A Word On Gay Hostels.

So for the first time in our life, we have elected to stay at a queer hospitality establishment. We have long boycotted such places, mostly because of the banner ads on gay blogs that talk about “Clothing Optional” resorts in Key West. To us, “Clothing Optional” means “You are going to have geriatric pubes all over your continental breakfast.”

But the last hostel we stayed in here in Spain was terrifying, so we thought we’d take a chance when we came here to Barcelona. After all, we knew the gays would at least run a safe, clean place with plenty of light and furniture that is designed to lean back.

And boy did we hit a home run. Not only is this place charming, but the hosts are lovely, and there is always a hot Greek guy running around in his Aussie Bums. There are people here from France, Spain, Portugal and even some places we can’t identify, but whose language seems to involve a lot of hocking loogies. (Armenia, perhaps?)

We sort of hilariously imagined when we came here that it would be like a prep school dorm, but better, with nubile young boys popping in at all hours of the night to get a little slap and tickle, and the sounds of enthusiastic buggering echoing down the quaint old mid-century hallways. The kind of place where innocent young American travelers wind up speared in both ends, rotating slowly between two well-hung foreigners, like a suckling pig over an open flame.

Ridiculous, we know. But then, we didn’t expect to be right about the comeback of denim shorts, either. Guess we’re two for two.