Sexy Spanish Practice Ch. 01

On Saturday night, I was at the second-floor bar of Marla's, waiting for my friend Angel to arrive with his cousin. He was late as usual and downstairs people were streaming in for the drag show. I could hear the boom of the microphone and the master (or rather mistress) of ceremonies, followed by resounding applause.

There was hardly anyone upstairs except me and the bartender. The upper level of Marla's held the massive dance floor, complete with giant speakers and suspended disco lights. I was already on my second beer of the night, hitting it hard to calm my nerves.

I kept checking my phone, if only to let the few people around me know that I was waiting for someone, rather than just hanging out alone.

I had met Angel over a month ago in my search for a Spanish language partner. I'd been studying on my own for about two years and desperately wanted someone to practice with.

I posted an ad on Craigslist (in the Men Seeking Men section, of all places). I wrote it all in Spanish, hoping to attract the local latinos of the community.

The fact was that I was wildly attracted to Hispanic men. Just hearing a man speak or sing in Spanish was enough to make me weak at the knee. So I figured, if my exchange partner happened to be a sexy gay guy, all the better!

Angel was the only one to actually follow up with me on the language exchange (all the other responders were white guys who thought I was Hispanic and asked if I could please speak English).

Angel and I were both twenty-eight, of decent height, and a bit on the husky side. His skin was extremely light, with only the slightest gold tint to indicate he was Hispanic. He had a large, peanut-shaped head, kind of like an old-timey babydoll. It contained small, copper-brown eyes to match his hair, heart-shaped lips and a petite, feminine nose. We got along okay, but there wasn't really any attraction to speak of.

Nor was he much help when it came to practicing Spanish. Having spent most of his life in Southern California, he would automatically switch to English every time I failed to understand something he said.

Angel may not have been a great language tutor, but he did like to take me clubbing with him. We'd been out to Marla's together twice already.

"We're downstairs!" he texted me at last. I'd been waiting nearly an hour. I was definitely a lightweight when it came to drinking and already felt tipsy as I descended to the first floor.

Angel waved to me amongst the crowd entering at the foyer. He was all but impossible to miss, decked out in full club attire, including a vinyl jacket of shiny, rippling purple and a whole lot of Liberace-style bling.

I, on the other hand, had come in the same green hoodie and blue jeans I wore everywhere. I liked to think of myself as "butch" and "passing-for-straight," rather than just a lazy dresser.

Angel greeted me with a kiss on both cheeks. "Hey good to see you, glad you could make it," I shouted into his ear, genuinely relieved to have some company.

"Jimmy baby, so nice to see you again," Angel stroked his long, gold chains. I began to say something, but he was already scanning the crowd and sizing up the guys.

To be honest, I'd been pretty reluctant to come with him again, seeing as the last two times he'd hooked up with a guy hotter and younger than either of us and left me by myself. I'd gone home feeling stupid and questioning why I ever went out at all.

After sizing up the situation, Angel snapped back to attention. "Oh, right, so this is my cousin Diego from Mexico that I was telling you about, Diego, Jim. Jim, Diego."

Angel motioned to the guy on his right whom I'd scarcely noticed in the blinding purple of his jacket. Diego stepped forward and we shook hands.

It was only the fact that Angel was bringing his cousin from Mexico that had convinced me to come to Marla's a third time. He explained on the phone that this was Diego's first time in the United States and he would be showing him around for a few days.

"So, basically, he does not speak a word of English and since you're all into learning Spanish and everything, maybe you could just chat with him. Just help me show him a good time...he's gay, too, you know..."

I was still desperate to practice my Spanish with someone and maybe this was Angel's way of paying me back for all those times he ditched me.

Already pretty soused, I may have stared at Diego a bit longer than I should have. As our hands made contact, I felt the heat in my groin almost immediately.

It took me a moment to register that this was the guy Angel had been talking about. I had no idea what to expect from this cousin from Mexico, but the one thing I definitely didn't count on was feeling any more attracted to him than I did to Angel.

Diego was a head shorter than the two of us. He was cinnamon skinned with full, luxurious black hair that gleamed in the light above. He had large, dark eyes and a prominent nose. His slightly-parted lips were thick, moist, luscious. He sported a pencil moustache and furry little goatee that ran the underside of his jaw.

He was wearing a black silk shirt, open and exposing his chest. A gold crucifix on a long chain dangled between smooth, hard pecs. His upper arm flexed with jumping muscle as I shook his hand.

"Hola Jim, soy Diego, que tal?" Diego's lip curled into a shy little smile. With a low, but verile voice, he had pronounced my name "Geem" rather than "Jim."

I admired his deepset indigenous features (those Mexican men of Aztec/Mayan descent drive me wild. I'm always so frustrated by the that latino "heartthrobs" in movies and TV usually just look like white guys with a tan. I find indigenous-looking men to be amongst the most beautiful on Earth). I looked back and forth between Angel and Diego, still trying to comprehend that they were related.

"Hi there," I said stupidly in English, "I'm Jim, nice to meet you."

"No, no, use Spanish," Angel reminded me.

"Oh, right, erm- mucho gusto, es un placer conocerte..."

Diego beamed at hearing his mother-tongue come out of my mouth. I noticed his dimples. His teeth seemed especially white, offset by the darkness of his skin. He looked at me with those fathomless black eyes that I thought I might drown in.

"The drag show already started," I said turning to Angel, trying really hard to do something besides drool all over his cousin. Even the foyer where we stood was jam packed. Getting into the showroom would be a challenge. Still, we could see the sequined dress of the first performer sparkling through a sea of cigarette smoke.

"What can I get you to drink?" Angel yelled into my ear, placing a gold-ringed hand on my shoulder. I told him another beer would be fine if he was buying. Diego said the same. Heroically, he pushed his way into the showroom, his shiny purple jacket vanishing into the crowd.

The two of us were left standing together, my body alert to the presence of Diego next to me. He smiled at me again, a blush rising in his cheeks. I started making small talk in Spanish. It was lucky I already had some alcohol in me, or I would surely have been tongue-tied.

"Y eres de la ciudad de México, no?" I asked him.

"Si, soy chilango, si..." He grinned, showing his dimples again.

"Y como es la vida allí?" (how is life there?)

"Ah bien, todo bien, gracias..." he nodded.

So far, so good. My Spanish seemed to be flowing pretty naturally.

Many of my previous attempts to communicate with native speakers had ended in embarrassment and frustration. All the mistakes I'd made would come back to haunt me later and make me cringe.

However, something kept me from giving up. I assumed it was moments like this. When things went well and I carried out a coherent conversation, it was thrilling.

Being able to talk to someone in Spanish whom I could not have talked to otherwise felt almost like magic. Like opening a door where there had only been a wall. The experience was addictive.

Diego told me that he worked as a cook in a family restaurant ("A que te dedicas?" I asked him, having learned to ask "what do you do" no more than a week ago). That he was thirty-three years old ("Cuantos años tienes?") and this was his first time in the U.S.

I was surprised by how easy he was to talk to. He seemed to understand everything I said to him and I, for that matter, could understand him extremely well. This little language exchange was off to a good start.

When he asked me a question about myself, I placed a hand on his shoulder. The feel of him sent an immediate jolt to my cock.

I felt myself growing hard at his silky, sultry cadences, speaking in that beautiful language I so desperately wanted to master. If I could have kissed or even made love to the velvety tones of his voice, I would have.

As casually as I could, I stole glances down his shirt, at the crucifix swaying between the sculpted mounds of his chest. I envied that crucifix.

I had also taken note of the light-colored blue jeans he wore that hugged and accentuated his lower body. They showed off the shapeliness of his legs (he was a very well-proportioned man) not to mention an extremely cute, round ass and a large ball of a bulge at the front. He may have been on the short side, but he appeared to be big where it counted.

"Y qué piensas de Estados Unidos?" I asked him (what do you think of the United States?). He nodded up at me, seeming transfixed by my gaze, "muy lindo, me gusta...me gusta mucho." He smiled appreciatively at our little cultural exchange and I gave his forearm a squeeze.

"Vaya," I exclaimed at the firmness of his bicep, "pero que fuerte eres! Tienes musculos, no?" (you're very strong, you have muscles!) His blush deepened, "si," he answered, grinning wide. I was sure I saw the tight bulge of his pants starting to swell.

He told me he went to the gym three or four times a week. I asked him if he would flex for me. I enjoyed his shy embarrassment as he made a fist. I felt his bicep slide upward and go taut beneath my hand. When I pushed down it was hard as a rock.

"Vaya," I said again, shaking my head in amazement, "eres un hombre verdadero, no? El Superman mexicano!" He erupted in booming laughter at this. I laughed, too.

It was impossible not to notice the thick shaft starting to snake down his right leg. I was getting this super sexy guy hard. I glanced briefly at all the people around us, wondering if any of them had noticed. I sort of hoped so.

Before long, I was using one of my large, capable hand to massage his back. "Te importa si te frote la espalda?" I had remembered the word frotar, "to rub." It appeared I'd found my muse for easy-flowing Spanish. I was amazed by how effortlessly I seemed to be communicating with him.

Diego rolled back his shoulders as I kneaded into his back. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, taking in the sensation. I watched his ass sway as he shifting his weight from one leg to the other, then back again. I considered that he might be getting uncomfortable with that big hardon pinned in those extremely tight pants.

After a while, there was a shimmer of purple out of the corner of my eye and Angel was back with our drinks (it had been quite an expedition, apparently). "There you go...para usted, señor..." he said. Diego leaned into me as we sipped our beers. My thumb now hooked into one of his back pockets.

"Vaqueros muy estrechos, me gustan," I said into his ear (Very tight jeans, I like them). I loved making him blush. I wiggled my thumb a bit, feeling the curve of his ass through the fabric.

The three of us stood a while, sipping our drinks and watching the drag show from the foyer. The next time I looked over, Angel was on the other side of the room in a circle of handsome, college-aged guys, giggling and stroking his long, gold chains.

I had no idea if he knew these guys, but by now I was accustomed to Angel's modus operandi. He may not have been the most attractive guy in the world, but he knew how to chat a man up, no doubt about that. I doubted we'd be seeing much more of him the rest of the night.

A third beer down, I grew more forward with Diego. I positioned him in front of me as we watched the drag show (he was shorter after all and this way he could see better, or at least that is what I told myself).

I worked both hands down into the back pockets of his jeans. I squeezed the round swell of his backside. Though I could not see his face, I felt him draw in a breath, heard him heave a sigh. He reached a hand behind to stroke my arm (the other still held his beer). His buttocks clenched and shifted as I squeezed them tighter.

I wrapped both arms around Diego's stomach and pulled him into me, pressing his plump ass against my growing erection. My manhood strained beneath my jeans.

I held him, feeling his taut stomach rise and fall. One of my hands ran up over his silk shirt to his chest and reached in. His bare flesh silky and warm there.

I fingered the cold metal of his crucifix between the cantaloupes of his pecs. "Un crucifijo, no?" I asked into his ear, seeking clarification on the word that I was not completely sure of. "Si, crucifijo," he responded, still looking ahead at the drag queen on stage.

I trailed my hand in a circle over his left pectoral, causing it to flex and jump. Then I narrowed in on his nipple. I did not hear, but felt his breath of surprise as I pressed my thumb into it, rubbing and caressing until it was erect.

I did the same with the other. Wanting to admire my handiwork, I reached down and undid the remaining three buttons of his shirt. Diego did not resist. He exhaled with a shudder as he continued to sip his beer.

I pulled his shirt open, admiring his chest and torso from over his shoulder. His nipples were hard and chocolate brown, like two Hershey's kisses stuck into brown sugar. I pinched and rubbed, feeling the excitement run through him again.

We were, of course, putting on a bit of a show. Guys to the left and right of me had become aware of Diego and how fit he was. The tall guy next to me watched from the corner of his eye as my finger trailed down Diego's heaving, bare stomach and traced the little upside-down triangle of his belly button. The guy surely also noticed the big, thick shaft, now almost perfectly outlined in those jeans, pinned over Diego's leg.

I felt rather proud of myself. It had, after all, been me standing alone the last two times. It seemed my hour had finally arrived.

A drag queen came out in an outrageous, lime green wig, a kind of fishnet body stocking and a thong bikini. The crowd went wild as he began doing a sexy pole dance.

I rested my chin on Diego's shoulder and asked him how you say "thong" in Spanish.

He looked back at me, not understanding. "Mande?"

"Esta clase de calzoncillos, como se dice?" I reached down and found the elastic band of his underwear beneath his jeans and snapped it playfully over the swell of his ass, then motioned back to the drag queen, "como ella."

"Ah," he understood, "una tanga, ella lleva una tanga." An easy enough translation. I said the word in Spanish several times, feeling Diego's buns pressing against my hard cock. "Y tienes tu una tanga?" I asked him playfully (do you have a thong?).

I watched his face go red again, "si," he answered, grinning.

"Si?" I exclaimed, drawing more attention from people around us, "si tienes una tanga?" I pulled back the band of his jeans to see what he had on under there. I caught a glimpse of bright red fabric.

"Pero ahora, no," he clarified, giggling with embarrassment, "no la llevo ahora." He wasn't wearing it now. "Que lastima," I said, disappointed, "then I leaned into his ear and whispered, "pero yo quisiera verte en tu tanga." (I'd like to see you in your thong) He laughed, seeming genuinely amused. I looked down, pleased to see his jeans could barely contain his hardon.

When I glanced over in Angel's direction again, I saw that he and his group of boys had vanished. "Quieres ir arriba? Puedo mostrarte la segunda planta" (Want to go upstairs? I can show you the second floor). Diego looked back at me with that lovely, shy smile. "Vamos," he whispered.

...

The dance floor on the upper level was still empty, save for two slow-dancing couples. A love song was blasting from the five-foot speakers and the disco lights turned at a snail's pace.

We each did a hard shot of tequila at the bar, followed by strawberry jello shots in plastic syringes. I watched Diego run his tongue over those moist, ripe lips of his, tasting the sweetness on them.

We moved to a semi-secluded table to the right of the dance floor. I took off my hoodie, leaving a sweaty blue t-shirt beneath. Diego removed his silk shirt entirely, leaving only the dangling crucifix and his skintight blue jeans. His athletic torso shone like heated carmel.

We talked. I caressed his body (my hands looked almost marble white against his cinnamon complexion) I kissed his bare shoulders and chest. We made out. Diego was a dynamite kisser, locking lips with him the first time all but made me levitate.

I asked him more about life in Mexico City, was it easy to be gay there? (it was pretty easy, lots of gays around, lots of gay clubs way bigger than this one). He told me about the huge gay pride parade they held every summer and all the drag contests (concursos de travestis). I suggested that maybe I ought to come visit him there sometime. His eyes lit up, seemingly enthused by the idea.

"Hablas muy bien el español, donde lo aprendiste?" He asked me.

"En la escuela," I answered, flattered by his compliment. This was partially true. I took Spanish in school, but never really learned anything until I started studying on my own.

"Y por qué querías estudiar el español?" (Why did you want to study Spanish?) His tongue darted over his lips once more, tasting them, smiling sweetly, foolishly in his drunkenness. I leaned in for another kiss.

Hands planted firmly on his upper thighs, I parted his mouth with my tongue and pushed into him. He opened, accepting me deeper. His breath burned from the tequila. His lips warm, juicy and tasting of strawberry jello. His pencil moustache tickled and even pricked me a bit. This slight pain only made the sensation sweeter somehow. I savored the heat, savored the taste of him.

When I pulled out, I whispered the answer into his ear: "bien, para platicar con todos los mexicanos sensuales, como tu..." (to talk with all the sexy Mexican men like you).

With every response Diego gave to me, I leaned in for another kiss. When he asked me something about myself, I stopped his mouth with my tongue before I would answer. We explored each others' bodies.

I wanted to taste, not just his lips, but every beautiful Spanish word formed by them. I wanted to relish them on my tongue. I wanted to kiss away, steal away the cadences of that sensual language as it flowed out of him. I inhaled it into me with his hot breath. Drank it up as from an endless well of pleasure. I went back again and again, thirsty, greedy for more.

...

Near midnight, the drag show downstairs was finished and the crowds came streaming up to the dance floor. The pace of the music quickened, changing to techno with heavy bass beats. It was party time.

We stood to watch the waves of people moving to the music. Diego's hips started to sway as well, as if automatically.