or drunk or watching sadly like me, I felt they were spotlit in time. Time is what Rafael gave Arturo, and it was threaded through with a powerful energy, not magical or spiritual, but wholly and potently human. Rafael gave all the time Arturo needed, and they made a universe for themselves. I suppose this is love.

I could not be jealous, but I could not live without Arturo. I needed to see him, to talk to him, to be near him. I had no particular reason. I suppose this is love. All those nights at Fino I was trying to hold onto him, trying to keep some part of him in the universe we had made together. But it was the work of the damned, and I wonder that a heart could take so much without just quitting altogether.

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