I wrote about four chapters of this story almost a year ago. It's all lined up in my head but I've been busy with other things and never gotten back to it. Since first person is not my usual MO, I highly encourage you to not believe this is autobiographical.
People will always need two things: food and drink. When those two are fulfilled the next stage is mating, so why not combine all those elements in a single interesting melting pot?
I cater to a very specific clientele, gay men, and in doing so I am also in the quest for love. That doesn’t mean it’s not gonna be a bumpy ride, but the bumpier the better, and a lot of whooping stops would make the trip a hundredfold more pleasing.
I came to Spain from a country in Latin America that I would not name, and believe me I shall keep you guessing until the end of the story, and maybe then, if I feel like it: I’ll let you know where my mother brought me to the world. Suffice is to say, that I have some American background, and that is why my business is Big Pepperoni’s and not ‘El Gran Pepperoni’. Nevertheless, here in Europe, unless you are from England, anything French is utterly chic. L’Grand Pepperoni was not glamorous enough for Chueca, the gayest neighborhood in Spain, if not on the whole wide queer world; thus I decided to keep it simple --graphic but simple--, because you guessed it right, my pepperoni is correspondently big. Total pun intended.
Some might think that the phallic metaphor for a gay-oriented locale would be too cliché, I totally disagree. Ninety-five percent of the boys might come in intrigued to find if the pepperoni is really big, some might get lucky and actually taste the aforementioned appendage. However, one hundred percent of my customers leave with enthusiastically satisfied stomachs. My product is good, and it's not a coincidence I’ve been named “Best Pizza Place in Madrid” five years in a row by not necessarily gay magazines.
When I set foot in Spain, it was in the middle of the transsexual migration of the end of the century --not that I’m a transsexual. I wasn’t aware of the flock moving to Spain until I arrived and was shocked by the huge amount of extremely beautiful women --who were born male-- cruising the gloomy parks for clients with sultry lips, humongous boobs and deadly schlongs. Being a prowling predator long before coming to Europe, I knew the difference very well. Real women never look that pretty when they sell their bodies on the street, and perhaps many guys in Latin America are not what you call extremely tall and could pass for cute girls perfectly --not my case, I’m six foot two-- , but the transgender gene usually explodes in the tall ones. Life ain’t fair, not every lady boy could be Roberta Close.
And the great Latin American trannies migration coincided with the bombshells migration from Eastern Europe, which was more to my likey. Dark and mysterious men with gypsy eyes, just toxically yummy. Simply keep in mind that there is more than two cups of American Jock blood in this cake; thus I don’t have a problem with blonds and much less with some Asian dish now and then. Kung Pao bubble butts to go! Yeah me likey too.
After winning the lottery, the day after Fat Tuesday, Fortune and her band of muscled beach boys told me to look for something bigger, since I always knew my country was not big enough for me, and my pepperoni. Luckily for me, I had been having cybernetic intercourse with a hot Spaniard and he gave me the idea to come here and embrace the motherland. That way, several millions --tax free, because I used to live in a fiscal paradise-- became less millions Euros, but millions nonetheless, and my Spanish adventure began.
My parents died in a burro accident, and I was raised by my esoteric grandmother. I just mentioned the burro accident to see how many gory images you could conjure up. What is a gay man without a big tragedy in his life? We queens must have a sense of drama, don’t we? But no, mom and pops went to the Big Siesta in Heaven in your regular garden variety car crash, but my grandmother indeed was esoteric in many levels, and she joined my parents after I graduated from high school and landed my first job. She was a great woman and she taught me well: to be a strong, independent gay man. The upmost gay lesson she gave me was, “Just because you like it up the butt, doesn’t mean you have to be an asshole. So be a gentleman until otherwise is proven necessary.” There’s nothing esoteric about that, just a good old life lesson.
My first taste of Spanish hunk was during my arrival, at the Barajas Airport, monster of chaos for a little Hispanic boy, who had never left his home before. Yeah right! Queerness has a defense mode that can only be outmoded by great predators in African plains. Did I mention that I look a lot like Lorenzo Lamas on The Renegade minus the motorcycle, long hair included? Coming from a tropical place, long hair could be a bitch, but I had a year to let it grow before my Spanish landing.
Where was I? Yes, the restrooms of the damned airport. I needed badly to empty my transatlantic restrained bladder. After a healthy piss, I saw him, hip leaned against a pedestal sink lighting a cigarette, sleek jet-black hair combed back, mean bulge in his designer jeans and enough attitude to melt anyone else. When you are six two and eat weights the way I do is not easy to be intimidated, and this gigolo wannabe didn't make me flinch, just gave me a raging desire to have him on his knees worshiping daddy. He puffed making sexy circles with the smoke, and you know what movement of the lips is needed to make those. He winked and said. “Wanna play, Tío?”
I grabbed my crotch, where my not so little friend was --wagging tail and tongue out-- ready to play, and spat at him. “I want you to play with this.” I unbuttoned my jeans and lashed my thing out. The greedy glint in his eyes washed away all the previous cockiness, and he followed me --like a stray puppy-- to an empty stall.
“Damn, Macho, where have you been all my life?” He said, on his knees, between gluttonous licks as he stroked my cock with both hands and the purple head was still available to devour.
“I’m here right now, and I’m loving those thin lips around my mushroom.” I said full of national pride.
But the size queen in him won the battle, and he voiced with a hiss. “I've got condoms and lubricant.”
I’m a man who knows when to take a hint, but I don’t eat without taste first. “Are you clean?”
He intensely scowled at me and blurted almost offended. “I don’t have any diseases.”
I chuckled. “I’m talking about your ass. I want to rim you before fuck you within an inch of your life.”
“Oh.” He seemed embarrassed, but responded brightly. “Yes, I took a shower less than two hours ago.”
“Perfect.” I pulled him by the shoulders to stand up. “Now turn around and spread those cheeks for me.”
My gigolo wannabe had a sexy, strong ass covered in delicate fur, so light it was too close to an angelic hare to be natural, but then again how could you fake that, there? The place where the sun don’t shine wasn’t pale at all; it had the prettiness of the sun-kissed olive skin I appreciate so much. I dived nose first and strangely enough there was the faint aroma of potato chips in the pretty crevice. I’m talking all-natural-only-sea-salt-added expensive potato chips where only virginal potatoes are sacrificed on the altar of mass-consumption, which was a total turn on. Hey, just because I’m a gym bunny, doesn’t imply I don’t like my junk food healthy.
The hot man whimpered when my tongue touched his slightly wrinkled inner lips and murmured. “I don’t do this often.”
OK, you were cruising in a restroom of a busy airport. Was he suggesting that he woke up that morning with the sudden urge to do this for the first, maybe second time in his life? Yeah, now tell me that Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother was actually a drag queen named Shantel. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt and think he’s talking about being rimmed.
I munched on that hole with teeth, tongue and lips until he begged for cock. I armed myself with rubber and lube and rammed the falling fortress. I hope you smelled the sarcasm here because that cavity opened so easily for pillage that it was not even funny. Accommodating and delicious, yes. Funny --nay.
I’m not the fuck-a-stranger-in-a-restroom type of guy, but this was hot, and if this was the prologue to all the things that were in queue for me in Spain, I was more than happy to take the motherland by the hair and have fun with her --well, with her attractive, silver-haired brother. While I gripped the slim waist to guide the battery, my restroom gigolo muttered, among breathless moans, a litany worthy of Saint Priapus in a language that I could not understand, most probably one of the other languages of Spain, but who cared. The deep, bothered voice was arousing even if he were reciting an old Cantonese poem.
The well-trained muscles of his ass squeezed my cock with such craft that I came within minutes, and always the caring lover, I stroked him to fruition with my cock still buried deep and hushing filthy words into his ear. He came with a growl that must have alerted Airport Security if they were not --perhaps-- doing the same in some other restroom of the chaotic complex.
Drained and content, I left the restroom to discover my sidekick, Martina, in amicable conversation with my cybernetic fuck-buddy Adrian, who had come to pick us up. Martina was my fag hag long before we learned what the term fag hag was. She had the biggest crush on me during college, while I had the hots for her older brother, who didn’t pay the least attention to me at the time and left the country several years later with a German sugar daddy.
I wonder how many times he had been under a glass coffee table by now.
When I slammed my big pepperoni against the fat lotto, I asked Martina if she wanted to come with me to Spain. Both orphans with no close relatives, we didn’t have a single thing to tie us to our homeland. Martina freed all her caged canaries and became my left hand. You got it right, I’m a lefty, and there was nothing sinister about her becoming my left side muse, because the woman was gorgeous in an utterly dark-queen-of-the-jungle way, but she always fell for the wrong guy and the only constant in her life was truly yours.
That way, The African Queen and The Renegade, finally met in person Cybernetic Porn Connoisseur Adrian St. Giorno. That wasn’t his real last name, yet truthful to triple x chatroom etiquette ‘St. Giorno’ was fine with me unless we were signing business documentation. I could give you several options to guess my cyber alter ego but, it would surface at some point on its own. Adrian had inherited a Pizza parlor in a Madrid neighborhood more interested in other lines of food; thus during the year of preparations we investigated several venues around Chueca since we already had the restaurant equipment.
I knew Adrian for about three years before I ganbanged the lotto. I loved him as a friend and cyber-fuck partner, but there was no I-want-to-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-you love, it was just lots of comradeship and screen splashing sex. We both were smart guys, and Martina would be the real feminine touch in our lives. I was the money --and the pepperoni--, Adrian was the field guide (for some indeterminate reason he knew tons of Spain’s business laws and its tricky shortcuts) and Martina was Martina, my sister, my step-mother and also mistress of my manor.