Anyway, it’s hard for me to concentrate at all when Brian’s arm is tight around my shoulders and his free hand is brushing against my crotch under the table.  My pulse quickens and I go from cooked pasta to steel beam in about two point five seconds.  It’s totally unfair.  After all this time, I should have more control over my body, at least where Brian is concerned.   I sneak a quick peek in his direction, even though I know I shouldn’t.   If he licks his lips, we’re going to have to find a bathroom and fast.

But Brian’s not even looking at me.  He’s got that unblinking gaze fixed right at Isidro.  I feel a twinge of sympathy, having been under the force of that stare a time or two myself.  The poor sap shifts a little, casting a confused look my way, but truthfully I’m feeling a bit too pleased with this little development to give Isidro more than a cursory glance in return.  And anyway, he can totally drop the innocent routine.  He was completely coming on to me before.  Maybe he thought he was being subtle.  He couldn’t know that I have hotter,  sexier, and definitely hornier queers hitting on me every day of the week -- in the diner, at school, at Babylon… fuck, I can’t escape it even when I’m just walking down the street.  It’s just one of those things that I take in stride, like Deb’s yelling and Ben’s obsession with Wheaties.  How can anybody eat Wheaties every single day?  Gross. 

Finally Isidro gives up trying to break through Brian’s patented Possessive Stare of Death and just shuffles off, tail between his legs.  Which, come to think of it, is the customary outcome when Brian employs said stare. 

“Nice guy,” Brian drawls.  Even though Isidro is gone, Brian’s fingers keep up their push-stroke-rub on my dick.  Maybe he figures he’s got to continually stake his claim in case some other designing fag comes along.  Maybe he just… likes it.  Or maybe it’s just habit.  If so, it’s a habit I don’t want him to break. 

Still, I fix him with one of my own looks.  I haven’t come up with a name for it yet, but it generally works on Brian pretty well.   “You really don’t think that’s going to work, do you?” 

His eyebrow arches up in that way that I love.  It kind of transforms his whole face.  Really makes me want to kiss him.  But of course I stay focused. 

“You’re not going to distract me.  I’m surprised at you, Brian, resorting to such underhanded methods.  Afraid you‘re not going to be able to keep up with me, huh?” 

His mouth quirks in a smile as I push his hand away and call out to the waiter, using one of my three Spanish phrases.  “Dos cervacas, por favour.” 

Sure, Brian knows I’m on to him.  But he doesn’t have to know that I’m on to him all the time. 

By the time I’m finishing my sixth beer, the sun is setting and we decide to head inside the bar.  I feel fine -- completely, totally, thoroughly fine -- until we get up to move.  Then my head starts spinning.  Just a little, mind you.  Knees are a bit wobbly, but I can chalk that up to stiffness from sitting too long.  But that’s also when the buzzing in my ears starts.  It’s just a little annoying.  It’s definitely not annoying enough to prevent me from ordering two more San Miguels the minute we find our seats at the long, polished wood bar.  And the fact that Brian looks just a teeny bit worse for wear gives me all the incentive I need to keep this little contest going.  He thinks I’m such a lightweight.  I’ve got something to prove here.  I’m drinking for twinks everywhere!  Twink Power! 

Fuck.  San Miguel is definitely stronger than Old Pitt. 

Then I remember. 

“Hey,” I nudge Brian’s shoulder to get his attention.  “This is a tapas bar.” 

He looks at me like I’m a complete lunatic.  “No shit.” 

“Well,” I begin… and then abruptly close my mouth.  Do I really want to tell him that tapa are supposed to help moderate your drinking?  I mean, according to the Barcelona Travel Guide, they’re these little cracker things, with anything and everything as toppings.  So the goal is to eat a tapa, have a sip, eat a tapa, have a sip.  And I guess they’re supposed to line your stomach or something as well, or soak up the alcohol, so you can drink more and suffer less.  This is definitely not something I want to share with He Who Thinks The Guide Book Should Be Set Aflame.  Oh, he might not say it out loud, but I know he’s thinking it. 

“Well?” he teases.

“Well…I want some.” 

He shrugs.  “Go crazy.” 

I signal the waiter, who despite being far too old for me is still a complete hottie.  I try not to drool, since I have no idea if he’s even gay -- it’s not like we somehow managed to stumble into a gay bar, because that would be just too highly coincidental -- and also because, well, it’s kind of rude to drool over another guy when your boyfriend is sitting right there.  Even when said boyfriend has no compunction about drooling all over other guys himself when you’re there.  Not that Brian would ever agree with that statement.  He insists he doesn’t drool.  He might admit to a leer. 

Somehow I manage to make myself understood to the too-old-for-me bartender, and he starts lining up a neat little row of tapas.  I have no idea what any of these toppings are, but at this point I don’t give a shit.  I am determined to win this little challenge, and when I decide to do something, you can consider it done. 

By the time I’m finishing my ninth beer, I have to take a leak.  I’ve been holding off for as long as I can, because everybody knows that as soon as you take the first one, you’re done for.  The rest of the evening you’re going to be shuffling back and forth to the bathroom.  But my bladder is seriously about to explode.  I can’t handle it anymore. 

Making it to the bathroom is an adventure in itself.  I duck under an exposed pipe, clamber over a piece of furniture that reminds me of something I’ve seen languishing in Debbie’s attic, and then briefly lose myself in the maze of corridors at the back of the building.  I finally discover that I have to go outside and then back in another door in order to reach the actual toilets.   By the time I get there I feel like I’ve run a marathon, and I haven’t even taken a piss yet.  I definitely deserve a big honkin’ kiss when I get back to the bar, just for surviving that trek.

Unfortunately, the guy I see slavering over Brian as I approach the bar doesn’t really figure into my plans.

I’d seen him furtively checking us out earlier, but not in the cruising-for-ass kind of way.  I had pegged him more as your garden-variety homophobe, the kind who’s trying to determine if the two guys by the bar really are fags, and if so wondering how long the rope should be and just when he should start gathering the lynching party.   He was worth keeping an eye on, but he was alone so it wasn’t like I was overly concerned.  Really.  Besides, I’m with Brian.  Nothing is going to happen to me when I’m with Brian. 

Looks like my gaydar was waaaay off. 

The guy has taken my place at the bar, so I come up behind Brian and drape my arms around his neck while fixing the interloper with my very own Possessive Stare of Death.  It’s not as good as Brian’s, but I’m working on it. 

“Hey sunshine.” Brian turns his head, his smile just a bit lopsided and his expression bordering on giddy.  Then he plants a somewhat sloppy kiss on my cheek, and I realize he’s a lot more wasted than I thought.  If the smile and the kiss didn’t clinch it, the use of “sunshine” certainly would.  He only calls me by that nickname when he’s pissed off or piss drunk. 

I find myself returning his goofy smile, though, because hello?  Nine beers and counting. 

Brian shifts me to his side so that his arm is wrapped securely around my waist.  Maybe a little too securely.  But I don’t complain, since that’s exactly where I want to be.

“Pedro here…” Brian begins. 

“Pablo.” 

“Whatever.”  He waves off the guy with a decidedly loose wrist, and I wonder just how far ahead of me he is on this drinking challenge.  Two beers?  Three?  I kind of lost count of his intake.   “He’s invited us to a little club he knows.” 

“Oh?”  I raise an eyebrow at Pablo.  I really don‘t want to hate the guy on sight.  But I swear to God, if he’s been talking to Brian about some kind of weird-ass sex-club thing, I’m going to hit him. 

“The best gay nightclub in all of Barcelona,” Pablo assures me in heavily accented English.  “I guarantee you will have a night to remember.” 

I’d already planned on that, but… “What’s it called?” I ask dubiously.

“La Fiebre.” At my confused expression, he translates.  “Fever.” 

I turn to Brian to find him watching me intently.  His hand keeps making these circular motions on my waist and hip, which is making it rather hard to think.  And the buzzing in my ears hasn’t stopped either.  I think I need another San Miguel. 

“Well, what do you think?” Brian finally asks.  “Do you want to check it out?” 

Me?  He’s asking me? 

“It’s not exactly what I had planned for the evening, but… ummm… sure.” 

Brian’s eyes light up, and I wonder briefly what he would have done if I’d turned down the invitation.  But I refuse to let myself get bogged down in negative energy.  A little dancing will be fun. 

Brian quickly pays our tab -- turns out I ran up quite a hefty bill in tapas -- and we head for the door, Pablo in tow.  Fever, here we come.