The Fiesta de la Vendimia in Spain is a lively celebration of the grape harvest, held in wine regions like La Rioja and Jerez. The festival features grape stomping, wine tastings, and parades, along with folk dances, music, and the crowning of the Harvest Queen. As bodegas open their doors to visitors, wine flows freely, making the event a joyful tribute to Spain’s winemaking heritage.
I was invited by Jorge, a 28-year-old nightclub singer from Spain. We met in my Persuasion and Public Speaking class, where he gave a presentation on the rhetorical power of live performance in intimate venues. When he responded to my email about festival study opportunities during my sabbatical, he invited me to La Rioja, where, he said, I could fully experience the Fiesta de la Vendimia—grape harvest celebrations filled with music, dance, and the traditional barefoot grape-stomping.
Jorge and I met in the morning at my hotel. He greeted me with a warm handshake and a smile that suggested he was already looking forward to the day ahead. He was wearing his usual style—tighter jeans, a simple shirt, and a lightweight jacket that showed off his lean frame. He made a few jokes about the heat and the festivals I’d surely be covering, which was a playful reminder of our past exchanges back in the classroom. Then he led me to the heart of the Vendimia Festival, a celebration of the harvest and the art of winemaking, that drew thousands each year to the town of Haro in La Rioja.
Our first stop was at a local artisans’ market that sprawled along the cobblestone streets. It was a maze of color and life, with stalls offering everything from handmade jewelry to fresh produce and vibrant textiles. We spent a little time there, picking out a few things for the day. Jorge bought a hand-carved wooden wine cork that, he promised, would add a touch of tradition to his collection. I, on the other hand, picked up a delicate ceramic jug painted with the rich colors of the harvest, a perfect memento of the festival for me as a bottomless tea drinker. We also stopped to sample a few sweet pastries from a stand where an elderly woman with a radiant smile offered us small almond cakes that melted in our mouths. I couldn’t resist buying a bag to snack on later.
Nearby, a local artist was painting colorful scenes of the festival in real-time—his brush danced across the canvas, capturing the bustling atmosphere of the market. His paintings were being sold as fast as he could finish them, and I noticed several tourists were eager to get one.
Next, we made our way through the bustling festival grounds, moving toward the first of the day's events—the traditional barrel rolling race.
The race was set up on a long stretch of cobbled street, where dozens of competitors—mostly local men—lined up to push empty barrels through a course marked by flags and checkered lines. The goal was to roll the heavy barrels from one end of the course to the other without losing control, navigating sharp turns and avoiding any mishaps that could cause the barrel to topple. Jorge explained that it was an age-old tradition—one that tested strength, agility, and control.
As he spoke, we watched a pair of brothers, both tall and muscular, expertly maneuvering their barrels, their faces tight with concentration. Nearby, an elderly man, clearly older than the other competitors, made his way to the starting line, his barrel wobbling with every step. He was cheered on by a group of teenagers who were betting on him, despite his clear disadvantage. As the race unfolded, a number of barrels toppled over, and the crowd laughed, clapping and shouting with good-natured excitement. The young men cheered for their favorites, while older spectators exchanged knowing smiles, as if they’d seen it all before. The elderly man’s barrel wobbled just past the finish line, and he raised his arms in triumph, his victory bringing a fresh round of applause from the crowd.
Afterward, Jorge suggested we go to a wine tasting session in the underground caves of a local vineyard. The cool, damp air inside the caves was a welcome relief from the hot sun. We were led down a narrow stone staircase into a vast, dimly lit space lined with rows of wooden wine barrels. The guide, a woman with sharp eyes and a warm smile, explained the history of the vineyard and the delicate art of winemaking. We tasted five different wines, each one unique and rich in flavor. First came a crisp white wine, light and zesty, with hints of citrus and green apple. Next, we sampled a smooth rosé, its subtle berry notes lingering on the tongue. The third wine was a bold red, full of deep cherry flavors with a spicy finish. A local Tempranillo followed, its complexity revealing layers of dark plum and oak, and finally we ended with a dessert wine that was rich and sweet, almost syrupy with notes of honey and fig. The wine’s sweetness made us feel like we were drinking pure sunlight. Jorge and I agreed to purchase a bottle of the Tempranillo for the evening, the perfect way to remember the day. We shared a few more thoughts on the differences in taste, enjoying the peacefulness of the cave, with only the sound of corks being pulled and wine being poured filling the air.
After the wine tasting, we joined the crowd for the grand parade that marked the heart of the Vendimia Festival. The street was alive with vibrant colors as dancers, musicians, and giant puppets made their way through the town square. One puppet, a towering figure of a grape harvester, was dressed in tattered but colorful clothes, with hands outstretched as if inviting the crowd to join in the festivities. Its weathered face, adorned with a wide grin, I am sure, symbolized the joy of the harvest season. Another puppet, a regal woman in a long velvet gown, moved with a stately elegance, her arms sweeping gracefully through the air as though she were leading the entire parade. Her elaborate crown sparkled under the sun, and her eyes, painted in shades of deep green and gold, glimmered as if she were gazing at something beyond the crowd. A third puppet, a mischievous jester with a painted smile and exaggerated, angular limbs, skipped along beside the others, its bell-covered shoes ringing with each step. It brought a light-hearted energy to the procession, bobbing its oversized head comically as it made playful gestures at the audience. There were dozens of other puppets in the parade, each one more striking than the last—some giants with spindly legs and some dolls in intricately decorated costumes, their faces frozen in expressions of joy, wisdom, or mischief. The music from a brass band mixed with the rhythm of drums, and the dancers swirled around the puppets in time with the beat, their colorful skirts flying through the air.
By the time the parade wrapped up, the sun was starting to dip low, casting a warm glow over the festival grounds. Jorge took me to a local restaurant for a sumptuous Spanish feast. We sat at a long wooden table, hungrily inhaling the mouthwatering aroma of grilled meats and roasted vegetables. Platters of paella and lamb chops were served, along with rich cheeses such as Manchego and Cabrales, and freshly baked bread. The cheese was sharp, its creamy texture was perfect for the wine we had bought. Jorge explained that this particular restaurant had a history of serving regional delicacies during the festival, and we could taste the passion and pride in each dish. Between bites, we discussed everything from music to the impact of local traditions on modern culture, remembering with fondness our experiences back at my alma mater.
One memory that I shared was the Student Spring festival at our university, where students performed various songs, skits and acts on the topic of spring and love. Our Spanish exchange student Jorge charmed all the girls in the audience with what he said was a “serenade men would sing under the window of their loved ones, holding a rose in their hands.” The rest of the semester the entire university was singing – in broken Spanish! – the simple lines that translated as follows:
Beneath your window, my soul sighs,
the moon bears witness to my great passion.
The stars sing sweet melodies,
and with each chord, I give you my love.
Your eyes shine like the clear dawn,
your laughter is the song I long to hear.
If you let me steal a glance from you,
I will be a prisoner of your sweet love.
After the feast, Jorge took me to the Ebro River to go stargazing, not on a hill but on a small boat. We floated gently down the river, the only sound being the soft lapping of water against the hull. The night was cool and bright. We drifted past a few other boats, and heard the sound of other groups of festivalgoers singing love songs to the sound of guitars, their voices carrying across the water and the shore. The atmosphere was full of warmth and shared joy.
I leaned over and asked, “Jorge, would you sing our song with them?” His eyes twinkled and he smiled, already humming the tune. It seemed like the other boats stopped singing when Jorge stood up and, with his clear and powerful baritone, started the song I immediately remembered: “Bach a too went Ana, me alma zoos peer…”
As we sat there, the stars twinkling overhead, I realized how much this festival, this day spent with Jorge, reflected the warmth and the timeless union of this land, its people, and the music—experiences that felt as timeless as the harvest season itself.
My Takeaways
The rolling barrels, the puppet parade and the incredible paella I tried at this event still keep coming to me in my dreams. I found Spanish people very courteous, incredibly beautiful and touchy on the inside and the outside, and relished their incredible hospitality. I also enjoyed the sheer joy of their festival, during which they never lost the dignity of their centuries-old civilization!
An evening with Jorge
Ah, Serenading!
Ah, serenading! Listening to a man singing a love song for you is so breathtaking. When I hear a serenade, I make a mental picture of how the man under my window is already horny and wanting to engage with me, and that alone, fantasizing about his yet invisible erection and how he would feel in bed, makes my skin crawl with pleasure.
Remember Jorge, my Spanish student who invited me to the Fiesta de la Vindimia, and treated me to a day of festival fun in the city of Haro? Remember that we ended the day by serenading with other partiers on the night river? At 1 a.m. he delivered me to my hotel, and vanished in the night, promising to return tomorrow to take me to the airport.
At 3 a.m., however, I found myself being fucked by Jorge on the sofa in my hotel room, with the rose that he gave me when he climbed into my window at 2 a.m. lying on the floor. His thin but powerful body thrusted me deep and strong, and he kept humming in my ear the serenade I had asked him to sing for me at the river…
… It all started when I leaned out of the hotel window, drawn by the sound of a familiar voice rising from the street below. It was him—Jorge—singing “our” song in his rich, excitedly trembling baritone. His dark hair caught the moonlight, and his silhouette swayed as he strummed an invisible guitar, crooning my favorite Spanish love song which I couldn’t quite translate but could comically imitate in Pidgeon Spanish. Then, with a grin I could see even from three stories up, he began to climb the trellis beneath my window, agile as a cat.
That meant one thing: I was being serenaded, and he was climbing up to have sex!
I stepped back, heart pounding, as he swung his leg over the sill and landed lightly in my room. He dropped to one knee, holding out a single red rose he’d clutched between his teeth during the climb. “For you, Professor,” he said, his accent thicker than usual.
I took the rose, my fingers brushing his, and as he rose to his feet, I couldn’t help but notice the bulge in his soft linen trousers—his half-erect penis that I had long longed for, pressing against the soft fabric, which promised a fantastic evening to my hungry ass.
We stood there for a moment before he stepped closer. Our lips met in a deep, hungry kiss, tongues tangling, the taste of cognac and tobacco on his breath filling my mouth. His tongue pressed on, and overcame, mine, and I had to catch my breath from the horniness that rose in me.
I tugged at his shirt, fumbling with the buttons, while he hummed a faint tune—some fragment of his serenade—against my mouth. My fingers found his belt buckle, trembling as I worked it loose, brushing past the hardness lying sideways in his thin white underwear. He groaned softly, pulling my shirt over my head, and his strong hands grazed my chest as we stripped each other bare, piece by piece, until we stood there naked, breathless, and exposed.
I stepped back, my eyes dropping to his cock for the first time, and my breath caught. It hung there, thick and heavy, the head a swollen, dusky pink peeking out from a loose foreskin that slid back slightly as he hardened under my gaze. The shaft was smooth and curving faintly upward, thickening toward the base where a dark, wiry patch of trimmed pubis framed it. His smallish balls hung low, full and slightly asymmetrical, the hairy ballsack skin tightening as his arousal grew, pulling them closer to his body. I watched, mesmerized, as his dick twitched and stiffened fully, the foreskin retracting further to reveal the dry pink tip that was already starting to ooze precum.
He pulled me close again, and we started with a slow, swaying dance—our cocks brushing together, hot and hard, sending jolts through me with every touch or slap. Then he guided my hand to his cock, urging me to stroke him as he mirrored the motion on me, our rhythms syncing until we were both panting. Finally, he turned me around, pressing himself against my back, and slid his dick between my thighs—not entering, just grinding there, slick with sweat and precum, until I begged him to take me.
Then he guided me to the bed with a tender firmness, and his hands felt warm and steady on my hips. He eased me down onto the soft, rumpled sheets. He positioned me on my side, my body curling naturally into the curve of the mattress, one leg bent slightly forward to open myself to him. The air felt charged, heavy with the scent of our sweat and the faint floral trace of the rose he’d brought. He knelt behind me, his breath uneven, hoarse, hissing, as he aligned himself. His cock pressed against me, the slick head nudging my pleasantly aching asshole, and then he pushed in—slowly, so slowly—his slim dick stretching me with a gentle burn that made my toes curl. I could feel every inch of him as his long smooth shaft slid deeper, the foreskin fully retracted now, his pubis brushing my skin as he pushed himself fully inside me.
His first thrusts were slow, as if set to a measured rhythm like the beat of a slow flamenco—each thrust like a careful exploration, his hips rolled forward with a quiet slap against my ass. I gripped the sheets, my knuckles whitening, and his hands started roaming my body—one splaying across my chest to steady me, the other gripping my thigh to pull me closer. His breathing grew ragged, with little gasps escaping him, and then, out of nowhere, a moan broke free—a high-pitched, keening sound that seemed to surprise him as much as it did me. His eyes widened for a split second, a flush creeping up his neck, before a grin flickered across his face, and the tempo shifted. The restraint melted away; his hips snapped harder, faster, the wet, rhythmic smack of skin on skin filling the room. Each thrust drove deeper, the angle and the curve being just perfect, grazing that spot inside me that sent shivers racing up my spine.
The sweet pleasure ignited in my core, the molten knot winding tighter with every push, my own cock throbbing against my stomach as I teetered on the edge of orgasm, trying not to let it hit, wishing for this pleasant heat and the friction of him moving inside me to continue at least for a while more.
My orgasm finally welled suddenly like a storm—first there was some pressure mounting in my balls, then a spark of tingling heat spread up my shaft until I couldn’t hold it back. I came hard, my cock pulsing in my hand as three invisible spurts shot across the sheets. The shaking pleasure left me dizzy and gasping.
Jorge felt me cumming, I am sure because he stopped and let me shake out the orgasm that made me moan outloud. When it released me, Jorge pulled out, flipped over me in a gymnast’s arc, and landed in front of me with the hand holding tight for foreskin pocket on his now rock-hard blood-gorged dick. As soon as he let the foreskin go and it peeled back, his liquid semen sprayed across my face in several thin, warm salty streaks. It was obviously the light load of a man who’d already cummed once or twice. Then he slapped my cheek playfully with his softening dick, the hot, wet weight of it smearing the liquidy cum on my slightly unshaven cheek.
… And then we collapsed together, laughing softly, the tension melting away into a warm, languid haze. He sprawled beside me, one arm flung over my chest, his breathing slowing as he traced lazy circles on my skin with his fingertips, his somewhat long finger nails grazing slightly my sweat-damp flesh. I turned my head to kiss his shoulder, tasting the salt and musk of him, and my lips lingered there until our pulses steadied.
Then, with a playful glint in his eye, Jorge propped himself up on one elbow, gazing down at me, and began to sing—his voice low and husky now, and I recognized the words of an old English love song, “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” “Wise men say, only fools rush in,” he crooned, his accent softening the edges of the lyrics, “but I can’t help falling in love with you.” At that moment I felt like I heard the orchestra playing the tune outside, and there was a lot of tenderness in me at that moment for an incredible guy who, I was completely sure now, fucked me so that I wouldn’t have a lonely night, that’s it, that’s it. Aha.
Soon we slept.
My Takeaways
Serenading is so fucking hot. Not the singing in general, I could care the fuck less about romantic expression, and all that other bullshit; it is the knowledge that the man under the window is singing for you, and that he is thinking of how he will fuck you – right now, still invisible to you. Serenading is even hotter when a guy is fucking you, his dick sliding in and out, and he is humming the melody into the most sensitive spot on your neck, making you scream in pleasant agony.
The end of the story was simple: it was a one night stand of a conqueror guy who could easily find a dozen asses a night to fuck. He was just doing it for me because he caught my eye, because he heard me right when I asked him for a serenade on the boat. In the morning he was polite but distant, and refused my advances in the shower we took together. We kissed gently and rubbed dicks for just a second at the airport. Now he sometimes lazily answers my FB messages, like three or four times a year.
