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Found in Translation by Callan Smith

I don’t know what the average age of my readership is but this particular writer has been going through an identity crisis. Or male menopause. You might have noticed that in another story I refer to myself as a twink that has lost his twinkle and the fact that actors like Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise could officially be termed ‘middle-aged’ is of small consolation when you find yourself unable to ‘pull’ as many tricks as you once did. Therefore it was something of an uplift to my ego – and not only – when I met Rodrigo, a Spanish stud I was able to add to my list of international conquests. Although me being me it didn’t exactly happen overnight.

Rodrigo was not his real name of course but I chose it carefully both to cloak his real identity and also allude to his dagger of a dick which, as no doubt you can imagine, I eventually unsheathed. He was sent to me by a friend who thought I might be the right person to help him write his thesis on William Beckford, a lesser known 18th century author of a Gothic novel called ‘Vathek’ who caused a bit of a scandal in his day and was socially ostracised for his ‘uncontrollable attraction to young boys.’ I had never heard of Beckford or translated from English to Italian before, let alone via Spanish and French, which is what I was called on to do. However, the fact that Rodrigo was just eighteen and physically beautiful played no small part in my decision to take on this daunting task.

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We spoke first on the phone and agreed on a provisional fee for the completion of his thesis. It was slightly less than the going rate but all he could afford. Anyway my heart was going at the rate of knots when I met him and I would have given him twice the amount myself just for the pleasure of his company. The thought of sitting side by side on hot summer nights with this gorgeous specimen of Spanish boyhood, sharing meals and thoughts, and the inevitable bottle of wine, made my head spin. I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror when I was greeting him. I looked like the cat who got the cream. Or a contented child who has just received a longed for Christmas present. I’m so transparent sometimes. Not at all stiff upper-lipped and British. It will be my undoing some day. In fact looking back in retrospect I realize I was undone the second I set eyes on him.

How can I describe him adequately? He was tall, dark and handsome and obviously worked out or practised some kind of sport. There was also an attractive air of arrogance about him like one of the warriors in that Mel Gibson film. In fact he looked more South American than Spanish although he was born in Barcelona. In spite of his muscle tone, his body was very supple and he sailed across the room like a Spanish galleon. What’s more, as soon as he sat down he seemed to ripple over my davenport like a wave. I couldn’t wait to get him out of his clothes. Especially his somewhat baggy sports pants. I spent the first five minutes of our interview trying to decipher the outline of his dick between their folds. I knew instinctively he wasn’t wearing underwear.

Recently in a barren moment I watched ‘While You Were Sleeping’ again -- for the nth time -- and was drawn to the scene where Bill Pullman reproves Sandra Bullock for ‘leaning’ – getting a bit too friendly with her landlord’s son. In the weeks I spent with Rodrigo there was a whole lot of leaning going on as I sat closer and closer to him or bent over the computer with him but at the beginning, in my temporary role of English professor, mentor and translator, I was my usual soul of discretion. ‘Asshole of discretion’ might be nearer the mark as I found out later he had been waiting quite some time for me to take the plunge into Spanish waters. Which I did as soon as I lacked the strength to resist the current which was pulling me so relentlessly along.

William Beckford says, “Happiness is a bird of passage and has but a single season. It never returns twice at least not in all its freshness.” Nothing could be truer of my relationship with Rodrigo.

We were more than halfway through the thesis when we came across a passage in ‘Vathek’ dealing with the written transcriptions engraved on a pair of sabres. It seemed that these transcriptions changed day by day as if by magic so it was impossible to give an accurate translation. Rodrigo told me this was true for many translations and of the difficulty of translating English into a Latin language like Spanish and vice versa. He smiled and said that the word ‘sabre’ sounded very much like the Spanish ‘sabor a mi’ which meant savour or taste me. He also said that different translators gave different versions of the same text sometimes even changing the original meaning. Just like me I thought who wanted to savour his sabre immediately.

My birthday was looming on the horizon and I decided to invite him for a special supper although I did wonder what he would think when he found he was the only guest. I needn’t have worried. He’d obviously been waiting for such an invitation only I hadn’t realized it. There are none so blind as will not see. He arrived in an immaculate white shirt. It was so crisp it crackled. So of course did I. He looked very much like Adrian Paul otherwise known as Duncan MacLeod in ‘Highlander.’ Do you remember him? He was my tv idol of the nineties! In fact I still have wet dreams about him.

“I didn’t know what to get you for your birthday,” said my very own Adrian Paul handing me a bottle of Spanish wine and some Andulusian delicacies. “What would you like?”

This time I didn’t hesitate or beat around the bush.

“To see you in your birthday suit,” I replied regretting it as soon as I said it and also wondering if he was familiar with such an idiom or whether it would be lost in translation.

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He didn’t hesitate either but started undoing his shirt … button by button, crackle by crackle.

I gasped as my eyes began to behold the long flat planes of muscle stretched over his chest mounted by prominent pecs and hard protruding nipples. The best birthday cake anyone could have offered me. He threw his crackling shirt over a chair and proceeded to drop his pants. They were elastic at the waist so he was out of them before I could take another breath. I was right in thinking he didn’t wear underwear and my eyes were immediately riveted on the pole of flesh between his legs which was only half aroused. His dark eyes locked challengingly on mine as he walked towards me, one hand gripping his cock and slowly massaging it so I could see it in its full glory. My legs gave way. He put the fingers that had been caressing his cock in my mouth. My knees buckled. A phrase from Beckford’s book came to my fuddled mind: “My nostrils were filled with the perfume of young boys as fair and graceful as the jasmine sprays engarlanding their heads.” Only my own nostrils were filled with the tangy scent of Rodrigo’s cock and I could taste the drops of pre-cum that lingered on my tongue. This time I fell down on my knees before him to worship his beauty. After weeks of dilly-dallying, I suddenly wanted him inside me. To fuck the ass off me for two days and then shoot gallons of spunk all over me until I looked like a cotton field in full harvest.

“Happy birthday,” he said as he guided his birthday candle of a cock into my mouth so that I could taste the rest of his residue. It was like ambrosia to my lips. I gasped once more as he worked his fingers through my hair and helped me swallow his thick dick and massage it with my throat until my mouth overflowed with Spanish cream. After I had drunk my fill I lay harmonizing with his breathing, my head happily at rest on his ample chest, nestled between his cherry nipples. I nuzzled them with my nose and then set to work sucking them like a baby at his mother’s breast. Whether it was the nectar from his nipples or just sheer tiredness I know not but a drug-like drowsiness soon engulfed me. I fell asleep.

When I awoke the first thing I saw was his beautiful face lovingly pressed against mine. I closed my eyes again as one does when wishing to prolong a pleasant dream. When I opened them he was still there. He said something to me softly in Spanish. I asked him to translate. I suppose in everyday English what he said essentially was that he’d had the hots for me since the first time he saw me and that he was only waiting for me to make the first move but it came out so poetically perfect in his translation and must have been even better in Spanish. “What took you so long? Don’t you know the first look you cast upon me gave you possession of my heart.” he said.

I told him almost equally poetically that sometimes reason has a power over the human spirit that even the strongest passion or desire can never entirely remove. “That’s just another way of telling me you’re uptight and English,” he said, and he was right. “In Spain we do not torment ourselves with useless battles between honour and friendship. If we like a guy we tell him so.”

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“I like you,” I said, and kissed him to prove it.

Soon our tongues were trading places and the pounding I heard in my buzzing brain was only equalled by the pounding I felt in my dick as our life’s blood rushed in a current of sexual energy to our combined nerve endings. It linked and locked us in a timeless vortex that seemed to tap the very powers of the cosmos. My birthday wish to be fucked by Rodrigo was being realized. And how.

As he entered me, we two became one and united – joined forces -- with all the hearts and minds and grinding groins of those fortunate souls who had gone to sexual heaven before us. I suddenly appreciated and understood the age-old expression ‘it was music to my ears’ as he introduced my body to a symphony of sounds and sensations I had never before experienced. After weeks of keeping my distance I thought how easily he had bridged the gap between us at the first syncopated thrust of his dick and so ably reversed roles that he was at once the maestro making my whole body vibrate like a double bass. He beat out an inflammatory flamenco on my throbbing prostate and at the same time fist-fucked me with the palm of his hand, strumming away at my delirious dick until he sent tremors to the base of my throat and I burst enraptured into sexual song. Man, I tell you I hit a high note not even a lyric soprano could have matched.

Then he literally made me see stars as between us we created a new firmament, mystic meteorites that exploded into a surging pool of mutual satisfaction. We overflowed with a ferment of feelings and juicy jizz and thought only of the bliss of being together forever and ever in an eternal bode of love and joy.

Writing this now I realize that a lot of William Beckford must have rubbed off on me. I’ve never waxed so lyrical before. But then I’d never made love to someone like Rodrigo before. And when your body is translated to another sphere you suddenly learn what poetry is all about.

I tell you man there’s nothing like a good fuck to help you through your male menopause and lay siege to your fears of middle age. And thanks to Rodrigo I’m getting quite a few of those. In fact he’s injected new life into me in more ways than one. Made this ex-twink twinkle again.

Fortunately -- or unfortunately -- we haven’t finished his thesis yet. Somehow we kind of got distracted. But we’re working on it and believe you me there could never be a better work in progress.

The model in these pictures is Esteban

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