Cupid Wears High Heels
Girls in Madrid never leave the house on a night out unless they’re wearing bright stilettos. They don’t enter the club unless they can flirt with the bouncer. They know which heavy metal black doors lead to the hidden dens of delight and which lead to a dead end, or worse—a tourist trap.
And girls in Madrid don’t go to the gay quarter of Chueca unless they don’t have anywhere else to be the next day, because they know that going out with they gays means going out with a bang. They feel free to expose more of their inner slut without the straight males drooling at their feet, waiting to catch another glimpse of their lingerie. It means drinking cocktails all night, stomping on broken glass, climbing on table tops, bugging the DJ to play their favorite song, bumming cigarettes galore, finding out why this dance is what they love and of course, playing the innocent game of matchmaker with all the shy, cute boys standing all alone.
I’m the boy standing all alone. My classmates are off to London for the weekend, and I haven’t seen or heard Chico Rock in weeks, but I’ve decided not to spoil tonight. I’m an undercover club connoisseur at heart and a just because my partners in crime are M.I.A. will not deter me from infiltrating after dark.
So a shot of vodka gives me that last minute boost to go out and try to find the low-key, local gay hangout spot, Why Not? After discreetly circling a few times around the block, I see some guys knocking on a wooden door and a big guy dressed in a black tee letting them inside.
Gays in Madrid must have some sort of fascination with old Hollywood glamour. Why Not? is way smaller than I envisioned, more of a lounge really, and starting to get really crowded. A dim glass chandelier is the only source of lighting. Along the walls hang sepia-toned photographs of classic Hollywood stars.
Alone and increasing self-conscious of my state in the small space, I scan around for new, potential friends. I notice a group of adorable young guys, wearing graphic tees and jeans, laughing and drinking, teasing each other with light punches and head grabs. But then, as I'm about to approach, I look up and see two navy stilettos coming down, stomping down the stairs. They belong to a tipsy girl with bangs. She makes her way down, waving, winking and throwing kisses to several different guys to her left and right.
Her, I make a mental note and slowly walk over to try to intercept her as she heads towards the bar.
Navy Stilettos used to work as a bartender at Why Not? and knows the entire staff. She’s in school and wants to work in magazines. She belts out whenever she dances and thinks the DJ here is the best in town. She drinks vodka tonics and her ex-boyfriend was Mexican.
We have so much in common that our interaction gets less forced as the minutes go by (and as we down our vodka tonics). She invites me to her table, and I meet the rest of her girl friends and this well-built, dark-skinned Puerto Rican boy with a buzz cut, wearing a tight button-up shirt and designer jeans. He’s Navy Stiletto’s current boyfriend’s younger brother.
“Es su cumpleaños!” (It’s his birthday!) Navy Stilettos shouts as she hands him another drink. I congratulate him with a smile and think, “an 18-year-old with those arms?” We flirt for a while, but I tend to go for older guys, so he’s just eye candy at this point.
As the night progresses, Navy Stilettos convinces her bar friends to let the Birthday Boy get on top of the bar for a much deserved celebratory dance. They clear the empty glasses and Birthday Boy climbs on without much hesitation and starts dancing to Paulina Rubio’s latest hit, “Ni Una Sola Palabra” as the crowd cheers on. Then Navy Stiletto, jealous that her friend is hogging the spotlight, extends her arm and Birthday Boy brings her up to the bar. Then, he looks down at me, comes forward and extends his arm towards me, encouraging me to join them. My first instinct is to reject his spontaneous invitation, but then I look around, estimate the possibility of an embarrassing disaster and decide… why not?
I’m just as much of an attention whore as the next guy, but it’s intimidating dancing on top of the bar, in prime position to be gawked at and judged. And I’m wearing all my clothes. Just imagine what it’s like for those guys that do it all in briefs. Hence, I have the outmost respect for go-go boys, strippers and other exhibitionists.
We get off after a few minutes but my heart is still pounding. I definitely need another drink and a cigarette to calm down the adrenaline rush. I borrow a lighter from Navy Stilettos, and she congratulates me on my bold move to get up on the bar.
“Oye, las chicas y yo hemos estado pensando,” (Hey, the girls and I have been thinking) Navy Stilettos says with a flirtatious look. The look of a girl in the midst of plotting. “Queremos darle su regalo de cumpleaños,” (We want to give him his birthday present) she says nodding towards Birthday Boy.
I pretend to be clueless even though I know something’s up. Birthday Boy looks delicious despite his age, so I ask, “Que es su regalo?” (What is his gift?)
Hours later as the sun is rising, I find myself in Birthday Boy’s room. He shares a flat with his older brother, whom Navy Stilettos is spending the night with.
Birthday Boy and I have already made out on the dancefloor of the second club we went to. In the single stall restroom of the third club, I unbuttoned his shirt and felt up his toned torso. Now, alone in his room, the only thing left to do is continue the make out session but with far fewer articles of clothing and in more comfortable positions on his bed.
He pins me down with both arms and sticks his tongue in my mouth. He is a sloppy kisser, but I don’t mind. The best way to deal with it, I’ve learned, is to be sloppy back. He has full lips and likes it whenever I bite down gently on his lower one. Birthday Boy straddles me and sits up to unbutton his shirt. He does it slowly, one button at a time, while I play with his thighs resting close to my ribs. As soon as he takes it off all the way, I lift forward and begin licking his caramel-colored chest, firmly stroking his nipples with my tongue.
He pushes me back down and starts taking off my shoes and socks while looking up at me and smiling, almost innocently. It’s endearing. He’s like a puppy eager to play.
Then he unbuckles my belt and unzips my pants, digs down through my boxers and starts going down on me. I caress his head with one hand and use the other to lift my tee-shirt all the way up closer to my chest so I can caress my nipples while he sucks me off. The fact that he’s a sloppy kisser is not such a bad thing after all.
The morning after, Navy Stiletto flashes a huge smile as soon as I walk out of the room, hung over and wearing last night’s clothes. She hands me a cup of coffee, and with glee, mentions that she heard us last night. We both smile and gently chuckle, but for some reason, I get the impression that she got more satisfaction out of this situation than I did.