Chico Rock’s wild tour of Madrid continued for the remainder of my study abroad stay. Every Friday night, I would climb across to his room through his balcony, and we would pregame in his room before heading down to Chueca to explore yet another gay bar or club. Or several.

Unbeknownst to me before deciding to study for a semester in the Spanish capital, Madrid is well-known around Europe for its gay quarter. Despite being an overwhelmingly Catholic country, gay marriage is completely legal in Spain. Gay lifestyle and culture is prominent, sometimes preposterous.

Named after the Spanish word for “crooked” (or “not straight”) centuries before Stonewall, Chueca has been through more transformations than a desperate pop star trying to cling on to relevancy. All up until the 20th century, Chueca housed the city’s outcasts—criminals, freaks and other social pariahs, certainly homosexuals and sexual deviants. After the authoritarian dictatorship of Francisco Franco ended with his death in 1975 the area became one of the epicenters of La Movida, a liberation of creative expression, disregard for traditional aesthetics and a new breed of popular culture. The equivalent of New Wave but with far more transsexuals and recreational drug use. I once heard that during the mid-80s you could swipe your finger through one of the sidewalk creases in Chueca and accumulate small residues of a certain white powder, just enough for a bump. The streets were literally littered with cocaine. Then came the 90s. Chueca got chic with designers like Diesel and Custo Barcelona opening up boutiques in the now quaint but quirky neighborhood. And today, the quarter is home to more yuppies and young couples than criminals. I’m pretty sure that if Pinkberry ever made it to the European continent, the first location in Madrid would be in Chueca.

But after dark if you turn the right (or wrong) corner, you can travel back to a reformed version of Chueca’s old days of debauchery, partying until the sun comes up. That’s what Chico Rock wanted me to experience. He was adamant about having me be a part of his outrageous nightlife stunts: sex clubs and dark alleys, unknown substances and after parties. He kept saying how this was how young guys partied in Madrid, every night. He kept pushing me, challenging me almost, to stay out later and keep drinking, or keep flirting with strangers, see how far I could go down the rabbit hole. Nevermind waking up at 3 p.m. the next day, missing all my morning classes, hungover and with blurred memory of the night before.

The thing was: it was just him and his friends engaging in these excessive habits. He just didn’t want to feel like the only one, so he made a big deal about how common and ordinary it was to be so erratic, but deep down he was all alone.

I was madly attracted to him, so I kept playing the game, trying to impress him and turning into the party boy I thought he wanted me to be. I didn’t realize how self-destructive his lifestyle was until one night. November 9, 2006, three weeks before I had to come back to the states. The night I thought I was going to die.

We end our night at Royal Cool, but that’s where the story starts. The largest gay club in Madrid, the club is a neon institution that thrives on the bass thumping loud, men sweating hard and inhibitions plummeting to a new low. This is what it takes to be Cool.

As soon as we walk in, a friend of Chico Rock’s walks up to him and offers him something. I’m guessing it’s either coke or poppers since I see them snorting it. Chico Rock asks him if he knows where he can get more, looking back at me and raising his eyebrows with anticipation. The friend says no. Chico Rock calls him a liar. The friend laughs and says he’s serious. So Chico Rock drops it.

About twenty seconds later, the friend turns back, waits until we both make eye contact with him and then signals us to follow him.

The three of us walk back into a brightly lit room behind the bar. It takes a minute for my eyes to readjust. The friend introduces me to a guy with dreadlocks I recognize from going out. He asks me if I want pills, assuming that I’m the one looking for drugs, that it’s my deal to be made. I look back at Chico Rock. He nods.

“Si” (Yes).

“Cuantas?” (How many?)

“Cuantas necesito?” (How many do I need?)

The dealer laughs and tells me they’re five euros each. I tell him to give me one. He leans closer to me as if going in for a hug and puts the pill in my hand. He whispers something in my ear, but I can’t understand it, something about this being on the house. Even behind closed doors, the music from the club resonates.

I open my hand and see that he’s given me two pills. I take one and hand it over to Chico Rock, but he shakes his hands and says, “They’re all yours.”

So I take them both.

I walk out of the room and realize that: I just swallowed not one, but two pills. I just swallowed not one, but two unknown pills. I just swallowed not one, but two unknown pills from a complete stranger. I just swallowed not one, but two unknown pills from a complete stranger at a random club overseas. I just swallowed not one, but two unknown pills from a complete stranger at a random club overseas and really, I'm all alone. I just swallowed not one, but two unknown pills from a complete stranger at a random club overseas and really, I'm all alone and I don’t even have my phone.

Not only do I not know if these pills are laced (certainly they are), but I’m not even exactly sure what I’ve taken.

I ask Chico Rock how many he has taken before and he says something like, “a half,” but he could’ve said, “one and a half.” It’s so loud in the club, and I hate repeating myself. Regardless of his answer, two definitely breaks the “take only half the pill” rule—a rule I’ve tried to ingrain in my head ever since I started going out when I was 16.

So get a little worried, and decide that if I start feeling funky (a.k.a. like I’m about to die), I’m just going to rush to the restroom and vomit the pills out. Who says drugs aren’t glamorous?

The dealer with the dreadlocks told me that he worked at the club. He was an under-the-table drug dealer employed by the very own venue to keep the dance floor busy until the early hours of the morning, to have people come back Saturday after Saturday after Friday after Wednesday, to get them addicted to Cool.

So I’m waiting for the damn pills to hit me, to see what’ll take to control my body’s reaction to them.

20 minutes. Nothing.

I keep imagining me overdosing and being taken to a hospital. The whole university institute there, my mother flying in to see me.

Then all of the sudden, I’m totally calm. I think, “If I’m going to die, I might as well die dancing my heart out, right?”

Then the pills hit me: the music starts to penetrate, the songs expand and the whole ambiance changes—the realization that every one there is exactly on the same drug you’ve just taken.

So I dance and talk and flirt with new friends. My hands start getting really cold and then really hot, and then I start to perspire. Random groups of people are approaching us and talking to us. But to me, these guys are just mannequins, looking for colored pills to bring them back to life.

It’s 7 a.m., Royal Cool is about to close, so I say good bye to my minute friends and head out the front door, grabbing a “come back next time” glossy flyer with a picture of well-toned, blue-tinted torso on my way out.

But it’s on the metro that the pills, these drugs, whatever the fuck I took, really start to hit me. I sit there and just start thinking, and then I get paranoid and wonder if the people riding with me on the train can listen to my thoughts. “Am I saying these things out loud?” I ask myself. Of course not, you idiot. Or wait?

Then I get super nervous. I get off my seat, look around, looking confused. I feel like I’ve been riding the metro for hours. Surely I’ve missed my stop. Surely I’m somewhere far, far away past my home stay. The train stops at the next station, and I realize that it’s only the first stop. I’ve been on the train for two minutes.

I sit back down and take a look down at my hands. The glossy flyer I’d been carrying has been twisted and crumbled almost beyond recognition. The toned body now deformed. As soon as I start involuntarily grinding my teeth, the light bulb goes on: Speed!

I swallowed not one, but two speed pills from a complete stranger at a random club overseas and really, I was all alone and I didn’t even have my phone.

I get to my house and realize that Chico Rock has my keys. The light in his room is off; he’s not home yet. I can’t even remember the last time I saw him. It starts to rain, and I start to feel like shit.

But I head back out into the night to try to find him.

To be continued…

I wake up next to Mr. Danger and quickly climb off his bed without making much noise. I go to the restroom, splash cold water on my face and look at the mirror as I mouth the word, “Fuck!” I keep running all the details from last night over and over in my head but yet cannot come to any form of clear conclusion.

I sit on his bed and put on my sneakers. He is still fast asleep, breathing softly and grabbing on to his large pillow by his head. I consider waking him up and letting him know I’m leaving. But, really, what am I supposed to say?

“Oh, thanks for smoking me up, I can’t believe we smoked two bowls. I really liked hanging out with you and watching Cruel Intentions, while we talked nuzzled underneath your sheets. Sarah Michelle Gellar is such a psycho princess in that movie, right? Oh and thanks for suggesting that I should spend the night, even though I was kind of thinking that I should just be heading home when it started getting late and you hinted that you were ready to go to sleep. Oh wait, you didn’t say you were ready to go to sleep, you said you were ready to do something else. What did you have in mind exactly?

Then you turned the lights off and turned your back on me, but a few seconds later began rubbing your butt up against my thigh and caressing my lower leg with your feet. And when I rolled over and started spooning you and running my cold hands up and down your torso, you didn’t flinch away. Instead, you exhaled heavily. And then I started fingering the elastic on your boxer briefs and getting so close down to your crotch. But then I stopped. You noticed I stopped. And I turned over and closed my tired, drunk, stoned, delirious, horny eyes. But then, you rolled over and got so close to me that I could feel your breath on my cheek. And you began poking my hips with your knees. And when I turned my head to look at you, you didn’t look away. So I kissed you, and you kissed me back briefly, softly, before you closed your mouth, recoiled back gently and said, ‘We shouldn’t do this.’

Right, I shouldn’t have kissed you. And you shouldn’t have lied to me about lying to my best friend, you shouldn’t have had invited me over, asked me to spend the night, put your body so close to mine, teasing me to make a move. And I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

No, I don’t say anything. I just grab my phone and put on my jacket and leave, slamming his apartment door as I exit. If I can’t sleep in, neither should he.

It’s a beautiful day in Lakeview, I ponder as I dash to catch the train back to campus. The entire morning, I expect the worse from Mr. Danger, calling Captain Spirit and telling him his side of the story. “And then he tried to kiss me!” he’d say after manipulating the facts, just like he manipulated me, just like he manipulated Captain Spirit.

And it really gets to me. My entire young adult life, when it comes to friends, the one rule I’ve declared rigid solid, unforgivable if broken, is “bros before hos.” Silly as it sounds, it can shred. And after everything I knew and stood by, to throw it all away for a 2-minute kiss? I feel like I’ve cheated myself.

The only legitimate reason I can come up with to justify Mr. Danger’s actions is that he was using me maybe to end things with his boyfriend, inconsiderate of the possibility that his actions might also ends things for me and my best friend. No, not his actions. Mine too. Fuck. But surely, there are easier ways to break off a relationship that do not involve setting up a trap. And in between all these rundowns of possible scenarios, my mind keeps lingering on what a great time I had hanging out with Mr. Danger, talking, smoking and watching the movie, before things got sticky.

I get back to my apartment and check my e-mail. And there it is. A notification from Facebook. Mr. Danger had written on my wall just mere minutes ago.

“Why the escape? Did an alarm go off?”

I’m positive that there’s some part of Mr. Danger that wants to get caught. That night at Sonotheque, I expect a hell blaze. An impending confrontation with Mr. Danger and with Captain Spirit, I’m ready to defend my loyalty, wavering as it might seem. I put on my second favorite pair of jeans, just in case drinks come flying at me during the course of the night.

Captain Spirit shows up alone. I’m relieved that I won’t have to deal with Mr. Danger just yet, but worried that his absence might suggest build up for a looming resolution even more explosive than I had planned for.

“Where is Mr. Danger? I thought you said he was coming with you tonight?” I ask even though I had told myself not to ask.

“He’s staying in tonight,” Captain Spirit answers without even a hint of suspicion. “I think we wore him out last night!”

Maybe not…

But as the night progresses, I realize that Captain Spirit is clueless as to my whereabouts the night before and not a bit curious either. He would have mentioned something, if he thought something was off. Thankfully, I regain some emotional stability to enjoy the last hours at the club. Captain Spirit and I are standing by the bar, waiting for another round when he says, “I think I’m going to try to be single for a while.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m serious. All these guys, even when I know it’s not going anywhere, I keep investing so much. It's so draining.”

“Oh come on! You always get the most devoted, reliable puppy dogs going crazy over you! All of your past boyfriends were upfront about how they felt, never played games. What more do you want?”

“I don't know, I feel like something has been missing. And I keep buckling down each time a decent guy comes around. I don’t even know if they’re right. Or what I want, what I’m missing.”

“You’re happiest in a committed relationship. It’s in your DNA. You’re the boyfriend type and I’m the type who…” I stop and I can’t say it. It suddenly comes pouring over me—a drunken retrospective of my dating life so drenched in disaster.

“You’re the type who never settles,” finishes Captain Spirit with an emotional tissue to wipe away my self-pity like only a best friend could. “That’s what I’m missing, the one thing you always go for: sparks.”

“Sparks tend to combust,” I reply.

“Sometimes, but it’s better than faking interest in someone out of fear of being alone.”

“Yeah, but aren’t we alone now?” I ask raising an eyebrow and looking around the crowded club.

“No way!” Captain Spirit responds immediately. He’s still a little frightened of being alone. “We are… in transition,” he says after careful deliberation.

“In transition,” I repeat with emphasis. I’m liking the term. “And all we need is sparks to launch the rocket.”

“All we need is sparks,” he repeats.

As we make for the exit right before closing time, I turn to Captain Spirit and thank him for coming out. I had never felt the need to do that before, but for some reason, tonight, it feels like I should.

“Of course,” he says a little thrown off by my formal regards. “You planned this whole thing, you know I wouldn’t miss it.”

Captain Spirit was right that night. We weren’t alone.

The thing about sparks is that sometimes they’re actually an alarm signaling for you to run in the opposite direction. And sometimes, they can be going off right in front of you without you even realizing they’re real.

[Where There's Smoke... (Part I)]

Girls in Madrid never leave the house on a night out unless they’re wearing bright stilettos. They don’t enter the club unless they can flirt with the bouncer. They know which heavy metal black doors lead to the hidden dens of delight and which lead to a dead end, or worse—a tourist trap.

And girls in Madrid don’t go to the gay quarter of Chueca unless they don’t have anywhere else to be the next day, because they know that going out with they gays means going out with a bang. They feel free to expose more of their inner slut without the straight males drooling at their feet, waiting to catch another glimpse of their lingerie. It means drinking cocktails all night, stomping on broken glass, climbing on table tops, bugging the DJ to play their favorite song, bumming cigarettes galore, finding out why this dance is what they love and of course, playing the innocent game of matchmaker with all the shy, cute boys standing all alone.

I’m the boy standing all alone. My classmates are off to London for the weekend, and I haven’t seen or heard Chico Rock in weeks, but I’ve decided not to spoil tonight. I’m an undercover club connoisseur at heart and a just because my partners in crime are M.I.A. will not deter me from infiltrating after dark.

So a shot of vodka gives me that last minute boost to go out and try to find the low-key, local gay hangout spot, Why Not? After discreetly circling a few times around the block, I see some guys knocking on a wooden door and a big guy dressed in a black tee letting them inside.

Gays in Madrid must have some sort of fascination with old Hollywood glamour. Why Not? is way smaller than I envisioned, more of a lounge really, and starting to get really crowded. A dim glass chandelier is the only source of lighting. Along the walls hang sepia-toned photographs of classic Hollywood stars.

Alone and increasing self-conscious of my state in the small space, I scan around for new, potential friends. I notice a group of adorable young guys, wearing graphic tees and jeans, laughing and drinking, teasing each other with light punches and head grabs. But then, as I'm about to approach, I look up and see two navy stilettos coming down, stomping down the stairs. They belong to a tipsy girl with bangs. She makes her way down, waving, winking and throwing kisses to several different guys to her left and right.

Her, I make a mental note and slowly walk over to try to intercept her as she heads towards the bar.

Navy Stilettos used to work as a bartender at Why Not? and knows the entire staff. She’s in school and wants to work in magazines. She belts out whenever she dances and thinks the DJ here is the best in town. She drinks vodka tonics and her ex-boyfriend was Mexican.

We have so much in common that our interaction gets less forced as the minutes go by (and as we down our vodka tonics). She invites me to her table, and I meet the rest of her girl friends and this well-built, dark-skinned Puerto Rican boy with a buzz cut, wearing a tight button-up shirt and designer jeans. He’s Navy Stiletto’s current boyfriend’s younger brother.

“Es su cumpleaños!” (It’s his birthday!) Navy Stilettos shouts as she hands him another drink. I congratulate him with a smile and think, “an 18-year-old with those arms?” We flirt for a while, but I tend to go for older guys, so he’s just eye candy at this point.

As the night progresses, Navy Stilettos convinces her bar friends to let the Birthday Boy get on top of the bar for a much deserved celebratory dance. They clear the empty glasses and Birthday Boy climbs on without much hesitation and starts dancing to Paulina Rubio’s latest hit, “Ni Una Sola Palabra” as the crowd cheers on. Then Navy Stiletto, jealous that her friend is hogging the spotlight, extends her arm and Birthday Boy brings her up to the bar. Then, he looks down at me, comes forward and extends his arm towards me, encouraging me to join them. My first instinct is to reject his spontaneous invitation, but then I look around, estimate the possibility of an embarrassing disaster and decide… why not?

I’m just as much of an attention whore as the next guy, but it’s intimidating dancing on top of the bar, in prime position to be gawked at and judged. And I’m wearing all my clothes. Just imagine what it’s like for those guys that do it all in briefs. Hence, I have the outmost respect for go-go boys, strippers and other exhibitionists.

We get off after a few minutes but my heart is still pounding. I definitely need another drink and a cigarette to calm down the adrenaline rush. I borrow a lighter from Navy Stilettos, and she congratulates me on my bold move to get up on the bar.

“Oye, las chicas y yo hemos estado pensando,” (Hey, the girls and I have been thinking) Navy Stilettos says with a flirtatious look. The look of a girl in the midst of plotting. “Queremos darle su regalo de cumpleaños,” (We want to give him his birthday present) she says nodding towards Birthday Boy.

I pretend to be clueless even though I know something’s up. Birthday Boy looks delicious despite his age, so I ask, “Que es su regalo?” (What is his gift?)

“Tu.” (You).

Hours later as the sun is rising, I find myself in Birthday Boy’s room. He shares a flat with his older brother, whom Navy Stilettos is spending the night with.

Birthday Boy and I have already made out on the dancefloor of the second club we went to. In the single stall restroom of the third club, I unbuttoned his shirt and felt up his toned torso. Now, alone in his room, the only thing left to do is continue the make out session but with far fewer articles of clothing and in more comfortable positions on his bed.

He pins me down with both arms and sticks his tongue in my mouth. He is a sloppy kisser, but I don’t mind. The best way to deal with it, I’ve learned, is to be sloppy back. He has full lips and likes it whenever I bite down gently on his lower one. Birthday Boy straddles me and sits up to unbutton his shirt. He does it slowly, one button at a time, while I play with his thighs resting close to my ribs. As soon as he takes it off all the way, I lift forward and begin licking his caramel-colored chest, firmly stroking his nipples with my tongue.

He pushes me back down and starts taking off my shoes and socks while looking up at me and smiling, almost innocently. It’s endearing. He’s like a puppy eager to play.

Then he unbuckles my belt and unzips my pants, digs down through my boxers and starts going down on me. I caress his head with one hand and use the other to lift my tee-shirt all the way up closer to my chest so I can caress my nipples while he  sucks me off. The fact that he’s a sloppy kisser is not such a bad thing after all.

The morning after, Navy Stiletto flashes a huge smile as soon as I walk out of the room, hung over and wearing last night’s clothes. She hands me a cup of coffee, and with glee, mentions that she heard us last night. We both smile and gently chuckle, but for some reason, I get the impression that she got more satisfaction out of this situation than I did.

It’s a well-known rule in my code of conduct that I will never make the first move. Not because I’m afraid of rejection; not because I don’t have anything to say; not because I get easily intimidated.

Maybe it has to do with the fact that, believe it or not, I’m a pretty shy guy, especially around a very particular breed of guys, whom I refer to as “beat skippers.”

Yes, I can usually muster up enough bravado to strike up a lively conversation with a bunch of strangers. But with those certain boys that make my heart skip a beat, it’s a completely different story. When it comes to interacting with potential bedmates, I tend to freeze rather than flirt.

Besides, I’m not the type of guy who walks up to you at the club with the sole intention of taking you home. Transparent is the one color that you won’t find in my stylebook. If anything, for me, the giant dance dens of New York are platonic spaces where most of the time is spent bumping into old friends and making new ones, with a few scattered breaks to savor the eye candy, of course. Not to mention that nothing screams desperate like scanning the floor for unsuspecting victims, and nothing whispers great catch like dancing like you just don’t care.

So here I am, at Sugarland in Brooklyn, on a Saturday night, standing by the bar, swirling the ice in my drink with my straw and looking at this guy that just walked by. Dark complexion, scruffy beard, a hard jaw, and my heart just skipped a beat. He seems like a cocky fellow, someone difficult to impress. I know that if I go up to him now, like a missile zooming in straight towards its target, the only thing that will go up in flames will be my ego. So I consider taking a more subtle approach.

He’s talking to some friends by the stage, so I grab a few of mine and suggest we relocate from the bar to the dancefloor, not far from Skipper. I don’t subscribe to the whole fixating-gaze-leads-to-sex mating ritual, mostly because I feel like it’s fucking creepy and would be just as subtle as shooting a wide-eyed Bambi with a rifle and carrying the body back to my lair. I know that place has a reputation for being kind of lax when it comes to getting crazy, but I’m pretty sure that the Sugarland management and staff would not stand for that shit.

“Do you guys want a shot for a dollar? It’s bright, bright purple and comes in a test tube—OH MY GOD, YOU’VE KILLED BAMBI!”

So just think about it: every time you give the stare down treatment to an innocent cutie at the club… it’s like you’re shooting Bambi all over again. Most importantly, the cutie immediately files you in the Dahmer/Dead Disney/Date Rape drawer. A very difficult drawer to get out of, I’d say.

What is this post even about? Oh yeah… so the Ting Tings come on, and I’m dancing in front of Skipper, trying to get him to notice me. We’re so close, I could take a step back and we’d be grinding. Once in a while, I make sure to unceremoniously brush my arm up against his torso. Did he? Didn’t he? Yes, I did. I get pure satisfaction out of causing a commotion and drawing the attention of the crowd, so this doesn’t seem particularly shameless.

What comes next does. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Skipper head upstairs to the outdoor patio to smoke a cigarette. Of course! I have been trying to quit smoking but… fuck it! I follow him by myself this time, and realize that, no I have not quit smoking cigarettes; I’ve just quit buying them.

I linger on the outskirts of Skipper’s conversation for a minute and then randomly bust in to the half circle of friends to ask if anyone’s got an extra cigarette. Their apologetic expressions break the bad news. It’s ok; I wouldn’t give me a cigarette either. Besides, I’m not really out there for a smoke break. I figure that if I’m not going to make the first move, my best bet is to carefully situate myself within Skipper’s frame at various moments throughout the night, and making it seem like I’m not stalking him by playing it all up to be just mere coincidence. Like it’s meant to happen, caught in each other’s radars.

All right… yeah, basically, I’m throwing myself at him.

Out on the Sugarland patio, he looks at me, and I’m not sure if he’s intrigued or disgusted. Either way, I feel unbearably transparent. Then he reaches deep inside his messenger bag, probably trying to dig up the last remains of my dignity? No… a pack of Parliaments!

“Oh, do you have a light too?” I say delighted but interrupting the conversation yet again.

“What? Do you want me to smoke it for you too?” He says with a childish sneer and reaching into his pocket for a lighter. The teasing gives my hopes one last thrust. But right after I finish lighting the cigarette, I notice that their smoke break is over and he’s making his way back inside.

“We’ll be down by the dancefloor,” he says, taking my hand in his when taking back his lighter. I stay out there and finish the entire cigarette, giving him just enough time to take my file out of the stalker drawer.

After I’m finally done, I step back inside still adamant about not breaking the first move rule, but at this point, I’m more than ready to make the second, third, fourth and fifth.

Skipper is standing by the door with his friends, looking around. Is he looking for me? I look around. Where did my friends go? Is he going to make a move? Or is he just going to go?

As I walk down the stairs back to the foggy dancefloor, I start to think: What if Skipper has a first move rule too? What if he’s just waiting for that great guy to notice him on the dancefloor and come say hello? What if we’re all like that? Waiting for that touch, that gaze, that cigarette that will break the silence and form a lasting bridge.

It’s last call. I shouldn’t keep focusing on who approaches whom, who is the predator and who is the prey, who is worthy of the attention and who deserves better. There’s something surprisingly empowering about wearing our hearts on our sleeves and hoping for safe landing.

Maybe I should just start walking in his direction. Not think about what I’m going to say. Not worry about coming off transparent, silly, desperate or drunk (or all of the above). Because I can assume all night long, but I’ll never really know his side unless I ask.

Sometimes, we forget that going out should be about having a good time, not about proving you can find a tipsy guy that will let you shove your tongue down his throat—making the first move as meaningless as casting a net and settling for whatever you catch.

But if we genuinely feel the sparks and believe that the scruffy guy to our right is right, right now, then what’s stopping us from going for it, not like a mindless missile but like on a mission? The worse that can happen is old and rusted rejection. But we’re all big boys here. We can deal.

Any given code of conduct is pointless if it’s rigid, final and fixed, without exceptions and footnotes, especially if sticking by the rules leaves us standing alone, in a closing club, frozen yet reluctant to make a move.

Right after last call, if you still can’t come up with the clever words that will impress… then just kiss him. Anything’s better than watching a guy that makes your heart skip a beat walk out at the end of the night, leaving you regurgitating empty “what if’s” and regretting all your subtle, indirect, absurd moves and thinking: “I should’ve said hello.”

Every first move we make might very well be our last.

Featuring "That's Not My Name" (LA Riots Remix) - The Ting Tings

After a few drinks out in the balcony, Chico Rock and his friends are ready to hit the city, and he wants me to join them. So I go back to my room through our connecting balconies. I take off my flip-flops, put socks on and my black shoes and change my shirt. I dash to my closet and get my jacket. It might rain tonight.

When I get back, I learn that the girls are not coming out with us; they have some birthday party in Salamanca to go to. So it’s just going to be me, Chico Rock and his friend, who has not spoken a single word to me the whole entire night. He feels threatened, I can tell. And I like it.

We get ready to leave the house, and Chico Rock whispers for us to be quiet going down the stairs and out the front door. He lives with his parents and older brother and they’re usually asleep by this time, I gather.

I try hard not to make a sound, but it’s the Bacardi shortly before midnight that causes me to giggle at even the slightest distraction. This tipsy, even a subtle touch from a cute boy can make me lose my composure.

We get on the Metro and get off in Chueca. Our first stop is Rick’s, a discrete gay bar a few blocks away. It doesn’t take me very long to realize that the Mediterranean décor and photos of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman hanging on the walls play up an allusion to Rick’s Café Américain in Casablanca.

Chico Rock gets me a drink and hands it to me, then begins dancing to some trashy Spanish pop song. I take a minute and just look at him dancing slowly in front of me. I like the way he moves, controlled sways in one direction then the next, like a drunken rockstar on stage. It’s enticing. All I want is to dance up against him.

“Que haces aqui?” (What are you doing here?) his friend asks in a cold and condescending tone, disrupting my fantasy. It’s obvious that he is not very pleased that I have intruded on their boys’ night out.

“Estoy estudiando por unos meses,” (I’m studying for a few months) I’m short with him. It’s a defense mechanism, or maybe the thrill of the competition, that prompts me to blatantly treat him with indifference.

“Pero, tio, que no eres Latino? Sabes Español perfectamente.” (But, man, aren’t you Latino? You know Spanish perfectly).

“Eso no quiere decir que no pueda aprendar algo nuevo,” (That doesn’t mean I can’t learn something new) I say without looking at him. My sight is still fixated on Chico Rock. I down my drink, put the glass down on the bar and drag him to the small dancefloor a few steps in front of us, leaving sour-faced friend by himself.

What follows are a few minutes of getting up close and personal, of me getting so close to him that I can feel his breath on my neck.

“Oye, chico rebelde sabe bailar!” (Hey, rebel boy can dance!) Chico Rock yells to his friend, making sure he doesn’t feel left out. They have already given me a nickname, Rebelde, stemming from the time my ancestors beat the crap out of the Spaniards in the Latin American revolutions of decades ago (with the help of the French, let’s not ignore some historic justice here).

I don’t really know what to make of these two guys and their past. Obviously, there is some territory being contested, and we’re all looking to conquer. But the exact details of their friendship (or more) remain unclear. They’re both being intentionally vague whenever I ask.

Their night out turns into a night tour of real Madrid, not found in any gringo guidebook. I’m in the passenger seat; Chico Rock is my guide.

So after hitting some other bars, we end up at an infamous sex club not too far away. There are no signs and only locals know what lies behind the heavy metal door. I’m pretty wasted at this point, but I reject the thought of any frisky business going down. Despite my impulsive and often reckless behavior, I know how to take care of myself, and having a threesome, maybe even an orgy, in public with complete strangers does not sound that appetizing for this romantic. But would I say no to having a peek inside the underworld?

Look but don’t touch, Rebelde.

My vision is blurry, and it doesn’t help that the place is pitch black. Even after my eyes adjust, all I can make out are silhouettes walking slowly from one back room to the next—a Laberinto de Pasiones, Almodóvar would say. In the first room, an erotic film is being projected onto a blank wall. It flickers on and off. In the next room, the soft red lighting helps me notice that along opposite walls, there are booths with thick, red velvet curtains to conceal what's going on inside. But I can still figure it out. Noises can often tell a fully story, especially this dark.

Finally we get to the very back room. A chandelier shines some light on maybe 12 or 15 bodies, touching and moaning, laying on a giant circular table, and a crowd of spectators gathered to watch the intimate exploits and ecstasy.

We decide that, for us, showtime is over; time to wake up. It’s pouring when we leave the club, and the street lights are so bright compared to the dungeon we just walked out of that it takes a few minutes for our eyes to adjust back to reality.

Chico Rock guides me to the nearest Metro stop and tells me how to get home. And right before I run down the stairs to the station, he grabs my face and kisses me as we’re getting drenched—the beginning of a beautiful friendship (or more).

But as I wait for my train, I remember that Chico Rock lives right next door. Why aren’t we taking the same train home? Why isn’t he coming with me? Where is he spending the rest of the night?

[Noise Complaints (Part I)]