The Empty Family (21 page)

The taller one walked over and sat beside me. Soon we discovered we had a problem. I had no Spanish and he had no English. When I spoke in faltering school French, he shook his head and pointed to his friend and called him over. His friend had no English either, but he spoke fluent French. Soon a number of facts became clear: they lived nearby in Plaza Real; one was a painter; the other, the smaller one, was studying literature. They were not surprised when I said that I was alone in the city and was living in a
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nearby and looking for work as a teacher. They spoke to me as if they would never let me go.

We must have had a drink, or spoken at greater length. But it is also possible that, trusting and needy, we made our way quickly to the apartment on the top floor of a corner building on Plaza Real, an apartment that had within it, like a maze, other smaller apartments and locked rooms, one of which was owned by the painter. The student of literature’s room, which had its own bathroom as well, was across the badly lit and dingy corridor.

I did not know what we were going to do when we went back. Talk some more, I presumed. Have a drink, perhaps. But I must have really known. I was not that innocent, even though I had never done anything like this before. I suppose what I really did not know is how or when or in what combination it would be done. I know that I eventually spent time naked in a bed with each of them separately, but I am unclear now about the order or the precise circumstances.

I know that we were in the painter’s room. I thought his paintings were bad, too literal and crude, but the room itself was wonderful, laden with strange objects, prints and posters and funny ornaments. There was a small stereo and one classical record, among the collection of jazz and rock and old Spanish songs. It was Beethoven’s Triple Concerto. I asked them to put it on and it became the theme

music for my visits to that room over the subsequent months, the only music I heard at that time. The lovely cello coming in first was more than an aspect of the pleasure I felt and the things I learned in that room, it stands in for them now; the concerto’s chords and cadences and sudden gorgeous shifts are enough to conjure up the scene in all its newness and excitement and glory.

The painter’s room comes to me now in two guises. It was a small, intimate, lamp-lit room, dominated by a large bed; it was also a large room where many people could happily sleep. I don’t know how it could have been both. That first night it was a small room. There may have been a chair. The music was on. One of us was sitting on the bed. The painter was wandering in and out of the room as the other, the one interested in literature, came towards me and began to kiss me. There was a taste from his breath I had never encountered before. It was the taste of garlic. And even now, should I smell it from someone’s breath, it carries an erotic charge with it, a sense of pure easy pleasure, beautiful lips and tongues and teeth, and the promise of soft warm skin and sex.

I was unhappy that the painter might return and find us kissing, and when he did, I moved away, as though we had been caught by a parent or a teacher. This amused them. Barcelona in 1975 was a foreign country, I soon learned. I tried to work out the rules. These two young men were friends, not lovers. They seemed to have followed me without discussing which of them might entertain me when we got home. They had no interest in being together with me, but they were not embarrassed at being watched by the other in this, the preliminary stage. So we kissed again, this time as though it did not matter who was watching.

That night, or some night soon afterwards, I fucked the literary guy on the painter’s bed. He was by far the more beautiful of the two when he was naked; he was smoother, more feminine, with a much thinner waist and beautiful long legs. His arse was hairless, almost fleshy.

He kissed with slow passion and responded slowly, carefully and deliberately to every movement. His lips and his breath were what I loved most. In a drawer on the right-hand side of the bed he found Vaseline and he rubbed it on his arsehole and on my dick and then he turned away from me, face down, his arms stretched out in front of him, his head to the side.

I had done this only once before. I presumed it was easy. I lay on top of him and shoved my dick in hard, with an aggression he might not have seen in me earlier. He screamed, yelling at me in French to take it out, take it out, I was hurting him. When he was free of me, he turned away, holding himself and moaning. The idea that I had hurt him made me excited, but I was also alarmed that he would not speak to me or turn back towards me. I did not think that I had done anything wrong.

Somehow, over the next few minutes, the French language ceased to work for us. He had to make sounds and gesture with his hands to emphasize that I had pushed in too suddenly, too fast and too hard and I must go in more slowly, gradually and gently. All of these instructions took time. It did not occur to me that I could lose interest in finishing what I had begun. I remained ready to be educated, longing to fuck him some more. I was thus ready to start again and do as he said. He turned once more and put extra Vaseline on his arsehole. He wanted to be fucked again; I knew now that he did not want to be hurt. In seeking to oblige, I nonetheless made him wince as I put my dick inside him as fully as I could and began as slowly as possible to fuck him, trying to keep going and going until he seemed to be both hurt and happy at the same time.

I do not know if it was that same night I ended up in another room, a much smaller room, with the painter, and watched him growing bored with me, having begun with an immense and all-governing fervour, kissing me, holding me, running his hands all over me. I do not know if we ever came to orgasm with each other, but if we did it was the end of our sexual time together. The passion we had was a small game and it ended soon after it began.

As the old dictator began to die, we three tried to meet again. A few times I turned up at the apartment and rang the various bells and was let in by an electronic switch, only to find a stranger on the top floor. A few times I left a note. Once, the guy I had fucked came to my
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and left a note for me. My landlady was curious about him, made nods and gestures as if to say that an interesting man had called for me. Once I met the painter on the Ramblas; he signalled that he was in a hurry but would see me at the apartment later.

I wonder if the next time I found my friends in residence was the first night of the orgy. In any case, in my memory now the painter’s room expands and there are suddenly other beds and mattresses on the floor and maybe twenty young guys. No one that night was drunk and there was no alcohol in the flat, which surprised me. In Ireland, were an orgy to take place – and this was unimaginable in 1975 – then everyone would have had to get drunk first and begin by pretending it was not happening. In this orgy, in the flat on the top floor of the building in Plaza Real, the twenty of us were very quickly and rampantly naked. There were no drugs; there was a great deal of easy laughter. In my innocence, I believed that there were no rules in an orgy. You took who you liked for as long as you liked and then discarded him when you got fed up with him and then you took someone else, or indeed several someone elses at the same time, if the occasion should arise.

I took the first guy who came towards me. He was friendly and large-framed, with brown eyes and soft skin. As soon as I touched him, his dick was erect. We found a bed to the side of the big bed and started to play. Bit by bit, a set of rules began to emerge. No one in the room fucked or sucked cock. Everyone kissed and fondled one another. It was as though a strange modesty had broken out. Everyone was in a couple; no one disturbed another couple, or moved from the guy of their choice to another guy of their newer or greater choice. After half an hour of pleasurable monogamy, I realized that I had misunderstood everything. I should have waited. I had made a big mistake.

That mistake was smiling at me now as we kissed. I smiled back. He was a nice guy. But across the room, alone, was another guy who was even nicer. He was watching the orgy with considerable engagement but he was still wearing his underpants. He noticed me watching him. He was not tall, but he was strong without being too muscular. He could have been a runner or a swimmer. He had shiny brown hair that hung around his head untidily, and dark eyes, but he did not look Spanish. He could easily have been Dutch or from Eastern Europe. I wished I had waited for him and slowly it became obvious that he wished I had too. The problem was how to get away from the guy I was with, who was increasingly passionate and eager.

If I made the guy come, I wondered, would I then be free? But he did not want to come, nor did anyone else in the room, it seemed. This was another of the secret rules. That loss of serenity, as the Pope once called it, was not part of this orgy. Coming would be a moment of self-exposure and no one wanted to do it in public. I would have to wait. It took time before my loss of interest became clear to my partner. He was good-humoured about it. He stood up and walked out of the room, signalling that he would be back soon. I realized that there were other rooms off the corridor with other beds. I followed him to find the toilet. As I passed the guy whose underpants were still on, I nodded to him and he nodded back. I soon found an empty room and an empty bed and I waited.

The new guy was shy and hesitant when he came into the room. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me. He already knew that I was Irish, someone had told him. He spoke very good English, but often waited between sentences and phrases to think. I noticed how smooth his body was, how tightly packed and coiled he seemed. I wondered what he wanted and I wondered what it would be like to kiss him. There was something almost remote about him. His sexuality was more hidden, more cared for than that of the other guys in the room. He held himself apart.

Suddenly, without warning or excuse, I put my hand on his chest. He looked at me gravely, remaining still. Before this, he had smiled as he spoke, and a few times as he grew silent we had smiled at each other. Now this was too serious for smiling. He sat and looked at me. It was as though his blood were changing its colour or its nature and it was going to take time. He could do nothing until that was completed. For five minutes then we were like statues. But I knew that it would have to end in him coming towards me, and once I knew that I was happy to watch him as he prepared himself for it.

I stroked his back and his chest as he lay down. He touched me as though every touch would be remembered and would come to mean something. He left his underpants on. I judged that as a reticence that mattered to him, so I did not touch him there. He kissed with an astonishing seriousness. Soon we were joined in the room by the guy I had been with earlier and the painter, who was, I suppose, the host of this event. The painter was now dressed up with a mantilla on his head and a brassière on his chest and nothing below. He was wearing make-up. Both of them were brazenly discussing my brazenness, my nerve at having moved so quickly from one guy to another. My new friend translated for me, and we both laughed, but I realized that I had broken a rule and that this was a house of rules, even though it did not seem like one.

I don’t know when I first let my new friend fuck me. I had been fucked for a few seconds the year before, but it was so painful I had made the guy take his dick out forthwith and keep it out. Another guy, the summer before I left Ireland, had tried more successfully, but it was better when I fucked him. So when my new friend asked me if I liked fucking or being fucked, I said I liked fucking. He said he did too, and in fact he hated being fucked and couldn’t do it. He was shy about saying all of this, but still he left me in no doubt. We had a problem. So I gave in.

We would never have done it while others could come in and out of the room. I think we waited until the early hours, when there was peace in the apartment and most people had gone home and the rest were sleeping. I was nervous. He had a way of suggesting an immense inner life in which outward actions were considered first as theory and then gradually and deliberately put into action. His dick took time to harden and then it stayed hard. It was very beautiful. Long and lovely to hold and not too thick or unwieldy.

I began to wish to be fucked by him as he held me and kissed me, assuring me that there was no hurry, we could do it another time. But I knew he wanted to do it now and for me in those years there was never another time. I wanted everything now. So in the night in this strange room, I turned around, my face down, and he moved with his mysterious slowness, touching my shoulders, and then moving his hand down to my arse and testing my arsehole with his finger, probing it gently. I could hear him breathing hard, as though this action, more than any other, had made him very excited. I was excited too, but I was tense. The thought of being fucked was much sweeter than the awkward, fumbling and painful mechanics of really taking another guy’s dick right up inside your arse.

At first it was panic. I thought I was going to shit and I wanted to warn him. He had put his hands under my shoulders and was gripping me tightly, not moving or thrusting, just letting his dick slide in farther. I could not hear his breathing. He was absolutely still, and holding me still too, calming my panic with a fierce and stable energy. Eventually, I began to relax and, having wanted to make him take it out, I now began to want it there. Slowly, he started to fuck me.

The poet Don Paterson, in
The Book of Shadows
, a collection of aphorisms, writes: ‘Anal sex has one serious advantage: there are few cinematic precedents that instruct either party how they should look.’ My friend looked, as far as I could imagine, as though the mysteries of the universe were close to being solved by him. I imagine he kept his eyes wide open. At times he would turn my head and we would kiss as passionately as we could, considering the angles. When he came, he held me for a long time without moving. Then he put all his energy into making me come. On a later occasion, when his dick slipped out five or ten minutes after he had come, he said ‘Goodbye,’ but I don’t think that happened the first time.