My entry for the JUWC this time is yet another excerpt from my travel journal.  (I know, it's boring, but it fits the criteria, because every single one of these posts is me standing naked in a glass house, for all of you to see.  I doubt the monkey will make an appearance.)

It is divided into two acts (because frankly, it's too long to be one post) and we'll call it "La casa vidriera: A Tragedy in Two Acts - or, Flame and Fizzle".

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your big fat ears.

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01 Mar 2008.  2:37 am.

What a night.

We went to a little restaurant, hidden down a pedestrian-only side street.  (I can't remember the name of it - I think it was Restaurante Rambla Vella, but I'm not sure.)

We were seated at a small, round table up a short flight of stairs, with windows looking out onto la Rambla Vella.  We ordered a few different tapas to share and stared out the open glass onto the bustling street . . .

The movement is invigorating and electric, as our conversation winds from the mundane (such as where to buy contact lens solution) to the profound (like how Kierkegaard, father of Christian Existentialism, was able to juxtapose such differing viewpoints) to the macabre (what spices one would use to season a hunk of human thigh, in an instance of necessitated cannibalism).

I love to talk with her - the lilt in her laugh, the way her face lights up as she smiles, the faint creases on her temples as she bursts into laughter.  I love the fact that she enjoys talking Satre and Borges and Unamuno as much as I do, that she doesn't miss a beat when telling jokes, that she's not afraid to tell me when she thinks I'm full of it.

One thing I'm always attracted to is a girl who knows her literature.  When she's gorgeous, it helps even more.

Hillary's got it in spades, man.

The tapas come and are delicious, a rich mix of potatoes, fresh fish, fried squid, vegetables, croquetas, and others.  We order dessert, fresh flan, still warm.  The caramel sauce is thick and rich, running down the sides of the firm custard.

She dips her finger in it, licking it clean seductively.

Wow.

My heart takes off like the greyhound after the robotic bunny.

We get to her door, and she gives me a long, lingering hug.  I lean back, look at her multi-faceted hazel eyes, and think to myself, To hell with it.

I kiss her.

She tastes like a dream.

02 Mar 2008.  11:52 pm.

Her lips are warm and soft, luscious, voluptuous, enveloping.

Her lip gloss has an almost tangy tinge of strawberry flavor as my tongue runs across her mouth, tasting every inch.

She begins to kiss me harder, faster, more furiously.  A frenzy, a flurry, a frightfully beautiful experience.

Her kiss is hot, humid, feverish, with a hint of smoky flavor and equal parts excitement and trepidation.

Spain is in her kisses.

03 Mar 2008.  3:47 pm.

I bet I could kill my roommate and no jury would convict me.

When I first began conversing with him (all digitally - I didn't meet him face-to-face until I got here), I didn't like him much at all.  He seemed rude, officious and priggish.

But when I was very first getting ready to leave, he suddenly became very helpful, which was nice.  I thought to myself, Maybe my first impression was wrong.  He seems pretty cool now.

I should have listened to my first impression, which has never been wrong (except for one time back in 2002).

I got here and he seemed like a cool enough cat, but there was just something a little . . . off . . . about him.  Maybe it was the odd way he swings his arms while he walks.  Maybe it was the almost obsessive-compulsive rubbing of his hands together.  Maybe it was the way his eyes wandered at all times.

Then I realized why those eyes were wandering.  He has the most lecherous, roving, rapacious eyes on the planet - looking for and picking apart every mildly attractive girl in any given radius.

And it's not enough that he rapes them all with his eyes - he has to tell me in explicit detail exactly why he thinks they're attractive.  One time he started in on Hillary and I threatened to jab my fork straight into his eyes.

Then there are the tales he recounts of dating fifteen-year-olds he met on the internet.  Nothing quite raises the "perv alert' as a 27-year-old hanging out with teenagers.  I mean, what the hell?!?  He talks about it like it's okay, like it's normal.

It's not.

It's pervy.

I don't ever let on just how much I dislike him, but once I'm back in Utah I'm never speaking with this sick son-of-a-bitch again.

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Stay tuned for the second half of "La casa vidriera", posted within the hour (hopefully).