1: Once Upon a Time in Sitges

Christian and I met three years ago in Spain.

I was slouched at the bar of a kitschy beach club in a little tourist trap called Sitges. The evening was hot but not suffocating; a faint breeze from the sea cooled my skin, and rainbow lanterns painted blurry flecks behind my gritty eyes. I’d sent another book to the publisher that afternoon and now felt emptied out and useless.

Catching the faint smell of marijuana in the air, I sipped my daiquiri and inhaled deeply. The music was loud and cheesy: te amo, corazón, thumpa thumpa. I didn’t mind. It fit the scenery. I could feel my limbs loosen, my neck unknotting. I was drifting into a soft, alcoholic buzz when a dark-skinned twenty-something caught my gaze from the other side of the patio. He half-smiled. He had the face of a weightlifter, his neck corded with thick ropes of muscle, jaw rectangular from the extensive grinding of teeth. My skin prickled, and I looked away quickly.

Sitges was like the gay Mecca of Catalonia. The town sat on the coast, its toes dipped in the lukewarm Mediterranean waters. It was filled with outrageously decorated bars, unconventional fashion stores and cafés where you could sit all day and watch hundreds of beautifully tanned young legs march up and down the sidewalks on their way to the beach and back. And then there was the Platja de l’Home Mort—Europe’s oldest gay beach. A little remote, hidden between two steep cliffs away from the town, it was a whole beach of naked guys. I’d written stories about that beach. I loved Sitges.

The colors of freedom saturated the medieval stone walls of the town, making the tourists who entered it somehow softer around the edges. I didn’t think the straight families who traveled there with their kids knew about the gay thing beforehand, but everybody just seemed to take it in stride. It was an endearingly odd place.

On the down side, even in that melting pot of potential hookups, if I’d sorted away the too young, too old, simple-minded, clingy, the gym bunnies, narcissists, eating disordered, the drama queens, junkies, uptight or self-destructive, I would’ve been left with maybe three guys in the whole of Catalonia who I could imagine letting near my dick. The chances of one of them currently being in that bar were slim to none.

It was my own fault. I was high maintenance and an intellectual snob. That was why I mostly lived out my fantasies through my writing.

I watched the darkening town and tried to exude self-sufficiency instead of letting my eyes wander. One more drink and then bed; that was the plan.

I was just waving down the bartender when a tension-charged silence fell on us. It was like in a spaghetti western when the hero walks into the saloon, and everyone turns their heads. Christian entered the bar, and every guy within a ten-meter radius looked his way. I could swear there were gasps.

He wasn’t too tall, maybe one seventy-five, and had the shiniest blond hair. The sun-bleached mop of golden strands surrounded his head like a halo as if he’d descended directly from Heaven to save our lost, dirty souls. But angels probably wouldn’t come down to Earth dressed in faded cut-off jeans and purple flip-flops.

Christian had an insignificant friend or two with him, but I didn’t notice their gender let alone their faces. His bright-blue eyes were all I could see, almost turquoise in the colorful night lights. His nose and cheeks were covered with summer freckles, and he glowed. He was so young.

I admit I was one of those who gasped. Just before I became genuinely scared for him.

He looked a little dazed, like a newborn foal looking around the barn for the first time, big eyes, gangly limbs and all. The innocence and naiveté drifted with him like a glittering mist.

The couple who had come with him hit the dance floor as soon as they got their hands on two beer bottles. Alone, Christian sat on a barstool mere meters away from me, facing the crowd, faint wonder on his angelic face.

He wasn’t going to last. I could see the mob forming already.

It took only thirty seconds for the first man to hit on him. I watched Christian’s face as his eyes widened, and his mouth formed a perfect O. Whatever the guy said to him, it was not the right thing. The boy turned bright red and leaned back, trying to get as far away from the man as the bar counter allowed. He mumbled something; the other man shrugged and took off, leaving Christian stunned.

It was like some sick speed-dating reality show, the guys coming and going, the bewildered boy rejecting them all. He laughed from astonishment several times. Until it wasn’t funny anymore.

The last candidate was probably my age, fake tan, extravagantly dyed hair, beefy arms, colorful designer clothes. Sleazy, with a fucking gold chain and a geometric black goatee which was so perfect it looked glued on. And he didn’t leave, he leaned closer and closer, ignoring the boy’s protests. Then one big paw landed on Christian’s thigh, a thick thumb massaging along the inner seam of the boy’s jeans, and for the first time, I saw genuine fear in those bright-blue eyes. It was sobering to watch.

In hindsight, it wasn’t the smartest thing I’d ever done, but I acted quickly. I slid off my stool and closed the distance between us in five strides. I cast my arm around Christian’s shoulders careful not to add weight, trying to signal him subtly that it was all for show. He flinched anyway.

Quickly, I offered the most clichéd phrase there was.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said. I hoped the douchebag hadn’t noticed me on the other side of the bar, sitting there for an hour straight. “Been having trouble without me, Squirrel?” I looked the fake-tanned sleazeball in the eyes as I said that. Was he wearing tinted contacts? Close up, the guy looked like an oiled, airbrushed spawn of Steven Seagal and a Ken doll. Bleh.

There was a second when Christian seemed to weigh his options, in the end deciding I was going to be the lesser of two evils.

“A bit,” he quipped next to me, playing along at last. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago.” He was clever. His voice shook, though. He had a heavy German accent.

“My apologies, gentlemen. I am intruding, obviously. Have a nice evening.” The sleazy guy, Scottish apparently, nodded my way and left. Not drunk, then, but that only made it worse. I despised those pushy, slimy daddy-types who wouldn’t accept a simple “no” without puffing out their chests.

I turned toward Christian and dropped my arm, taking a step back, giving him much-needed space. “Are you okay?” I switched to German, and his head snapped around at that.

“Yeah,” he said uncertainly.

“I’m not going to hit on you, I swear.”

He chuckled nervously. “That is a relief.”

“Where are your friends?” I looked around, but the couple was nowhere in sight.

“Hooking up on the beach, I imagine,” he answered, frowning.

“You need better friends. You shouldn’t be here alone. Not the smartest thing for your first time in a gay bar, abroad, and without backup.” Seriously, someone should have been looking out for this kid.

He scowled. It only made him more adorable. “How do you know it’s my first time?”

I pointed my finger at his sunny hair. “It says so right here, in big neon capital letters. Do you have someone you can call to pick you up?”

His shoulders slumped, and he shook his head. “God, no! My mom would freak. We said we were going to a pizza place two blocks away from the hotel. She can’t know I’m here.”

“Which hotel?” I asked and immediately regretted it. His eyes narrowed. “Forget it, don’t tell me. How about I put you in a cab?”

“I should wait for Mischa and Gustav. I’m sure they’ll be back in half an hour tops.”

“Want me to keep you company until they arrive, to chase away the hyenas and such?”

He smiled nervously and shrugged.

“Like I said, I’m not going to hit on you. I like my men legal, thank you very much.”

He scowled again, making my smile broader. “I’m eighteen.”

“Do you want me to hit on you, Squirrel?”

“No!” he squealed, and I had to laugh out loud.

“There you go. You look about sixteen, by the way. I’m buying you a drink but no alcohol. And watch it! I could easily slip some shit in your glass.”

“You are worse than my mother,” he grumbled, but his smile was warm.

“Thank you for the compliment. So, small talk, where are you from?”

“Berlin. We’re here for two weeks, with my mom and my uncle’s family.”

“Family holiday, huh?”

“Yeah. And you?”

“I was born in Berlin. The last few years, I’ve been living in Freiburg.”

“And your English? You have an American accent.”

“Observant,” I nodded, impressed with his quickness. My accent was faint, blotched with German, and I’d said what, two sentences in English earlier? “My mom’s American and my dad’s Romanian. They met in West Berlin in the seventies and stayed.”

“So, you speak Romanian, too?”

“Sadly, no. I don’t have any fascinating language skills. Only an unusual name.”

“How unusual?” he prompted.

“Alexander Popescu. Alex for you.”

“Christian König.” He offered me a hand, like the nice-mannered boy he was. He was lovable all around. And skinny.

“Are you hungry? I might order patatas bravas.”

***

His friends took almost two hours. Later, we found out they’d bought a cube of hash on the beach and decided to give it a go. I was trying to recall if I’d been that stupid in my late-teens. Probably, yeah.

Christian was wary but melted ever so slowly. He was sharp and curious, not overly shy but modest.

“Why do you call me Squirrel?” he asked, finishing his second virgin mojito.

“I don’t know. It was the first thing that came to mind. Probably because you’re little, cute, and looked ready to bolt.”

“I am not little.”

He wasn’t. He just gave the impression of being smaller and younger than he was. I shrugged. “Sorry, it’s already stuck.”

He shook his head, half smiling, and his shiny golden hair fell into his eyes. Up close, I saw his nose was covered with light freckles, and the tip of it moved when he grinned. Just like the cutest little squirrel.

“Because everyone just dreams of having a rodent nickname. Thanks.”

“You can pick a nickname for me, too, if it makes you happy.”

He squinted my way and pretended to think hard. I saw mischief and smarts. It made me happy. Hopeful in a way—like the world was suddenly not the black void it seemed to be at other times.

“I’m going to call you…Old Man,” he stated and lifted one blond eyebrow.

I clutched at my chest with both hands and groaned. “Ouch. That hurt. You are evil, Squirrel. Pure evil!” He shrugged, grinning from ear to ear. “And I’m thirty. That’s not old!”

We talked about Sitges, then about Berlin a lot; he asked about Freiburg, about my job, and my travels. I told him I taught creative writing but changed the subject fast. It was a lie of omission, I admit. I guess I didn’t want to ruin the young man’s evening by talking about the stinking depths of my dirty mind. Then I asked about his studies, and that got him going. He still had one year of high school left, but he already knew he wanted to be a doctor. He admitted he was the best in his class but mostly got shit for it from his friends. And he also said he was going to be “demonstratively out” at work so he could fight the general prejudice. I struggled to remember if I had ever been so determined to change the world.

“You could wear a rainbow coat instead of white,” I joked, and he blushed and punched my arm.

When he had to leave, I saw the hesitation. There was no nervousness, just a silent question in the light crook between his eyebrows. I was ready to wish him a beautiful life—he so obviously deserved one—but he intercepted me.

“This is going to sound bad, but could you give me your email address?”

“I…” What the…why?

“I just… It’s hard to find someone to talk to, you know. About some stuff.” He squirmed and looked restlessly around while he babbled on. “And I’m not out at school. Not to everybody. Mom knows, but she’s…difficult in her way. And all my friends are, well, teenagers. I’d love to, if I could, like, ask you about stuff? Sometimes?”

“Err…stuff?”

He went completely red. “Jesus, not like that! Dirty old man!”

I couldn’t help it; I burst out laughing. He grinned, too, and suddenly it wasn’t a bad thing at all that he wanted to stay in touch. In fact, it seemed like a marvelous thing.

I acted on impulse and gave him my card. He beamed at me like I was some rock star, and I felt…proud.

That night, without ever meaning to, I adopted a newbie.

***

I got my first email from Christian two weeks later. It was the first of many. We Facebooked, called, later even saw each other on rare occasions. But the emails were special—honest and open about things we might have been apprehensive to say out loud. Maybe it was because of the extra thought we had to put into composing a proper letter.

Sometimes I read the old ones again. I loved the happy ones, like the letter from two years ago when he was graduating and got accepted into the Medical School in Berlin. Some were funny, like the one about his first proper date which ended with the other boy getting high and drunk and puking on Christian’s shoes. Chris found a puddle on the street and ran through it, back and forth, so his mom would believe his cover story about a passing car drenching him.

Some of his emails were sad and angry. Like the one about the teacher who, in all seriousness, told Chris he should go to nursing school because it was a more fitting occupation for a homosexual.

And then there was the one he wrote late at night last year when he couldn’t sleep and was worried about the pressure his mom put on him.

 

I’m so grateful we met. You are my reality check when things get too intense here. I always have someone to call on who won’t judge or lecture. I don’t have to feel like my problems are trivial or embarrassing. I love you for that, Old Man. Thank you.

 

I treasured all his emails. Christian had become important to me. Like a bright splash of color in the dull patchwork of my existence in Freiburg, he made me feel warm, happy. I was a better person because of him and his emails.

Until I fucked it all up.