Since we’ve come to Spain we’ve made a big effort to make Spanish friends. This has been slightly difficult, as since we entered prep school at the age of 14, we have never had to make a single new friend. It was all the same people from there to the Ivy League to New York. So we signed up on a website to start doing one-on-one language exchanges with Spaniards who wanted to practice their English. We in turn could practice our Spanish, and in the end, perhaps make new friends. And since we wanted to make gay pals who could show us all the fun Madrid places to go out, we put on our listing that we were gay, 25 and American.
Big mistake. We were immediately bombarded by emails from Spaniards of all ages. “How exciting,” we thought. “So many people want to practice their English and make new friends!” What we should have realized is that all foreign people know Americans are brain-dead sex maniacs. So when we said we wanted to practice our Spanish, they assumed that we wouldn’t be able to speak Spanish at all, and since we would have nothing to talk about, we’d be forced to go back to their parents’ place and wrap our ankles around their bedposts. (They all live with their parents, fyi.)
We’ve gone on exchange dates with six men so far. One of them lured us back to his place to have dinner and tried to dry hump us in the kitchen. One tried to get us drunk at lunch and take us back to his mom’s house for an afternoon quickie. And one, who was only 20 years old, took us salsa dancing and then proceeded to send us erotic text messages (in Spanish text-abbreviated slang) every day for a week.
This would be great if any of the guys were hot. But an inherent problem in the situation is that the type of guys who want to spend their free time practicing a foreign language with a stranger aren’t the type of guys who have hordes of potential boyfriends lined up. Present company excluded, of course.
So our next stop was to join, with a lesbian friend of ours (we have a LESBIAN FRIEND, PEOPLE), an expat gay social group. Of course, the group was made up entirely of elderly English and American gentlemen, waiting to prey on lonely younger boys. So that wasn’t working either.
So finally, we decided to try the oldest trick in the book. We got whored up, went to the gayest bar we could find, with the biggest cups, the most guys and the cheapest alcohol, and waited for people to talk to us. And they did. And what did we learn?
Spanish people are brain-dead sex maniacs, too.