Man of January
Alejandro Cruz, 24, Guanajuato, Mexico, Basilio in Don Quixhote
Author's note: This is a centerfold piece for my January issue story; it contains a detailed description of a day I spent with Alejandro Cruz before the evening finally brought passion into the picture. If you are into slowly building the tension, read the whole story; if you are here for action, scroll down to the last three sectons, where Alejo asks Augie to "punish" him, and Augie does it--perhaps too gently...
Basilio in Don Quixote is one of the most charming, irresistible roles in classical ballet. He is not a prince, nor a nobleman, nor even a warrior—he is a barber, clever and quick, who outsmarts his social betters to win the love of Kitri. Basilio embodies wit, bravado, and warmth, demanding an agile technique and a personality that shines past the choreography. His leaps must look effortless, his spins lighthearted, and his mime sequences slyly playful. In short: Basilio is all about joy, humor, and charisma.
When Ajehandro Cruz dances Basilio, he gives him the swagger of a man born under the sun of Guadalajara. Trained in Mexico City before moving to Europe, Ajehandro carries his heritage in his body—shoulders broad, movements grounded, turns expansive, a sense of rhythm that feels almost musical-theatrical. Where some Basilios become too acrobatic, more about tricks than character, Ajehandro insists on telling the story. He flashes a smile at Kitri not as a stage gesture, but as though he truly sees her. His mime is comic but never clownish, the barber’s jokes finely tuned, the pauses just long enough to draw laughter.
Critics often note the heat in his Basilio—the olé hidden in his phrasing. In the tavern scene, when he bursts into a whirlwind of jumps, the audience feels the pulse of flamenco behind the classical lines. In the wedding pas de deux, he draws out every lift and balance with a showman’s confidence, yet without overshadowing Kitri—his artistry is in partnership, making her shine as much as himself.
For me, meeting Ajehandro meant seeing Basilio not as a Mexican stock character, but as a universal lover-boy—the quick-witted dreamer every audience, from Seville to Montréal, instantly recognizes. Ajehandro’s Basilio is warm, sunlit, and funny, like a carnival trickster who somehow makes you believe in true love…
***
In January, Guanajuato is a living mural of terracotta, cobalt, and sunflower yellow, a city built inside a bowl of mountains where houses climb the slopes like stacked toys. The winter air is crisp but gentle, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke from the hills. The whole city feels at once intimate and theatrical, every corner ready to reveal a sudden burst of color or sound.
In the morning, the city stirs slowly. The sun spills into the valley with a silvery coolness, painting the facades in subdued tones, as if the streets are still stretching awake. Narrow callejones glisten faintly from the night’s dew, and the stone steps leading up to the pastel houses seem almost too steep for their own good. At roadside stalls, women unwrap steaming tamales from corn husks, their hands moving quickly, and the sweet scent of atole drifts in clouds of vapor. Young students in navy sweaters hurry past, their laughter echoing against the canyon-like walls of the streets. Morning here doesn’t roar but murmurs—like a prelude waiting to swell into music.
By mid-morning, the vendors in the plazas spread out their wares: woven shawls, silver jewelry, hand-painted ceramics. The Basilica of Our Lady glows softly in pink sandstone as bells ring with deliberate clarity. Pigeons scatter, children tug at their parents, and doors open one by one as markets blossom into life. The city doesn’t rush; it ripens with the sun.
In the afternoon, Guanajuato shows its bravado. The sunlight turns sharper, glinting off the copper domes and tilting shadows across the crooked streets. Bright bougainvillea tumbles from wrought-iron balconies, as if competing with the painted houses for attention. The air grows heavy with aromas—corn roasting on open grills, sizzling meat skewers, the tang of lime squeezed over fresh fruit. Traffic winds through the underground tunnels, leaving the surface streets alive with pedestrians, performers, and music drifting from hidden courtyards.
The afternoon becomes a kind of theatre of everyday life. An elderly man strums a guitar by the steps of Teatro Juárez, a cluster of teenagers rehearse a dance routine in front of a church, and a flower vendor rearranges marigolds with almost ceremonial care. The whole city insists on spectacle, as if every moment is a rehearsal for a festival.
In the evening, Guanajuato becomes a chiaroscuro painting. As twilight seeps into the mountains, lanterns and streetlamps flicker on, casting golden halos over the plazas. Lovers sit shoulder to shoulder on cool stone benches, whispering into the dark, while groups of university students—wrapped in black capes like medieval troubadours—gather to sing and tell stories, their voices carrying through the narrow alleys.
Above the city, El Pípila stands lit by floodlights, torch raised high as though guarding its secrets. Little bars glow with boleros spilling from open doors, tiled fountains glimmer in the lamplight, and stairways disappear upward into shadow. By nightfall, Guanajuato trades its bright murals for a softer magic, and in the hush between laughter and song, the city feels enchanted—an old friend whose welcome is both tender and eternal.
***
As I ride in my taxi from the airport to the hotel, I see the city slipping past in fragments—faces, gestures, small flashes of lives I’ll never touch. And yet, through the glass, certain figures seem to pull me in as if they already know I’m watching.
From the taxi window, I see The Hill Worker leaning against a stone wall, the morning clinging to him like dust. His jacket hangs loose, his boots are worn, his hands rough in a way that makes me think of strength held in reserve. He looks like someone who doesn’t offer much of himself at first, but I feel an urge to stand close, to test the weight of his silence. I imagine him climbing home at dusk, his mother waiting, his sister teasing him for stories. Later, slipping out into the night, he meets his boyfriend, a neighbor’s nephew on vacation, who knows how to draw that hidden laugh from him, the kind of laugh I want to hear for myself, pressed close enough to feel it in his chest.
… They fuck in the back yard of their house, standing up, with his boyfriend pressed against an old tree, legs spread apart, The Hill Worker thrusting up his ass in a sequence of frantic passionate moves. The leaves of the tree shake and rustle above them, and they hide each other’s muffled moans in their tight hug. His boyfriend doesn’t get hard but comes from the pressure against his aching prostate and oozes a long sticky spurt, shaking and moaning, while the Hill Worker comes in four shaky spurts from his short and thick cut dick inside his boyfriend’s hungry ass. Watching the window of his mom’s bedroom light up, they quickly move into a deeper shadow and kiss there, rubbing their now small hairy dicks, the buckles of their pants clanging softly at their ankles…
By the plaza, under jacarandas, strides The Ambitious Clerk, white shirt sharp against the bright day, shoes polished like a man determined not to be left behind. He looks every bit the student of order and ambition, but there’s a catch in his movements, as if he carries something he doesn’t want the world to read. I picture him in cafés, his voice cutting through cigarette smoke, then softening only when his phone lights up with words meant just for him. Watching him, I want to be that message—short, insistent, impossible to ignore. His stride is practiced, but I can’t help wondering how it falters when someone finally sees him without the armor.
…In the evening he jerks off hungrily, listening to his girlfriend’s soft moans in his old phone. She whispers sweet words of passion and he taps his fingers on his frenulum, then slides a loose fist up and down his shaft, thinking about her pussy. He spits into the fist and clamps the straining cock tighter, imagining it’s her, straining on top of him, jumping up and down, landing on his balls so heavily they hurt in a pleasant way… She comes when she stops breathing for five long seconds before uttering a series of short “Ah, ah, ah”s with passionate whimpers in between. Since this is his third cumshot of the day, he oozes just one itchy drop of cum but shakes and writhes on the bed in a long orgasm that he actually likes more than the fountain cumshot of the morning in the shower…
Near the market stalls, I catch The Street Musician, perched with a battered guitar across his lap. His sweater is stretched thin, his jeans torn, but he glows, as if music has rewoven him into something lighter than his own clothes. Even through the taxi glass, I imagine his voice spilling into the street, raw, magnetic. At night, he probably shares a cramped room, cheap wine, and a bed with his drunk artists of a girlfriend, whose paint-stained fingers tug at his t-shirt in the middle of the night. But when he lifts his eyes from the strings, there’s a hunger that isn’t for her. It lands on me, even from a distance, and I feel a sudden pull to step out, cross the street, and stand close enough to hear if the song is mine.
… In the evening she’ll be drunk, and he’ll send her to hell with her advances, but will soon give up as his dick, pale, long, with a bright pink cut glans, falls into the abyss of her mouth. When she licks his balls, from the perineum up to the base of his dick, he feels like okay, for this sharp pleasure he can let her come to his house every day, drunk and smelling of cigarettes. Instead of fucking her, he loves this slow torturous sucking, and her arm, massaging her clit wildly, sometimes hits his leg… He comes in her mouth, and is gratified when she nearly chokes on four? five? spurts of thick come… Then she shakes briefly and he can feel her teeth and yelps “Careful, bitch!” and she laughs…
When I finally arrive and step into the lobby, The Reception Guy greets me with a practiced smile that doesn’t quite hide the softness behind it. His tie is a little loose, his hair brushed back but with a single lock rebelling at his temple, and his voice carries the kind of patience that can’t be faked. He types my name into the system with care, as if the act itself deserves attention. I imagine him living alone in a quiet apartment not far from here, filling the evenings with books and messages from someone he’s never met—maybe a man he speaks to online, their conversations stretching into the small hours, full of hesitant dreams. And as he hands me my room key, I feel the small jolt of recognition: a part of him is searching too, though he hides it behind that professional calm.
…At three a.m. he rubs his dick, your standard 14 cm piece of perfect male equipment, on his propped up pillow, listening to the pre-recorded message of his boyfriend jerking off and telling him in very stable whisper of a stoic TV presenter before he leaves to go to the evening shift of his TV station. He lets the splats of his come be heard in the mic of his phone, and that’s what drives our Hotel Receptionist over the edge. They will soon meet in person over the weekend, for the first time in more than eight months, and will spend the first 24 hours making love non-stop in twenty different ways…
***
My hotel room in Guanajuato felt quiet and intimate in the early morning light. I carried only a single bag with a change of clothes and my oversized laptop case. The walls of the room were painted a soft terracotta, warm but muted, and the sunlight filtered gently through sheer curtains. The bed dominated the space—a queen-sized mattress dressed in crisp white linens, flanked by small nightstands, each with a simple lamp. A narrow desk sat beneath the window, polished smooth and almost bare, except for a small lamp with a cream-colored shade and a neatly stacked hotel notepad. Across from it, a deep leather armchair rested beside a low ottoman, the leather slightly worn and soft to the touch, inviting me to sit while I worked. A tall mirror leaned against the far wall, reflecting the city light and making the room feel larger, while a small wardrobe held extra hangers and a neatly folded blanket. The carpet was thick and muted gray, muffling the faint sounds of traffic from the street below, and the air smelled faintly of linen and sunlight.
I set my laptop bag down and dropped my small travel bag onto the armchair. I pulled out my iPhone and opened my notes, scrolling through all my questions for Alejandro. I adjusted the screen brightness so it wouldn’t glare in the morning light, and tapped thoughtfully through the order of the questions, imagining his answers and the rhythm of our conversation.
I leaned back in the armchair, letting my shoulders sink into the leather, and let the quiet of the room settle around me. The bed looked inviting, its white sheets perfectly smooth, but I ignored it for now, focused on the task at hand. Sunlight warmed the terracotta walls just enough to make the space feel cozy but alert. I ran my fingers over the smooth desk, glanced at the neat stack of hotel stationery, and felt that calm focus that comes before a first meeting. Outside, the city began to stir, but inside, I had a small bubble of stillness, all mine, ready to carry me through the interview ahead.
***
I came downstairs in a glass elevator, stepped into the lobby and spotted Alejandro almost immediately. He stood by the reception desk, casual but alert, leaning slightly on one leg as if he belonged to both the hotel and somewhere far beyond it at the same time. His dark hair caught the morning light, and his eyes—warm, sharp, and curious—lifted toward me as I approached. I felt a flicker of recognition from the photos I’d studied, but nothing prepared me for the presence he carried in person.
“Hola, Augie,” he said, extending a hand with an easy confidence. His smile was quick, not rehearsed, and there was a faint trace of mischief in the way he held my gaze. I shook his hand, firm but relaxed, and I noticed the subtle rhythm of his movements—fluid, precise, like someone used to performing or moving with intent.
“Buenos días, Alejandro,” I said, and for a moment we just looked at each other, measuring the space between the person I had imagined from pictures and the one standing in front of me. Then he gestured toward the street. “Shall we? And it’s just Alejo, please.”
We stepped out into the morning light. He walked with a light spring in his step, the kind that suggested both energy and patience, a rhythm I found immediately engaging. I matched his pace, my trusty phone with the recorder already on, dangling around my neck. The way he glanced at the city around him showed me that he had memorized every alley, every color, every curve of the hillsides. My first impression was a mix of admiration and curiosity: Alejo seemed both approachable and elusive, down-to-earth yet full of stories I could already tell would take hours to uncover.
***
For the formal interview, we settled into a small courtyard behind a café near the Juárez Theater, the sun just high enough to warm the stones without glaring. I opened my iPhone, scrolling through my questions one last time, while Alejo leaned back in his chair, legs crossed casually, a faint smile playing on his lips.
asked about his childhood first, curious how a boy from Guanajuato found his way to ballet. He spoke openly, recalling afternoons spent running through narrow alleys, pretending the cobblestones were stage floors, and how his parents had encouraged him to follow any path that made him happy.
He remembered the riot of colors during festival days, when music spilled from every plaza and dancers filled the streets with swirling skirts, stamping feet, and laughter—scenes that lit something inside him. He told me how, as a child, he used to balance on low stone walls or climb onto rooftops, holding his arms out as if he were already mid-performance, testing how his body could shape the air. His father bought him his first pair of worn-out practice shoes from a market stall, and his mother stitched together makeshift costumes so he could feel, even at home, that he was part of a larger story.
The turning point came when he was about nine. Until then, dancing had been play—festivals in the streets, mock performances staged for his cousins in the courtyard, the clatter of his heels on stone steps. But one afternoon, after noticing how he couldn’t stop moving whenever music played, his parents enrolled him in a small community ballet class at the Casa de la Cultura. The studio was nothing grand—just a sunlit room with scuffed floors, high windows, and an old upright piano—but for him it felt like stepping into a cathedral. He remembered the smell of resin, the way the teacher corrected his posture with gentle firmness, and the revelation that his restless energy could be shaped into something precise, disciplined, and beautiful. That first class, he told me, felt like both a homecoming and a challenge, the moment he realized this wasn’t just play anymore—it was a path.
He told me that after three years at the Casa de la Cultura, his teacher quietly pulled his parents aside and said, “This boy needs more than we can give him here.” By then he was twelve, already stretching taller, already leaping higher than the older boys, and clearly restless in the small studio. His parents made sacrifices to send him to León, the nearest city with a proper ballet academy. The commute was long—over an hour each way by bus—but he never complained. He remembered reading his homework under flickering bus lights, then stepping off to the academy where teachers demanded more polish, more discipline, and gave him his first taste of real competition.
From León he was recommended for a summer intensive in Mexico City, where visiting instructors from Europe and the United States first noticed him. One of them, a Russian teacher with stern eyes but a surprising kindness, pushed him to audition abroad. At sixteen, he won a scholarship to study in Madrid. That was the real leap. Suddenly, he was in studios where the air smelled of chalked rosin and history, where every correction mattered, where failure was constant but so was the thrill of improvement. From Madrid he moved to Paris for a short stint, then back to Mexico City to dance professionally with the national company. His career gathered pace after that: guest performances in South America, then tours in Europe, until critics began to write of him as one of Mexico’s most promising male dancers.
He leaned back when I asked him about the future, and his eyes softened, as if the thought itself gave him both hope and weight. He admitted that yes, one day he wanted his own place—not a theater, he corrected himself quickly with a little smile, but a club. A place where children who came from narrow alleys like his, with little more than restless energy and big imaginations, could step onto a wooden floor and feel the same discovery he once had. He spoke of wanting to strip ballet of its intimidating airs, make it less about perfect lines and more about the joy of movement, the kind that could heal and empower.
He went further, explaining that one of his private dreams was to simplify the way choreography was written down. Not every child could afford hours of daily rehearsal or a tutor to drill them; many would come only once or twice a week. If he could create a way of capturing dances so they read almost like a story—clear, visual, memorable—then children could take that home, study it, keep the fabric of the dance alive in their bodies. His voice carried both excitement and frustration, as if he knew how far the idea still was from reality, but he clearly believed it possible.
Still, he wasn’t ready to give up the stage just yet. “I need five, maybe ten more years,” he said firmly, “to make money, to feel the rush, to know I’ve given everything to performing.” Touring was still in his blood—the ovations, the lights, the silence before the leap—and he spoke of it not with vanity but with hunger. Only after he had burned that fire down would he return fully to the children, ready to open doors that had once been shut tight to him.
After my questions were answered, Alejo led me to a small but impeccable restaurant tucked into a quiet street, walls painted a deep teal and shaded with trailing bougainvillea. I paid for the meal from my magazine’s account, and we sat beneath a pergola, the air fragrant with citrus blossoms and sizzling dishes from the kitchen. We started with fresh ceviche, tangy lime and chili cutting through the richness of the fresh fragrant fish, followed by tamales wrapped in banana leaves, and then grilled pork in a smoky adobo sauce, served with sweet corn and roasted peppers.
Alejo’s posture softened as he ate, shoulders loosening, the trace of tension from the morning evaporating. I noticed the way he laughed easily now, dipping a tortilla into a small bowl of salsa as he told me a story about rehearsals gone hilariously wrong, luggage mishaps and a strange roommate in one of the hotels who walked around the room naked and teased him but he didn’t dare… I savored every bite and watched him relax, seeing a side of him that only the comfort of good food and a sunlit terrace could coax out—a mix of charm, warmth, and quiet joy.
In the afternoon Alejo drove me to the outskirts of the city, where a modest building stood amidst flowering gardens. Here, he had started a small ballet club for children. Inside, the space smelled faintly of resin and polished wood, the walls were lined with mirrors and a few colorful posters of famous dancers. Boys and girls tumbled across the floor, laughing and stretching, learning how to move with fun rather than pressure. Alejo introduced me to his sister, who managed day-to-day operations with brisk efficiency and a warm smile. She poured tea for everyone, and told me that the club was not only for ballet or dance: it was a place for tea, board games, painting, and gardening in the small orchard outside.
Alejo said, with twinkling eyes, that movement helped the children in countless ways—increasing their confidence, improving coordination, and boosting creativity—and how the club gave them a safe space to explore themselves. Parents joined in whenever they could, chopping vegetables for snacks, repairing ballet shoes, or helping with outdoor activities. Alejo’s pride was evident in everything we saw there. The club was more than just for dancing—it was community, care, and joy in motion, and I felt lucky to witness it firsthand.
… When Alejo drove me back to the hotel, the streets of Guanajuato slid past the car in a blur of evening light and colorful facades. We talked quietly about the dummy of the interview as we drove on—he asked questions about what it included, and I explained that it had the transcribed text, the photos I had taken of him throughout the day, and the AI-selected color palette that mirrored the warm tones of the city and the glow of the stage lights. “Would you like to see it on a big screen?” I suggested. “You can come upstairs for a few minutes, if you like.” The swiftness with which he agreed, made my heart jump.
When we arrived, Alejo handed the keys to the valet and let him park the car. “Show the way,” he said, a small smile on his face, still carrying that easy confidence that made him seem both gentle and in control.
In the room, I let Alejo settle at the desk and opened the dummy project for him to explore, while I sank into a comfy armchair nearby. The dummy opened like a living scrapbook: some older images of him caught mid-leap, in the calm of warm-up stretches, photos from behind the stage curtain, from the rehearsal hall bathed in soft gold light, and from performances under cold, dramatic stage lighting. Then came the pictures of the day: him in the garden, talking with a thoughtful gaze; him at the restaurant, raising a glass, him in his club, describing something to me with the eyes burning bright. The AI had chosen a palette that blended sunset oranges, deep mahogany, and soft creams, echoing both the energy of his movements and the warmth of his personality.
He moved through the pages slowly, touching the screen lightly, eyes widening at moments he recognized, and then at ones he hadn’t seen of himself. His lips pressed together, and I could see his throat tighten. “I… I don’t usually see myself like this,” he said, voice quiet and raw. “Sometimes with the children, with my partners on stage… I lose patience. I raise my voice. I forget.”
He drew in a shaky breath, looking down at the photos of himself laughing with the students, guiding them gently, and then back at the text of the interview, his achievements and reflections laid bare. “But… seeing this, seeing the care you’ve taken… I swear,” he said, voice firmer now, “I will never let it happen again. Not with the children. Not with anyone. I’ll try to match your kindness.”
I watched him lean back, fingers lingering on the edge of the desk as if holding onto the moment, and I felt the weight of the day ease into something gentler. The room, filled with the soft glow of evening light through the curtains, seemed to hum with a quiet warmth, the images and palette reflecting both his life and the care with which I had tried to capture it.
Then Alejo closed the screen, stood, sat in my lap and kissed me without warning. The article slipped from my mind; hunger took its place. I tasted lime and adrenaline while his fingers fought my buttons. We shed shirts, belts, the day itself, letting fabric pool like shed inhibitions. When we were naked, our erections flapping up and down, ready for more, I pressed him close to me, he exhaled a single word—please—and the last of his defense cracked.
He stretched across my lap, his short thick log of a cock sliding hot along my thigh, and whispered, “Punish me for not being patient… Spank me—as hard as you can, please, please…”
… Without overthinking, I lifted my hand and brought it down; the crack echoed, white spots bloomed on his skin, and he ground against me with a broken moan. Each slap pushed him higher, his hips rolling, breath hitching, until the room smelled only of sweat and need.
I had never struck anyone in my life; the first contact stung my palm more than his flesh. Yet the moment skin met skin I felt the quiver that ran through him, a violin-string vibration that told me he craved the next blow.
I kept my rhythm slow—slap, pause, caress—while his cock slid along my thigh, leaving slick tracks that cooled in the air. My own erection pressed upward against his hip, trapped between our bodies, pulsing in time with his quiet moans. Each time my hand landed he pushed back, grinding harder, the friction sending sparks up my spine. His breathing steadied into a soft chant: inhale, exhale, a tiny whimper on the exhale, as if pain and relief were the same note played on different strings. The room shrank to the hot stripe of his shaft against my leg, the tremor in his thighs, and the faint salt scent of precum rising between us.
I closed my eyes for a second and saw the YouTube video—Alejo soaring through Don Quixote, all bright costume and stage smile. Now he was bare across my knees: the same man, yet distilled to olive skin, narrow hips, that broad shorter log of a cock jutting like a dark exclamation mark, balls loose and cool against my inner thigh. His ass was small, almost boyish, but above it the dancer’s back flared into strong cords of muscle and those powerful thighs that could launch him into a perfect double tour. I let my palm rest on the heat I’d raised, feeling the faint throb of blood beneath the blush, then slid a bit forward so our erections pressed side-by-side.
Our foreskins nudged and rolled—mine peeled back with a sting that sharpened the pleasure—while his shaft slid along mine, slick crowns kissing on every up-stroke. The quiet room filled with small wet sounds and Alejo’s muffled gasps, nothing like the orchestral swell of a theater; this was a private pas de deux scored only by skin and breath.
I lifted my hand and brought it down harder, the crack sharp against his already-warmed skin. Immediately I soothed the spot with my palm, tracing slow gentle caresses over the rise of his ass and down the small of his back, feeling the heat bloom under my touch. Alejo’s breath broke into a ragged moan; his toes curled against the carpet, feet moving restlessly.
The muscles in his calves and thighs fluttered and tightened, his whole body coiling like a spring. He started to rock faster, sliding his cock along my thigh in short, frantic strokes, the head bumping my hipbone on every pass. A thin sheen of sweat gathered between us, making each glide slick and urgent. I matched his rhythm—slap, caress, slap—until his moans climbed higher, raw and unguarded, the room shrinking to nothing but the heat of his skin and the desperate roll of his hips.
A hot wire of pleasure climbed my spine and pooled behind my navel, pulsing in steady waves that made my stomach muscles flutter. My balls drew up tight against my body, the skin there tingling and electric; higher, a sharp sweet itch started up the length of my cock, gathering like a storm behind the head. Alejo’s voice cracked—“yes, Augie, please, more, more”—and each word shot straight through me. I gripped his hips, slowing his frantic slide, allowing just short, controlled strokes that rubbed the sensitive underside of my crown against his slick thigh. The itch sharpened, almost painful, but I held us there, teetering on the edge, letting the pressure build until my breath came in shallow gasps and the room narrowed to the throb beneath my skin.
Soon Alejo’s grunts turned to short, guttural growls; he rolled left and right across my lap, and I felt every inch of his rigid cock slide against me, the smooth base and the soft, almost-shaven skin above it prickling with faint stubble. Each shift dragged that stubble over my shaft, the tiny bristles catching my frenulum in a bright, itchy-sweet spark that made my thighs tense. My hand kept falling—lighter now, trembling—spank, spank, the sound muffled, more a pat than a slap, yet Alejo jerked every time, his breath hitching between growls. The itch behind my cock head now sharpened, a sweet needle-like sensation threading up my urethra, and I held him steady, letting his rocking body rub that single spot again and again while my palm fluttered against the heat of his ass.
A low growl tore out of him; his whole frame convulsed so hard I had to wrap an arm around his waist to keep him from sliding off. Three hot pulses slapped against my thigh, each one longer and wetter, his come stretching in thin ropes on my skin. The sight of him shaking and moaning across my lap shattered the last of my control; a sweet, maddening itch raced up my shaft and burst into short, sharp spurts that left me hoarse, my cry muffled against his shoulder while I clutched his trembling body as I almost folded in half over him and let the aftershocks roll through us both.
… I held his slack weight against me while the aftershocks rippled—little quakes that made us both swear under our breath, the come cooling and slick between our thighs and bellies. Every tiny tremor sent a last spark through my spent cock, and I realized I’d never imagined simple skin-on-skin frottage could feel this complete. Alejo turned on his side to face me, and his head lolled on my shoulder, his breath ragged against my neck, and we stayed like that, shaking and grinning and cursing softly, until the room stopped spinning.
… Under the hot spray I finally saw him upright—he stood a clear three inches taller than me, shoulders broad from lifting ballerinas. His cock, soft now, was a short, thick barrel, foreskin so thin it barely hooded one-third of a pale ten head; below hung a ballsack heavy and loose, water beading on the skin. I pulled him close, water splashing around us, and he laughed into my neck, muttering apologies, thank-yous and short laughs, eyes darting anywhere but my face. I kissed the apology away; the laughter steadied into slow breaths, and for a moment the confident city guide, the wild frotting animal, and the gentle giant next to me in the shower all lived in the same wet embrace.
***
Before we parted, I looked at him. “Alejo,” I said, “you are a wonderful man. As much as you criticize yourself, as much as you punish yourself for having little patience sometimes, you should be proud—proud of your performances, proud of this club, proud of everything you’ve built.”
He looked down at me for a moment, his lips twitching in a small, uncertain smile, then nodded. “Thank you,” he said softly, the weight of the day and his own self-reproach lifting just a fraction.
Later, downstairs in the lobby, I watched him move toward the exit with a quiet grace. We embraced warmly, and his arms felt powerful and strong around me. I felt him hold on just a little longer, and when he pulled back, his gaze lingered—now soft, tender, and direct. It pierced right through, full of honesty and a quiet gratitude that I didn’t need words to understand. I let him go at last, and he walked away, leaving behind the lingering warmth of someone who had finally allowed himself to feel seen.
***
By the time I heard from Alejo again, the article had already gone viral—three million views in less than a week. Two sponsors came forward to support the club, and the construction of a separate facility was soon underway. Alejo didn’t find it out from me; he was too busy with tours and performances. Instead, his sister called, laughing through the phone as she described the new two-story building rising just outside the city.
A little while later, a package arrived for me through a mutual friend in London. Inside lay a gold bracelet, delicate and simple, with “Calm and Patience” engraved on it. I held it in my hand and smiled, thinking about Alejo—how he now carried authority without harshness, how he balanced discipline with joy, and how much good he quietly did in the world. The bracelet felt like a small, shining echo of all of that…
