All I Want for Christmas is a Viking
As I hugged Raisa for the very last time – My blond Finnish (oxymoron) friend who had introduced me to the ever expanding population of hot Vikings in the city and forever changed my taste in men – I knew. I knew I was in for a dreary winter. How was I going to get myself a Thor on time to survive the upcoming months without her? Losing hope was not an option. Winter was a few weeks away and I would have time to get myself one of those northern gods before they were all grabbed and handcuffed naked to fireplaces by desperate Spaniards. Unfortunately, overnight, with a flick of the clock’s hand Madrid had slapped away the heat and welcomed three of the four horsemen of the apocalypse (the fourth being yet another season of Fama had already been on our screens for months now): Cold the Miserable, Grayness the Overbearing and Wind the Hairstyle destroyer. I opened my window; the sorrow wind caressed my cheek. I knew. It was too late. Finding a boyfriend once the winter has set in is like Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve. You shop, you shop but you’ll never get what you set out for and you end up ruining Christmas.
I never believed in the Grinch. So I headed down to Cool (Calle de Isabel La Católica, 6) where the men are plentiful and the shirts optional. After having queued for longer than anyone should, staring up and down the queue for a potential victim, I got in, paid (12 Euros with a copa – thanks to a flier I picked up on the sidewalk) and thought I had stepped in the flaming pit of Hell. The red room, so called due to its color and its lack of air conditioning, was filled with sticky twinks shaking their butts to Beyonce’s latest hit while lip-synching, a hand waving in the air. The downstairs ram-packed with gym bunnies reeked of testosterones and steroids. Struggling to make my way to the bar, dodging sweaty backs and arms the size of my legs, all the conversations that filtered through the thumpa thumpa and reached my ears were filled with names of muscles: biceps, triceps, abs, etc… I even saw a bent-over He-Man, counting his soon to be ONS’ (one night stand) abs with his finger: 1, 2, 3 Er… 4, 5, and 6! That’s when I saw him, from the corner of my eye: a blond flock of hair heading to the bathroom: my last hope. I ran after him, pushing bears out of my way. By the time I got there, he was gone. He’d disappeared as though he had never existed… I went home broken and lay naked on my animal skin rug not wishing for snow but praying Santa to make my wish come true.
