The last week passed quickly. That seems to be the case with most holidays. The first half is a long idyllic stretch of never-ending relaxations. Then you reach the mid-point, blink and you're back home again.
We did little more in the way of exploring. Monday I noticed that Georg Solti
and Hans Eysenck had died. Add that to Mother Theresa and Diana and the
ranks of the celebrities are looking thinner by the day.
Lots of sex that day after a nookie-less Sunday. Ross blew me first thing before breakfast. It was only when we got back from a quick expedition to the shops that I noticed that he had cum on his cheek. Only a few hundred local queers would have guessed what that was all about. Later in the afternoon we had a fab fuck. Ross is the only person I know who I have ever trusted to screw me deep and hard and for me to push back against him wanting more.
A passing note - bidets are wonderful things for post-shag ablutions and should be available on the National Health for all queers.
Tuesday was relaxing, touring Sitges's small but pleasant art galleries and museums, crêpes for lunch, long, slow shag in the afternoon heat, followed by a leisurely meal at Gabriel's and another shag before sleep.
Wednesday I nipped into Barcelona on my own. Ross just felt too tuckered
out. Actually, I was quite glad since it gave me the chance to buy him some
birthday presents. I also traipsed off to the Parc Joan Miró
to spend some with the giant abstract sculpture Woman and Bird. It's
about 60' tall and dominates the area. I took quite a few photographs. I also
seemed to catch the attention of a group of young skateboarders. By the
way they were showing off and flashing their naked torsos at me I began
to wonder if they wanted me to take some photos of them - or perhaps more.
I got back early. Maybe it was those semi-clad youths but as soon as Ross batted his eyelids at me I was up for it and at it with a vengeance. Another fine meal at Can Pagès and then we head off home totally stuffed and tuckered. Our plan of hitting at least one gay bar before we go home looks to have gone totally out of the window.
Thursday and Friday were uneasy days. I'd sort of already had my holiday and was ready to go home. The relaxation was good but I'm ready to get back to my nest and have my home comforts around me. Our beds, which have been OK for the first week, are now beginning to feel hard and unyielding by the second. I've slept on the floor a couple of nights. Also the weather is getting more and more humid and unpleasant. We could do with another good thunderstorm. The humidity is at about 80% and the temperature is regularly 25°C+.
Also, I missing out on some conversation. Ever since Jack went back to London last Saturday, I've not found anyone with whom to pass the time of day. And, frankly, Ross is not the world's greatest conversationalist. He's either got his nose in a book or he's asleep. When we go for meals, there doesn't seem to be an awful lot we have to talk about. I guess that's just part of how things are. The important things get said to be sure. We just don't have much small talk.
The final night we had our meal at Gabriel's. We decided to end it
where we began it. Also the food there is certainly the best we've had and
the two waiters are cute beyond words. Both are tall, one is slightly chunky,
the other more lithe. The chunky one tends to wear cream Armani chinos and
Ralph Lauren polo shirts. He's nicely muscled across the shoulders, chest
and thighs and makes a habit of plunging his hands into the pockets of his
chinos the better to show off his buns. The lithe one wears tee-shirts and
Levi jeans, with a 32" waist, a 34" inside leg and an inner seam that
disappears up the crack of his arse. They both seem to like leaning over the
table whilst serving so you get a nice view of their bums. I wouldn't be at
all surprised to find that they are completely heterosexual but, knowing
the clientele, are happy to flirt in search of bigger tips.
The last day of a holiday is always odd. We went back to the crêpe place, Sucré Salé, for our final, final meal and encountered a new waiter with divine brown eyes and another pair of Levi jeans with a 32" waist, a 34" inside leg and an inner seam that disappears up the crack of his arse. Why are they all coming out of the woodwork at the last moment?
The hotel were very good to us but then we have been pleasant guests for them. They allowed us to loll around the premises and have a shower before we headed off to the airport. I'd certainly go back there again for a week in the sun sometime. Not a fortnight again. I think we've exhausted Sitges for a fortnight.
We had planned the trip to the airport by stages to give us plenty of time and were there hours ahead of schedule. Then came the big thunderstorm and all the planes were delayed.
To cut a long story short we arrived back at the Walthamstow Ritz shortly
after 11pm rather than nearer to the 9.30pm we'd expected but that really
is small potatoes compared with some journeys I've suffered. Nathan seems
to have taken reasonable care of the house, Cyril's alive, there's one
small breakage, a couple of cigarette burns, a used condom packet in the
bedroom wastepaper bin and a pile of sick under a bush in the back garden
that will bio-degrade of its own accord. Looks like he's had a good time
himself. I sincerely hope he was responsible for the condom packet.