Be Careful What You Wish For - 10. Chapter 10 'Viva Espana'

After a rather bumpy passage, flight 6969 landed at Gran Enculo, and decanted its weary, drink-sozzled passengers.

Kris and Roberto’s antics on board had not gone unnoticed, and, as they queued at passport control, an occasional tut-tut, mingled with ‘fuck off and die you cock sucking fags’, could be heard, demonstrating that – amongst the British public at least -full acceptance of the gay way of life has yet some way to go!

But before long, our redoubtable travellers picked up a hire car and were finally en route to their destination. Reaching the outskirts of the town, a road sign proclaimed, ‘GRAN ENCULO’

‘How did you find out about this place?’ asked Roberto,

Kris melted at the recollection of happy times past,

‘Well, when I was a kid my parents used to take my sister and me to the Derbyshire Dales for long weekends. One of the prettier villages we visited was Gaping Hole, site of the biggest pothole in England. The place was a great tourist attraction, and popular with outdoor types. Many men ventured in that hole never to be seen again’

‘We could be discussing your life’ Roberto observed, Kris continued,

‘In the 1960s Gaping Hole was twinned with its Spanish counterpart Gran Enculo. When I was 15 I went on a school exchange to Spain, and visited it for the first time. There, I got into a friendly argument with some Spanish kids as to whose ‘hole’ was bigger,the Spanish or the English. Butall agreed mine was biggest by far. Oddly enough, I never got to see theirs. The years passed, but, when I found out last year that I could rent property here, I couldn’t wait to find my dream villa. Now that I’ve got it - and you’re here too - it’s perfect’

Roberto was puzzled. Kris appeared to have his ‘holes’, of both the ‘pot’ and ‘ass’ variety confused, but he was not prepared to burst the little man’s bubble – yet!

Arriving at the love nest, the two men unpacked and quickly settled in. Roberto, utterly blasé about sunshine preferred to chill out on the balcony and read. But Kris – a sun-starved Brit - couldn’t wait to strip off and prostrate himself under the rays. He disappeared into the bedroom, changed into swimwear, and returned, presenting his man with a small package. Roberto unwrapped the parcel, displaying all the exasperation of those who wish neither to give nor receive gifts.

The tissue paper contained the flimsiest of thongs, made of diaphanous material, and scarcely big enough to contain the Hispanic’s nut sack.

‘You don’t expect me to wear that, do you?’

But Kris was resourceful; he re-wrapped the thong,

‘De nada. I suspected it would go nowhere near you. So let’s try out the nudist beach atLos Pubos. There, underwear won’t matter’

Roberto considered the plan. He didn’t like beaches, nudist or otherwise. Even as a toddler, he’d drawn unwelcome attention one day, crawling on all fours naked over the sand, yet leaving five trails! But as a compromise he agreed to visit the beach, on condition he could drape a towel over his enormous cock.

They loaded the car with all the paraphernalia necessary for the beach, and got ready for the short drive to Los Pubos. Kris equipped himself with a variety of magazines, some paper and a pencil, while Roberto clutched what appeared to be a bulky, ancient tome,

‘What are you reading?’ Kris enquired,

Roberto glanced at the book’s cover, the way readers often do when asked such a question, and replied,

‘Relics and Reliquaries of Spain and their locations’

None the wiser Kris looked away, Roberto countered,

‘So what are you doing, what’s the pencil and paper for?’

Kris’s face lit up,

‘It was going to be a surprise! I intend to compose a sonnet to you, a tribute to your manhood, and in your native tongue. But there are some words you must give me the Spanish for’

‘Like what, for example?’

‘Well, erm .... ‘baby’s arm’, ‘on a’, ‘stitched’, ‘lamb’s heart’, ‘like a’ ‘cock’ ’

Roberto buried his head in his hand,

‘Don’t you ever fucking think of anything else?’

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Manchester. Justin’s decision to take Gordon bowling was not one of his most inspired. The big man, these days tipping the scales at over 230 pounds, hadn’t exercised in years and was, frankly, unable to lean more than 15 degrees forward of vertical without falling over! But Justin had been patient, and his arthritic, older student reckoned that the least he owed the youngster was to try. All the same, he was glad when the time came to bail out from the alley and head for The Badger’s Scrotum, his favourite real ale pub.

For the benefit of the uninitiated, real ale is an unfiltered, unpasteurised beer, often produced by micro breweries and, more often than not, possessed of ridiculous brand names. For Gordon, the chief appeal was that it caused him quickly to forget about the mess of his life, and in the company of men whose lives appeared even worse by comparison. None of this was Justin’s bag, of course, and, as he crossed the threshold of The Scrotum he looked around at the smelly, ancient, and depressed detritus of straight, male society, and thanked his stars he was gay.

But the barman was delighted to see such a young and attractive aficionado.

‘What’ll you have, young fella?’ he bellowed, setting twin pony tails of nasal hair quivering,

‘Ooh, God..... erm, a Coke’

The barman rubbed his filthy apron, rolling his eyes, then turned to Gordon,

‘And yourself?’

Gordon scanned the bar, but was in little doubt,

‘A pint of ‘Auld Tom’s Man Chowder’ ’

The barman’s relief was palpable,

‘A wise choice Sir, if I may say so; strong tones of mackerel and ammonia, but the hops and sugar come through’

Justin looked along the bar at some derelict, ordering yet another beer. The old soak had methodically drained his glass in eight measured gulps, each leaving a revolting ring of froth, suds, and saliva sticking to the inside of the vessel. Justin felt nauseous as the glass, and its bacterial Armageddon were offered up to the nozzle for refilling. But Gordon was enjoying himself, and he was determined to quit The Scrotum only when he was no longer able to walk or talk.

Staggering out of the pub, Justin piloted his weighty human cargo towards a fish and chip shop, where they took on sustenance. The youngster was banking on the greasy nourishment sobering Gordon up before they got to Spurtz. The big man was not on his best form, however, and he’d hardly got through the door of the club when he demanded to be taken to the toilet. Justin accompanied his friend to the gents and stood beside him at the urinal.

Gordon leaned over, propping himself against the wall, then he let out a howl of pain,

‘Oh no, oh God!’

‘What is it? What’s up?’ Justin shouted.

‘My back, I’m seizing up. It must have been the bowling’

Gordon staggered backwards, clasping his back with both hands. Sadly, he’d not finished pissing, and his unsupported dick was spinning around like a fire hydrant.

Justin danced around like a dervish, dodging the beery spray and trying to steer his rampaging friend from bouncing off walls or falling into pools of piss. Then he grabbed a chair and eased the gentle giant onto it.

‘I don’t know what I’d do without you’ gasped Gordon,

Justin looked concerned,

‘Just as long as you’re OK’

Gordon stretched out his arms,

‘Come here, and give me a hug’

Justin bent over, awkwardly, and put his arms around Gordon, giving him a big hug – it was an innocent enough gesture, and mild by comparison with what may be witnessed in many gay toilets, but on this occasion it was not so much ‘what was witnessed’ as ‘by whom’

Greene Carter had just entered the washroom and, unobserved by the odd couple, stood silently as they giggled, and hugged. He watched till he could take no more, and left.

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Spain is hot; three in the afternoon, and our travellers, wearied by the beach and overcome by a surfeit of sun returned home. Kris decided to take a nap. This was Roberto’s chance: hastily scribbling a note of explanation, he grabbed the car keys and made off in the direction of town. There, he parked up and entered the public library. After about an hour, he emerged with a look of steely determination in his eyes, got into the car, and drove as though his life depended on it.

He left the seaside town and drove inland: the motorways of the busy coastal strip giving way to ordinary roads, then country roads, then tracks.

The dust and heat of the Plain was long gone: Roberto’s route now climbed and snaked through mountainous terrain until, finally, twinkling lights proclaimed the whereabouts of the tiny settlement of San Cava, patron saint of cheap, sparkling wine.

Roberto threaded his way through the tiny village. No-one was about; the only sound was the wind, as it sent eddies of dust scurrying across the street. Such shops as there were had closed and all doors and shutters seemed barred. But ahead lay a church, undistinguished and stark.

Roberto parked up and circuited the modest building, checking, as he did so that no-one was about. The church’s west door was locked, but a much smaller door, located in the north wall - and not overlooked - was still open. Roberto crept in: he knew that within minutes the rich orange glow of the setting sun would sink behind the mountain range, and the church be consumed by a Stygian blackness.

The interior of the building was austere and bleak beyond comprehension. Accustomed as he was to the Church of Rome’s predilection for the gaudy and theatrical, Roberto found the church impoverished, harsh, and alien. Then he caught sight of a small statue in the north east corner. Fully expecting it to be a likeness of San Cava, Roberto was astonished to find it was the image of a woman, and one, moreover, whose arched eyebrows and strange smile seemed to mock him. Roberto gasped as he gently laid his finger on the twisted mouth,

‘Claro! Es Santa Bigue!’ Increíble!

He was just about to move even closer when he heard the door open; an aged priest entered,

‘What is it you seek? I’m about to lock the church?’

Roberto, recovering himself quickly, bowed slightly to the old man,

‘I come to pay reverence to the Divine, Bigue, D’ île D’eau’

The priest smiled, revealing dentistry not unlike the late Queen Elizabeth’s, and, gesturing towards the saint, he went on,

‘As well you might, a remarkable woman! This statue is French, probably late sixteenth century. Note the interesting crooked smile the saint wears. No-one quite knows to what that relates.

Now, my son, I can see you are carrying a great weight on your shoulders. What is it that worries you?’

‘I can’t say, father’

‘Then I can’t help you’

Roberto pondered a moment or two, he’d come a long way,

‘OK, I want a huge cock, are you happy now?’

‘But tell me why, why do you desire a massive penis?’

‘Who doesn’t?’

‘How big is yours, may I enquire?’

‘Twenty two centimetres in length’

The old priest fell back, clutching his throat and gasping,

‘What is it about men, why is enough never enough? In the name of God, how much longer do you want it to be?’

‘I want the Dick of Death, none shall possess a weapon its equal. I must find the magic water that will deliver me the inches I crave, don’t you see?’

The old padre genuflected, and raised his eyes to Heaven.

‘This sacred water has brought much pain over the centuries. First it was the English; Saint Bigue sought to make their cocks the biggest in Christendom, but, as you may know, Englishmen prefer drinking to fucking, so, when they discovered they could not easily piss with a stiffy, they abandoned the water.

Holy Church decided to remove the magic elixir to France. Oh, what a grave error of judgement that was! In truth, the Frenchmen made better use of the water’s powers, and soon their women were lock jawed, bandy legged and disembowelled. But there was another problem. Big knobs mean even bigger foreskins, and the Gallic men - then as now strangers to basic hygiene - would not keep their head cheese under control.

Somehow or other this pestilential putrescence found its way into a stock of Camembert – they both looking and smelling the same - and ended up poisoning a third of the population. After that it was decided to remove the Holy Water to a secret place in the mountains of Southern Spain, where it remains to this day’

Roberto had followed all this closely, never taking his eyes off the old priest for a moment,

‘But you’re never going to tell me where it is, are you?’

‘The Holy Church forbids me, my son. Please, be content with the schlong you have. I foresee, in the years that lie ahead, it will cause many sphincters to spasm and eyes water. Let that be enough!’

Roberto was more determined now than ever. He’d visit this church again, soon, and – priest or no priest – he’d find what he was looking for!

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