The events in these stories took place about 18 years ago. All of the people depicted were in their early twenties at the time. The stories are in chronological order and all of the characters are introduced and described in this first installment.
I wrote about these experiences in my journal at the time and for these stories I have fleshed out what I think are the best journal entries with dialogue and other details to the best of my memory. For the most part, I haven't tried to reproduce the different accents, the degree that conversations were not just in English, or that the English of the non-native speakers diverged from standard American speech. I thought this would distract from the narrative flow and potentially make stereotypical caricatures out of the individuals I wrote about.
Kiraz and Vesna
My name is Claude. I'm from Seattle and was named after a French grandfather. After I finished my undergraduate art degree in San Francisco, I was accepted into a one-year masters program in the visual arts in Barcelona.
I already spoke Spanish reasonably well after 4 years of classes and a summer program in Mexico. I felt that I could keep up with coursework in Spain. Then I learned that Barcelona is the capital of the Catalan speaking world and that some instruction would be in Catalan, as would be many aspects of local life.
The Catalan language has about 7 million speakers, and while one could get by without it, as all Catalan speakers also speak Spanish, (or what they point out is properly called Castilian since there are multiple languages native to Spain) that I would be missing out on about half of what was going on if I didn't at least understand and read basic Catalan. I found an intensive summer program in Catalan prior to the start of my program and, after putting everything in order back in the States, moved to Barcelona in June of 1991.
Through the university I was able to rent a tiny studio apartment in Barcelona's medieval quarter. The unit seemed to have once been a servant's room in the basement of a grand mansion, now dilapidated but extremely atmospheric. The mansion itself was also student housing.
I learned there would be ten young women living there from the end of August but it was fairly empty with just a few fleeting residents during the summer. I didn't get to know anyone there even though I passed through their patio on the way to my room. I concentrated on learning and practicing Catalan and my efforts to use it were much appreciated by local merchants even though I invariably mangled it or mixed it with Castilian.
I went out for drinks a few times with the other language students and explored the city on my own, taking photos and doing some water color paintings of what is one of the most picturesque cities in the world. I was kind of lonely and looked forward to the start of my program, and to seeing who moved in upstairs.
During the last two weeks in August, a steady stream of young women arrived from different parts of the world to take up residence above me. Bilan came from France to attend some business program. Her parents were Somali immigrants and she had beautifully smooth dark skin, almond eyes, defined cheekbones and an air of elegant glamour. She could be described as willowy or coltish. At about 5'7", she was a little taller than my 5'6" and certainly out of my league with her model looks and aloof manner. She had long, slender fingers and toes shown off by her gold colored sandals. It made my heart pound just to look at her. I introduced myself but got a fairly cool reception given that the temperature over 90 degrees.
Carmen was a lot more friendly. She came from Mexico, and talked constantly to everyone around her. Her sleek black locks cascaded around her shoulders. Her face and hair were dramatically set off by her clothing, always in deeply saturated colors. She was also an artist who would be in my program and was clearly trying to cultivate the Frida Kahlo mystique. Carmen was curvy and usually displayed an enticing swell of cleavage with a silver and black medallion dangling between her breasts. She invariably wore deep red lipstick and nail polish on fingers and toes. She was nice to me but she was nice to everyone and was clearly excited to be in Barcelona.
Chhaya was petite and shy. She was British and her family came from India via Trinidad. Her most striking features were her big eyes that she accentuated with dramatic makeup. Her clothing was always modest but she seemed to have a nice figure beneath. Her hands and feet were delicate, proportionate to her overall diminutive stature. I noticed that she wore toe rings. She couldn't have been more than 5 feet tall. Her complexion was rather dark. I later heard her make a disparaging remark about herself being "too dark." It was a shame she had been told this. She was really lovely and I would have liked to see her smile more and be more comfortable with other people and her own body.
Farah was also British but her father was Jamaican and her mother Swiss. She was about 5'8" tall, slender but rounded, and as vivacious as Carmen. Her cocoa skin was set off by rather wild hair that flew everywhere: dark brown with golden highlights. Her stunning eyes were a brilliant green with gold flecks around the irises. She could have been a model too but she was a brash party girl. She talked about her boyfriend back in Manchester a lot.
Kiraz was Turkish. She had an oval face framed by shoulder-length brown hair that tended towards frizzy. She had the build of a skinny boy. Kiraz had very small breasts and not much in the way of hips. She usually wore a thin cotton sleeveless shirt over pants of similar material. Her little body was clearly defined through the thin cloth including the protrusion of her pert nipples. There were no visible bra or panty lines beneath her clothes and the large armholes of her blouse often pulled away, exposing parts of her small breasts. She was tan where her body was exposed to the sun but pale beneath. In terms of current fashions, Kiraz wouldn't draw a lot of attention, but there was a strong erotic charge about her out of proportion to her plain appearance.
Llora was Catalan but from the interior city of Lleida. She had dark hair, fair skin, hazel eyes, stood about 5' 4" and her face was lit up by a beautiful smile on most occasions. She had a slim body and generously sized breasts that were still nicely proportionate to her frame.
Sylvie was French. Thin, medium height, short brown hair, high cheekbones, reserved. We soon found that Sylvie had a girlfriend, a Chinese-American named Lisa who was petite, wore her black hair in a ponytail and had rounded breasts and ass. Lisa was more outgoing and friendly than Sylvie and very cute.
Ulrika was Swedish, almost obnoxiously so with her straight blonde hair, clear blue eyes, and tall, athletically curvy frame. She was confident and friendly and spent a lot of time with her boyfriend Lars who was staying for a month before returning to Sweden. Ulrika wore pale, natural cotton clothing, no make up and no bra. She needed no adornment. She was achingly hot and she knew it.
The house was filling up. There were only two more roommates to arrive. Vesna was Serbian. She had a striking appearance with a mane of straw colored hair that fell in a mass of tight curly ringlets. Vesna had bright blue eyes and a sharply featured face that was attractive and intensely expressive. She was petite, with small well-formed breasts. Vesna was very intellectual, talkative and was quick with a witty remark. I liked her immediately but she didn't treat me with any particular notice.
The last to arrive was Yara. She arrived late for her program having been delayed by visa problems. Yara came from Brazil. She had a skin tone I would describe as mahogany, glossy black hair and a full red lips. A sleek 5'7", she carried herself like a princess. Yara had small breasts, lean legs and a small, tight butt emphasized by jeans that looked spray-painted on. She seemed taller than she really was with her platform sandals that showed off the arch of her sexy feet and long brown toes. Yara also made my heart pound and I also assumed that I didn't stand a chance with her.
In their very different ways, all of the young women were attractive. Between their boyfriends or girlfriends, model looks, height, aloofness or shyness I figured I had little chance with most of the women over the next year. I weighed the pleasure of gazing at these beauties with the frustration of what I assumed was their unattainability.
Kiraz, Llora and Vesna were attractive to me but didn't seem to take their attractiveness for granted. I didn't know about their availability or sexual orientation but didn't rule them out. In any case they would be pleasant companions and I would pursue friendship with all the women and hope that something might develop with one of them, or perhaps with one of the friends I assumed they would bring around.
All in all, I felt tentatively confident of at least some kind of hook up in the following months. I wasn't the tall, ripped athlete who automatically gets women's attention back in the US but I'd been told I was handsome. Previous lovers had admired my hazel eyes, dark eyebrows and toned, compact body. One lover, a few years my senior, had called me a "pocket Adonis." Although I was not incredibly experienced, I had had a few girlfriends and lovers and didn't doubt there would be more.
September was still quite hot in Barcelona. The big house had a kind of portico along one side with rattan chairs below its arches. This opened on to a large patio ringed by palms, a mature fig tree, and potted plants. The young women spent a lot of time under the shade of the portico or sunning themselves on lounge chairs on the patio. They welcomed me to join them as they gathered there (they knew my apartment was small and dark) and I enjoyed talking with them or quietly reading or sketching in their presence.
As I mentioned, I passed through this patio going to and from my apartment. Perhaps they laid out nude or in skimpy bikinis when they knew I was at school but at first I didn't see as much skin as I had hoped for. The exception was Kiraz. She spent a lot of time out there in some bikini bottoms that, while not thongs, were sheer and skin tight, showing a clear outline of her ass and even her pussy lips when she sat open legged with the soles of her feet together as she often did.
On top she usually wore a thin cotton vest, carelessly buttoned with just one button. She would remove this to lie on her front to tan her slender back. I fantasized about pulling down those panties to get my hands on her tight little ass. But it was just the thought of a horny young man.
One day I was sitting in the partial shade of the fig tree, sketching the arches of the portico while Kiraz lay in the sun and the fair skinned Vesna, already freckled from Barcelona's sun, sat reading under the portico. Everyone else was out or perhaps napping inside.
Kiraz turned to lie on her front, quickly removing her vest to do so. Her feet were pointed toward me, meaning that I had a straight-on view of her tempting ass. She must have been using some pretty strong sun screen because she kept getting browner without burning.
After about 15 minutes Vesna got up to go inside. I stopped sketching and enjoyed looking at Kiraz without compunction of appearing lecherous to anyone else. Kiraz rolled onto her back without opening her eyes. Her legs were spread apart and her tiny breasts pointed up their small hard nipples. Her whole body gleamed with oil and beads of sweat.
I noticed that her bikini bottom was dark with moisture too. I could see what looked like a small amount of fine hair on her mound and smooth lips under the sheer, wet orange fabric. I licked my lips with lust and nervousness about what would happen if she saw me ogling her. I tried to remember if she had seen me come out to the patio. Perhaps she didn't know I was there. Perhaps she did.
I didn't know whether to regard myself as an unwanted voyeur, violating the privacy of another person, or to see myself as an invited spectator, or possibly invited to do more than look. My cock was rock hard in my khaki shorts and I realized that if I had to stand up that my excitement would be as obvious as Kiraz' labia. Collecting my implements, I quietly got up and retreated to my quarters.
I came back to the patio in the evening. All of the roommates but Chhaya were there talking about their day. Posh Bilan was sipping cava (Catalan bubbly) with Carmen, Farah and Yara and, complaining about a rude bus driver. Ulrika and Lars were drinking beer, taking in Swedish about who-knows-what. Sylvie, Lisa, Kiraz, Llora and Vesna were chatting amiably about their school programs and invited me to share some red wine with them.
