Galician Guitar

He spoke better English than I spoke Spanish, so that’s what we spoke. I was impressed that although he had all of the rugged looks of a farm laborer—belied as they were by the sensitive way he stroked his guitar strings—he spoke so many languages, as he had demonstrated by singing in Spanish and Galician as well as Celtic and English. And I was nonplused that we did talk, sitting there side by side on the hotel bed, sipping whiskey, and talking about Spain and music and his impressions of the States, when we both knew what we were working up to, especially since he settled that off the top.

“Ralph told me he knows you from some sort of gay men’s choir—that you both go with men.”

“That’s right,” I answered. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“No, not in the least. I find you very attractive. Ralph tells me that you are very well equipped, as well.”

“Does he now?”

“He says you are a top.”