Sounds like Gorbachev
by Evans Yonson
(Note: Here’s another sexy thing that never saw published online.)
Barcelona – In Spain, they always have a way of celebrating the changing of the season. From winter to spring, there’s the Fallas of Valencia. From spring to summer, there’s the Feast of Saint John of Barcelona. The coming of summer is another cause for celebration. In the next three months, everybody is out. At the beach. In another city. Or better yet in another country.
At the end of summer, when everybody is back, professional work comes back to life again. The streets are again filled with toddlers and students still tanned from their summer getaway. Everybody is dead tired of the vacation and then there’s the sickness the autumn thing.
The autumn thing, they say, is the effect of summer on anyone who has been on a long holiday and back to work and with the changing of the season is psychologically not ready to face the dullness and gloominess that the season brings. It affects the male working population more than anyone else.
From summer to autumn, Barcelona has its Merce Fiesta. And from autumn to winter, there is Christmas where the Spaniards have three weeks of vacation from the second week of December till the first week of January the next year.
Immediately after the Merce Fiesta, my friends, Ramil, Renee and Bong, and I decided to go back to the infamous sauna where we brought my friend the earlier part of September.
I was no longer eager to be there again. Why? Probably because I still long for Francisco to pop up and ask for my hand in marriage, especially now that Rumania will be joining the European Union on the 1st of January, 2007. I’m serious and I am not even dreaming yet. And probably because the memory of Mahatma Gandhi still lingers in my mind.
Thermas, the name of the sauna, is your modern day Sodom and Gomorra, sans the women side of it. Male prostitutes and gay patrons abound every corner of the building. Every crevice smells of unwanted babies thrown into the realm of Darkness looms the sauna and only footlights to guide your way to hell. v
I was seated in one corner when suddenly somebody tapped my shoulder and pulled me to another darker corner. He introduced himself. Dmitri. Russian. Twenty-three years old. A younger Sean Pean Russian version and not the Mystic River look. My first Russian roulette was fast and furious. His sexual appetite was incomparable that would put any Pamela Anderson or Paris Hilton to shame. Beethoven and Lassie were nothing compared to my own interpretation of Babe.
When it was finally over, the sky was already dark. The cool breeze of the Mediterranean touched my freshly bathed skin. I felt so exhausted and it could be the autumn thing or my round of Russian roulette. The feast is over. Dmitri stayed behind. When the entrance door suddenly closed, I realized I was already out of hell. I left the autumn thing inside. I never looked back for I might turn into a rock of salt.
Another season coming….