*I live in Brussels, which for those who don’t know is the place where the European Union is headquartered. It’s somewhat comparable to other political capitals in that there’s a large presence of politicians, bureaucrats and lobbyists. It’s a magnet for highly educated Europeans, and even non-Europeans.*
*There is ample amount of 28-40-year-old single women here who have forsaken relationships for their careers. Many of them cannot find men who can handle high-earning career women, many of them simply haven’t put the time into trying to find someone, and many of them are just dweebs who never developed the kind of social skills and maternal instincts that might hold a man’s attention. Some are unhappy, others have made their peace with reality.*
*I’m not your typical Brussels EU bubble guy. I grew up in a big rugged city, I’m not white, and I had no intention of working in anything involving the EU. I arrived in Brussels after a few years living in Latin America (more erotic tales from there soon), so the culture shock was real. It took me a while to realise this, but to compensate for my lack of professional enthusiasm here, I have consoled myself through a series of affairs.*
Belgium is well known for its festivals. In the summer of 2019, I decided to try one called Couleur Café. It’s a festival held in a leafy park next to the Atomium monument. Unlike EU bubble life, these types of events are a chance to mix in with young Belgians. They know how to party – think less uptight than French people and less zany and awkward than the Dutch or Germans.
The temperature hit 41C that day, so there was no shortage of flesh on display. As evening drew closer it was like walking around in a steamy natural spa.
The festival shut up shop at around midnight, which was early enough that people were pleasantly drunk or high off of whatever substance they were taking. I know well from many a carnival in South America that these sorts of homeward bound moments in a jovial atmosphere can often bring about new encounters.
A trail of public buses had been enlisted to get people back to the centre of the city. I happened to be standing near the stop for my bus when it came so could get in well before the hordes of revellers piled on afterwards.
By the time the bus pulled off, girls in tube tops and jean shorts, glitter across their faces and running down their chests, were pressed window-to-window. There didn’t seem to be many guys around. As we got moving, taking on hard corners and repositioning to let people off, we were shifted around like Jenga pieces in a bucket.
I was holding on to one of the poles, enjoying my tipsy disengagement when I felt a purposeful motion across my shorts.
We were all in close proximity with one another, bumping limbs and leaning this way and that. But like an unusual sound that, no matter how small, wakes you up at night, this motion was different. I let my head drop and saw a little finger that was attached to someone facing the other direction delicately stroking the bulge of my thick cotton shorts.
In an instant, the stroking stopped and the girl turned, raising both her hands in front of her, elbows tucked in to avoid hitting anyone in the narrow space between us. The bus was loud, so, with a Spanish accent, she shouted to ask if she could use my phone, said that hers was dead.
She did this so smoothly, with such confidence, that when she got off the bus I spent the rest of the journey wondering if I had imagined what just happened.
I was sure of it. I had looked down and there, a little finger with a fine gold band at its base was stroking along the seam running down the middle of my shorts, which also happened to be where my flaccid penis hung. I was wearing the kind of tight boxer shorts that kept my penis firmly in place and scrunched up a little, making it bulge forward slightly.
I arrived home at around 1:30am. Earlier that day I had seen a girl I knew from some class I had taken. She was interested in me and though she wasn’t my type, I regretted not having gone to the after party she mentioned when we saw each other at the festival.
I opened all the windows and doors in my apartment and lay like a starfish on top of my bed sheets. I wasn’t tired but would inevitably have dosed off had my phone not buzzed.
It was a friend posting some bullshit in a WhatsApp group. I removed the notification but opened my phone.
Staring back at me was a contact page. It said ‘Spanish girl from the bus’ and underneath was a number. In the nickname section she had written ‘Thank you!’
Without thinking, my fingers typed ‘No problem’ into a text message.
Two minutes later my phone buzzed again.
‘Still up? Already home’
‘Up. Home’
‘Would you like to take a walk?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Etterbeek. You?’
‘Hmmm same.’
‘Cinquantenaire?’
‘Yes, the bottom entrance by La Joue de Vache’
‘Ok, I’ll be there in five’
Those brief ten to fifteen metres as I closed the distance between us was the first chance I’d had to fully size her up. Feeling none of the tipsiness now, my eyes could focus. She was short, probably around 1.60cm. Her brown hair was mid-length, running just past the bottom of her neck. Her eyes were big, partitioned by an average nose that was ever so slightly bulbous at the tip. She had changed into a skirt and some Birkenstocks, and a narrow handbag strap split her chest in half diagonally. Her breasts were small but perked upwards.
“You’re crazy,” I said.
“How do you mean?”
“I could be a serial killer.”
She smirked and recoiled her head, not knowing what to say.
“Well, you were at the festival too. So maybe it’s less weird, no?”
We started up one of the dark dusty paths in the direction of the park’s iconic arches. Only a few of the paths have streetlights that give off a weak glow, like flames behind translucent glass.
I’d come here without thinking much, but now that I was standing here, with this girl who I was sure had been stroking my crotch just half an hour before, my ribcage was shivering with a sort of nervous excitement. It didn’t take long for my penis to catch wind of the situation and start working itself into a semi-erect state.
I was wearing thick cotton shorts, the same ones her little finger had rubbed up against on the bus. With my left hand in my pocket, I grabbed hold of my penis and squeezed. I wasn’t trying to stop the erection as much as just feel it’s swell. I stealthily squeezed and released it a few times and imagined my head bulging and shrinking inside my shorts.
Our conversation was staccato, like a musician who keeps forgetting the music, or even why he had decided to play in the first place. Our chatter would become strangely intimate, then suddenly recede back to the awkwardness that the situation demanded. I have no idea why I didn’t just invite this girl back to my apartment. It was less than a few hundred yards from where we stood.
Instead, after reaching the gates of the park, where the huge Belgian flag hung limp in the heat-refracted air, we circled round to the other side of the park.
We found a bench and turned towards each other. Both of us had one leg bent up on the bench. My penis pointed down the side of my bent leg, held against my thigh by my boxer shorts. I released it, taking my hand out of my pocket. It was by now fully hard. I couldn’t tell if she’d noticed, but the head tilted upwards against the fabric, forming a penis shaped arrow in her direction.
I shifted my hips a few times, stupidly thinking that this might reposition my long erection.
We continued to make mindless conversation, but our stares gradually took on an empty intensity. It soon became obvious that neither of us was paying much attention to our thoughts or the words coming out of our mouths, which had themselves lost any rhythm.
I leaned out and cupped my left hand just above her knee. Our lips made contact. Hers were small and cold. At first, she kissed me without opening them. My hand glided up her smooth leg and under her skirt. Suddenly the air around the back of my hand felt cool. This was in contrast to the heat emanating from her underwear. My fingers slid beneath her until they were wedged between her and the bench. She was warm and damp. As if I had unlocked a mechanism, her mouth suddenly opened.
For me, every kiss is different. It all depends on the other person; the shape of their mouth, their willingness, the chemistry and the situation. I don’t know why but I had a desire to extend my tongue to the top of her mouth. I wanted to feel the thin, hard roof, to pull my tongue back towards me, touch the back of her front teeth.
We were still in our stilted sitting position, so we pulled nearer to one another, our bodies fitting like two interlocking parts. Our mouths still enwrapped, her right wrist fell on my lap. I guided it down my shorts. She gripped the shaft of my penis, gripped it harder with each new thrust of intensity of our kissing. My right hand did the same as I ran fingers through her hair.
In the past, I’ve stayed in first kiss moments like this for hours. But, as if realising that tonight wasn’t for that we stood up in unison. Someone had just passed by our bench. It was by now past 2am, but there were still one or two dark figures you could make out in far off corners; dog walkers, people who couldn’t sleep, perhaps.
Our bodies were so close together that they had probably just assumed us young lovers glad to be out of the house.
We were on one of the bigger paths, but despite this she reached down into my underwear and pulled out my penis. She stood beside me and held its weight in her hand. I looked forward at the diminishing figure that had recently passed us.
Neither of us had said a word in over five minutes.
She tucked my penis under the waist band of my shorts and we walked, again in unison, like this was all pre-planned, over to the grassy depression beside La Tour de Tournai, a small tower. I lay back and immediately felt the coolness of the blades of grass on my neck.
I leaned across to kiss her but she removed my penis again. She pulled it gently, urging me to stand up. I looked across to the line of apartments that overlooked the park from the other side of the avenue. Only one light was on, but there was no sign of anyone.
I imagined a person there somewhere, watching this Spanish girl, on her knees, kissing the moist tip of my penis. I wondered what our silhouettes must look like from side on.
She held my shaft with both hands and slowly allowed me to enter deeper. I became harder than before, overcome by the sensation of the soft flesh of her throat. She held me there. I was looking directly into the clear night sky. In summer there’s always the hum of some far-off air conditioner or cooling unit. For me, this is the sound of summer. I felt weightless in the heat, looking upwards into black.
A speeding car snapped my head forwards. I saw she now had one hand tucked up her skirt and under her underwear. Her eyes were trained on what was left of my shaft, what her mouth couldn’t engulf. Smooth waves ran along the fabric of her skirt, rising and falling to her gentle hand movements. I watched like a man watching the calm push and pull of coastal waves. The silence of the night let me hear the smooth rustle of the fabric.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/lxhffz/the_spanish_girl_mf_long