Chapter Five
By noon the following day, Joaquin was comfortably seated in first class on an American Airlines jet from LAX to Newark; he had some doubts about meeting this guy who had called, but Joaquin wanted to see for himself what this was all about. He planned to only spend one night in Newark, and then fly on to Madrid to begin exploring parts of his homeland that he had neglected for several years.
There is a quality of light, a difference in the air, the sunlight, and the atmosphere in Spain. If you travel immediately south of Barcelona in the region of Catalunya, you are immersed in the vineyards that produce syrah, cava and guarnacha.
By the time you reach the town of Taragona, you are immersed in the region known as Terra Alta: the high land. The sky is a brilliant blue, contrasting with the dark moody blue of the Mediterranean, the red earth and the green vineyards which at this time of the year seemed to be bursting with new growth.
He had enjoyed this same experience with Ross on a trip north from California: they had sailed a small yacht to Vancouver, then rented a car and explored all over southern British Columbia and Washington, Idaho, and Oregon. The blue sky along the cliffs above the Columbia River in Washington seemed to be vibrating, the sky seemed closer than anywhere else, seemed to be alive almost, contrasting sharply with the dark green and snow-capped Cascade mountains. He laughed at himself; perhaps these were just the wet dreams of an artist.
Joaquin Antonio Mendez de Concordia was determined to re-trace some of the old journeys taken by his family during his youth; his father had been an attorney and a member of the Supreme Court of Spain following the change in the government after the end of the Francisco regime. Joaquin's first stop was the ancient family farm which had been in the family since his great-great-grandfather; it included the vineyard which had been inherited by Joaquin from his father.
The town of Porrera lies in nearly the center of the Denominacio d'Origen Qualificada Priorat, the small mountainous region of Taragona; it is divided by the Siurana River which is a tributary to the Ebro. The entire massif is cut by the various streams and branches of the Siurana which divide the region into ridges and hillsides, with more than 600 wine growers in the DOQ.
It was not easy for Joaquin to find the old farm; he had to rely on his memory, but the region had not changed appreciably since his most recent visit with his parents as a teenager. The single most noticeable change was the sheer volume of vineyards; in his teen years, there had been a few, maybe a dozen, and now there were literally thousands of acres planted in wine grapes.
The tiny house where his family's progenitors lived was still there, partly overgrown with vines and weeds; the house was crumbling and was unoccupied. As he parked in the courtyard in the front, he noticed a couple of feral cats running away into the weeds. At that moment, he heard the sound of a noisy diesel tractor approaching.
"Buenas tardes, Señor" called the tractor driver. The noise ceased; the tractor came to a stop and the driver jumped down to the driveway and approached Joaquin's rental car. He held out a hand to shake; Joaquin at first could not respond, because he was staring at the black hair sticking out from beneath the straw hat, and the blazing sky-blue eyes and the full lips and bulging biceps and the equally bulging crotch. When did Wranglers become the universal uniform of farmers?
Joaquin finally lifted his eyes upward to meet the eyes of the farmer, extended his hand, and deeply blushing at his obvious attraction to this stranger, greeted him: "Buenas tardes, Señor, soy Joaquin Mendez. Mucho gusto."
The farmer smiled broadly; he appreciated the effect he had had on Joaquin and chose not to ignore it. This effect happened frequently to both men and women, and unknown to Joaquin the effect was well-known in the town of Porrera.
"Ah, Señor, la familia Mendoza de Concordia, si? Mucho gusto. Welcome to Porrera and to your family home." The farmer smiled again, and bowed slightly, still shaking Joaquin's hand. Or, not shaking it, holding it warmly for much longer than customary. Joaquin could not stop blushing.
"Uhm, tu nombre, Señor?" Joaquin found it difficult to stop staring at the blue-eyed stranger.
"Soy Felipe Marquez."
Joaquin was seriously out of practice; he felt almost out of his league in front of this beautiful stranger. In his mind he was still married and had no right to be staring at the beauty in front of him, undressing him with his eyes and imagining them together naked in bed. His crotch had other ideas, however, and soon the brain and the crotch began to collaborate on a plan.
Joaquin slowly re-gained his composure and stuttered out his reason for visiting the old farm; he had inherited the vineyard from his father and wanted to come and inspect it and consider the value and the possibility of selling it to another local vineyard owner.
He and Felipe spent about an hour walking around the property, with Felipe doing most of the talking, explaining the grapes, the vineyard, the seasonal chores and activities, the rules of the DOQ, the recent history of the crop volumes and prices, and the value of the land and the vines.
Joaquin could not remember a word that had been said; he was adrift in the colors and light and smells and aura of the ancient land as well as the magical presence of the tractor-driver in the Wranglers.
That recent problem with not having or needing or wanting sex? That problem was now replaced by a pounding, throbbing need that made him ache all the way down to the warm space between the back of his balls to the pink asshole that had only been invaded by Ross for the last dozen years or more.
Joaquin lied to Felipe and said that he was starving, and if Felipe could recommend a place in the town of Porrera to have lunch, maybe the two of them could continue the conversation and discuss some other topics that Joaquin felt were important, such as the future of the vineyard. Felipe smiled broadly; Joaquin did not register it, but it was the smile of the spider approaching the fly struggling in the web.
Following a leisurely lunch of escaslivada and botifara, tomatoes, peppers and aubergines with sausages, and a sufficient amount of freshly-made local red wine, Felipe and Joaquin were both feeling the need for the most famous local custom, a siesta. Felipe directed Joaquin to his house on the edge of the little town, and they lost no time in stumbling into the tiny living room and tossing their clothes off and grabbing each other by the lips, the hands, the arms, and getting lost in each other.
Kissing violently, madly, sloppily, they were soon naked and consuming cocks, assholes, lips, and each other totally as Joaquin begged Felipe to fuck him, a command more than a request, which was immediately obeyed.
Joaquin was awakened more than an hour later; he noticed three things: Felipe was gone, there was a much-diminished light coming in the windows, and there was cum oozing out of his hole and down his leg. He felt like a twink: he had not had quick and anonymous sex in many years but was not ashamed. It was the antidote he did not know he needed; the days and nights of wandering around California in a lonely fog was suddenly reprieved.
Felipe had showered and walked back into the small living room naked and toweling his mop of dark hair; he laughed at Joaquin, who was clearly ready for another round.
He mentioned as much to Joaquin, who quickly complied with the suggestion, and leaped to his feet and began kissing Felipe on the ears, neck, and mouth, bringing Felipe's meaty hefty cock to attention. He dropped the towel on the sofa where Joaquin had napped, and kneeling down in front of Joaquin, took the ready rampant cock in his mouth, eagerly sucking and salivating and coating it with his spit; he could not wait to have this cock in his own ass; just as he had fucked Joaquin, he wanted the same pleasure.
Felipe bent over the arm of the sofa, and pulling apart his ass-cheeks, Joaquin stood behind him and shoved his wet cock into the waiting hole; it had been months since he had fucked, and did not want to cum too soon, but could not control himself. He was fucking Felipe's hot hole like a demon immediately after entering him, spurred on by the shouts and moans of the lean and wiry farmer.
It seemed like hours, of course; we have all been there. But it was probably only eight and a half minutes when Joaquin was shooting great gobs of cum into Felipe's hole, rivers of it running down his leg, pounding it back into the hole with his piston-speed fucking. Even after cumming, Joaquin did not want to stop, he needed to fuck again and again; in barely a minute, his own ass hole was filled by Felipe once again. They could shower together later, he decided.