Fling in Barcelona


Anita had told me about the putas.
Our hostel was on a key strip, the hooker strip. The pros weren’t like in Sydney. The variety was all encompassing and such a clear window into the notion that ‘destitution’ doesn’t discriminate. Some hookers were like suburban housewives, overweight, stretch marked in hot pants that showed off cellulite and touching inner thighs. Some were like sexed up geography teachers. A bit frumpy with tight high cut skirts and uncomfortable plastic heels. Of course there were also the classic type, mini skirts, fishnets, bikkini tops, loads of make up and a nasty history.

Ahhhh, an aunt that stops by to have a cigarette with her hooking niece, handing her a bottle of shampoo and the jamon she asked for earlier.

Time of day is no issue here. Me and Anita set off in search of lunch, paella, whatever we did in Madrid, while the hookers hung out, chat, smoked and harassed male passer byers.
Perhaps I lack a depth of experience, but when I saw two fourteen year old hookers sitting in a door frame on the side walk, I thought, well, is the system really doing all it can? An old man came up to them and smiled, he focused on one. They began a short exchange of words. The young girl stayed slouched against the wall and the old man stood, placing his hand on her young pretty chest. He then opened her top and proceeded to dig his hand into her bra with some force.
I turned around and stopped in my tracks.
“What the fuck is he doing?”
I hissed to Anita. Fucking uncivilised cunt. The only blur of words going through my head.
“Shut up you idiot!”
Anita said, concerned by my English outburst.
“She’ll kill you if you lose a customer”.
“Not if your hot pants kills us first”.
Why did no one care? I didn’t think Europe was going to be so one for one and all for one, i.e. don’t step in my circle of personal and acquired objects.

The day I left London I cried because I was so happy I was coming back to my sheltered world of fresh winter sunshine, people that say “sorry” and citizens that wait for you to get off the train before they enter. I saw a girl fall between the train and the platform when I was in Barcelona. I was with Francesco and I said “see how fucked this country is? I caught a million trains in Sydney and I never even saw a retarded child fall!”

Firecrackers in Barcelona:

Were these “people” serious? I was having a lot of trouble working it out. Why did parents think it was acceptable for their delinquent Spanish brats to throw firecrackers everywhere? In restaurants, on the street, on the beach, in my ear hole, why not in my eye? Hey, I’m sure one is enough! Francesco, Anita and I were eating in some Catalonian retaurant. I sent my coffee back, because there was too much froth, the waiter replied with “we tried our best”.
“Good on you retard" I thought. “Your best, and your country’s best really does not meet the mark”.

Anyway, some stupid kid was – yeah you guessed it- throwing firecrackers very closely to us and of course he had a life’s time supply with him. Now, dear reader, I am assuming you think I am behaving a little“up-tight”. Firecrackers are like lightweight concrete balls that make a piercing, sharp and spine chilling ‘smack!’ when they are thrown against the floor and ignite for a brief- and I’m sure to many Spaniards- glorious second. The stimulation one would get from such a process I do not know, but it appears to be a Spanish tradition much prized. Some ridiculous kid threw a firecracker when I was trying to taste me coffee, his parents all non-chalant and vacant didn’t notice. So I took the liberty of instilling some discipline in this creten.
“What the fuck are you doing? Can’t you just stop for 5 seconds?” I yelled, in a language I doubt he comprehended at all.
Needless to say the ‘language barrier’ wasn’t a problem here. No one was on my side naturally. Anita told me I was an embarrassment. The kids family looked at me as though I were a nut case, and Francesco couldn’t stop laughing.
Was I the only sane person left in the world????!!!

But how did it happen that eventually the strangest thoughts crossed my mind? Why did I stand naked at Francesco’s balcony and smoke in the early afternoon? When there was a time ciggaretes in the morning sickened me and I slept in my bra? How could I walk along the beach and lay topless amongst the dozens of naked women around me, so exhilarated by the soft air and buzz of the atmosphere and think nothing. Nothing. When I would burst a blood vessel with my over analysis at one stage? And eat dinner at 11:30, and nap. God I don’t nap. How was it that in Barcelona I had sex, I orgasmed, I drank sangria- and seriously I never drink- I ate mayonnaise with potatoes, I napped, and I could sit and just be? How? How could I want to walk and feel air. Feeling air? When before I was in such a panic about wasting time, time for study and work.
Was it because I had no friends? Because when Francesco was at work I was bored? But yet I wasn’t depressed. Slowly, slowly, like shoes that rubbed and peeled the heel, causing bleeding and blistering, I found myself walking somehow. How was it that the junkies didn’t disgust me anymore? And the dark smoky insides of bars were becoming a haunt for me. My body started to long for sex during the day, to be granted its wish at night. How was it in Sydney I slept night after night alone, and here I slept with another person, and it was so normal and much sweeter. The sweat and crampiness didn’t bother me. I loved the single bed. Laying on my side facing the wall, knowing that as soon as he entered the bed he’d put his arms around my waist and hold me against him. And in the morning he’d go. And I’d haunt the gottico. The long cool shadows, the Ramblas the tourists and the flowing Italian, Spanish and Catalan languages intermingling around me.

Fling in Barcelona


Merrylands, Australia

  • Artist

Artist's Description

How I felt disorientated, but a good orgasmic flush fixes so much. . .


spain travel

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